"Who are you!" Stanfield Turner whispered harshly.
The person on the other end of the line chuckled, "A concerned citizen."
"I have evidence of your son's criminal activities, including forging official signatures and leveraging your influence to extort businesses... Oh, you didn't know? He extorted $160,000 from a dairy company in the suburbs of Washington, and… he raped the owner's daughter."
The hands of the CIA Director were shaking, and his face looked awful, but he still retorted fiercely, "You're talking nonsense! You should know what you're doing, you're threatening a CIA Director, and I swear, I can find you!"
The other party was not panicked, "Would you like to see the video?"
"I have never seen such a child, some people's children are children, some people's children are devils! Haha, you know what? I want to cut off his genitals, then smear them with estrus cream, and throw him into a sheep pen."
Stanfield Turner's gaze was menacing and terrifying.
"Haha, but don't worry, he has a good father. You are much more useful than he is, so he won't be hurt for now, but later… who knows!"
"Who exactly are you! What do you want!"
"Do you think it's appropriate to discuss this over the phone? Meet me at the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts tonight at six, don't be late."
The person hung up directly after speaking.
Stanfield Turner squeezed the receiver so hard, it made a cracking sound. His expression was gloomy. He took a deep breath and glanced at the time on the wall—4:35 PM. It would take at least an hour to get to the art center.
He quickly stood up, walked out the door, then turned back to change his clothes before leaving.
He drove his modest little Volvo to the art center.
All the way there, he wondered who it might be.
The Mexico News Agency?
It was said to be a very secretive intelligence agency under Victor's control. Their information was scarce, but as the CIA Director, Stanfield Turner knew some secrets not known to the public—for instance, Bahash Johnson, who had shot him once, was involved.
He knit his brows tightly and only realized when he arrived at the art center that there were many people since today was a student art performance with many attendees.
He had just parked his car when a clown approached him, forcing out an unsettling smile, "Sir, would you like to watch the performance?"
"I'm not interested."
"Are you sure you don't want to see it, Director Turner?" all of a sudden, the clown asked.
Stanfield Turner turned sharply towards him, the clown smiled politely at him, the corners of his mouth hooking upwards slightly, giving a somewhat eerie look.
After handing him a ticket, the clown, holding a balloon, wobbled away. Continue reading stories on My Virtual Library Empire
Looking at the ticket in his hand, "Dark Hydra"?
He resisted the urge to chase after the clown, thinking that he was just a pawn; a bigger trap was springing towards him.
Stanfield Turner entered the ticket check with the ticket in hand and stood in line. When it was his turn, the ticket checker paused, then in front of him, changed his seat number with a pen.
"Sorry, sir, your seat has been changed."
The heart of the CIA Director sank even more, he took a deep breath and walked inside. The performance had already started. According to the seat assignment, he reached the second floor, which was fairly empty, but a man was already sitting there.
Wearing a dull coffee-colored suit, quietly watching the stage, he turned his head upon hearing footsteps and smilingly said, "Director Turner, welcome, please have a seat."
Stanfield Turner hesitated, then sat down next to him, frowning, "Who are you really! What do you want, why have you called me out here, you clearly want something from me, but let me tell you, it's impossible! I am an officer of the United States, I won't tolerate any threats, you should understand what I represent, no matter how deeply you hide, you will be dug out and killed, you should know, the military capability of the United States is beyond your imagination!"
"Are you feeling guilty?"
The CIA Director was suddenly tongue-tied.
"Psychologically speaking, a person who keeps talking is actually trying to mask their inner panic."
"What does the strength of the United States have to do with you? Just understand that if we publicize the video and crime evidence, you won't be the CIA Director anymore, your son will even go to jail, you will lose much more, do you want to completely leave politics for the rest of your life?"
Stanfield Turner's hand tightened suddenly.
"Moreover, you only have one son, while we have many bullets. You wouldn't want your son to be shot dead in the streets, would you?"
In the United States, it's too easy to kill someone!
Just find a local homeless Black man, give him some money, and he could perform a public murder for you.
His son wasn't anyone important.
Could the CIA watch him every day?
"Do you really want to kill me? That's fine too, it's easy, just shoot my head off," the man said with a laugh, "just like you once shot your own ex-wife!"
Stanfield Turner's pupils abruptly constricted.
His lips were trembling.
He had once been married, his wife was a farmer's daughter, which allowed him to receive funding to enjoy higher education, but at university, he met his current wife.
A senator's daughter.
She liked him, and he concealed the fact that he was married, but he knew this affair could not come out, he needed to climb higher, he had to have backing.