"Dear passengers, we have arrived in Vienna. Please collect your belongings and disembark in an orderly manner…"
A soft voice from the flight attendant came through the broadcast, and the chief purser stood with both hands raised, bidding farewell—then her face froze suddenly.
She saw a man in a black suit light a cigarette without hesitation.
In 1991, lighters were still allowed on planes, but smoking was against the rules.
"Sir, please go to the designated smoking area, just downstairs."
Before the purser finished her sentence, the man pulled a wad of bundled US Dollars from his inner pocket and thrust it toward her. "Fine me."
She froze, unsure how to react, only to see more than twenty burly men behind him lighting up cigarettes all at once…
Her expression stiffened instantly.
The group didn't look remotely like decent folk.
Leading them was none other than Jason Bourne!
"Boss, who should we target first?" A burly man behind him pulled out a piece of paper, with two prominent names written on it:
Vittorio Oliver, owner of Austria's largest railway company, net worth $4.7 billion, and coincidentally a member of the Bohemian Club.
Just hearing that name already hinted at his background. A member of Europe's most honorable Habsburg family, and a legitimate descendant of the Austro-Hungarian Empire's last emperor, Karl I.
Though the Empire had long since fallen, they still controlled commerce and were members of the Red Shoes Club. One of his disturbing hobbies involved using twins as material for his leather shoes!
His cruelty was shocking and repugnant.
Jason Bourne smirked, flicked his cigarette to the ground, and said, "What era is this? Still into that nonsense? Fine. According to the General, those sitting high up in paradise feasting on meat should taste a bit of a commoner's fury!"
Back when Franz Ferdinand was assassinated, it led to World War I. Now he wanted to see—if another one dies, what would happen?
"First, we eat, gear up, and wait for the perfect stormy night—to kill!" Jason Bourne ran his hand through his hair and waved his hand. "Move it."
A sudden thunderclap broke the clear skies. He raised his head to see dark clouds slowly rolling in from the distance, engulfing the entire city.
The sky opened up with heavy rainfall as pedestrians hurriedly covered their heads and dashed for shelter.
The rain showed no signs of letting up. But night always brought a certain… sense of dread. Rats crawled out from the sewers and darted into the corners of trash heaps, scavenging for scraps.
Even being a rat wasn't easy. You thought Europeans and Americans were stupid? Tossing the good stuff into the trash bins, and then some self-proclaimed media gets all hyped up, saying Europeans and Americans don't finish their food—sashimi piles up for sale, caviar tossed away. Come on.
A beam of light suddenly shone, and the rat lifted its head in confusion, its tail stiffened, tiny eyes darting around nervously before bolting outside…
But as it crossed the street without regard for stoplights, a tire flattened it with a sickening crunch, leaving it a bloody, mangled mess.
The culprit was a van—a familiar brand, Golden Cup!
The vehicle was released in 1991.
Jason Bourne, a cigarette hanging from his lips, held an M249 machine gun equipped with a large drum magazine, while inside the van, four or five men were armed with PF89 single-soldier rocket launchers, and the rest were decked out in weaponry from head to toe.
This wasn't just an operation.
This was organized war—or potentially an assassination.
Jason Bourne rolled down the window, spat out his cigarette butt, as a voice buzzed through the earpiece: "Backup Team is in position."
He glanced at his watch. "In three minutes, the assault team breaches the main gate. Wrap this up within ten minutes. The nearest police station will respond in roughly four minutes. Backup Team will follow the plan to obstruct them. We need to evacuate completely within fifteen minutes."
"Don't worry about causing any bad publicity, gentlemen. We're bad guys."
"For Joachim Ribbentrop! Revenge!"
At 12:20 AM, the rain poured harder than ever…
Vienna didn't have a defined wealthy district. Oberla von Habsburg lived in an isolated manor on the city's outskirts—a standalone estate with a grand entrance gate carved with intricate dragons and tigers, exuding extravagance.
The quiet atmosphere shattered as an engine roared to life!
The dirty work from Mexico had arrived!!!
The Golden Cup dove straight for the gate—what sort of garbage dared to block the way?
With a loud crash, the gate flew open…
Before the vehicle even came to a complete stop, Jason Bourne jumped out, gripping his machine gun, storming into the manor grounds. The security guards, still mid dressing themselves, had barely reacted before the gunfire sprayed across them.
"They've got weapons! Attack! Go get ours!!" A security captain cried out in terror. Blood splattered across the walls, and his scalp prickled as he stared at his fallen colleagues.
Vienna was usually well-maintained in terms of law and order.
After all, the United Nations occupies a significant presence here…
Before his words finished, a hand grenade rolled into view. His pupils contracted as it exploded thunderously, sending him flying. His body was mutilated, missing half a leg and both arms writhing on the ground, groaning in agony.
Nine men from the assault team charged in behind Jason Bourne with impeccable coordination—three searched downstairs while the rest rushed upstairs, kicking down doors and unleashing full auto fire on anything on the bed.
Tonight, their goal was annihilation!
It didn't matter who—it could've been a worm, and it would've ended up split in two.
One operative kicked in a door and immediately found himself tackled by a massive figure who pinned him to the floor, choking him forcefully. But buddy…