You don't have a gun, so what are you doing trying to brawl?
The bullets tore through the fat on his abdomen, and blood blossomed on his back. The obese man stared wide-eyed, ultimately unable to rest in peace in death.
Jason Bourne slaughtered his way up to the top-floor bedroom without encountering any resistance; most of the security personnel had been taken out in the first attack…
Just as Jason Bourne was about to kick open the door, a sudden shiver crept up his scalp. Instinctively, he dove into the bathroom.
The wooden door was blasted apart from inside...
Half the door was gone.
A middle-aged man wielding a Winchester Model 1887 shotgun stood there, dressed in pajamas, cursing furiously as he cocked the trigger, clutching the firearm against his waist.
"Get out! Get out!" Oberla von Habsburg bellowed loudly, "You bastard!"
He looked ferocious, but in the end, he was only one man—ignorant of danger from the rear. A cornered marksman on the stairs shot him decisively, the bullet piercing Oberla's ribcage.
He let out two cries of agony, dropping the shotgun to the ground in pain. Panic overtook him as he instinctively bent over to retrieve his weapon. Jason Bourne exploded out of the bathroom, grabbing his neck and slamming him hard against the wall.
"Don't… don't kill me, don't kill me!"
Oberla von Habsburg begged for his life through blood-filled pleas. "I'll pay you—I'll pay lots of money! Please, don't kill me."
Jason, panting heavily, yanked his hair as he dragged him into the room. Screams erupted; a woman clutching two terrified girls stared at him in horror.
Jason pulled a photo from his pocket and shoved it in front of Oberla's face. "Recognize them?"
In the photo were two doll-like, adorable little girls dressed in princess dresses, smiling radiantly.
Oberla froze at the sight of the picture, trembling with terror.
"You turned them into leather shoes," Jason growled with biting venom. "Their parents have been living in torment ever since. They've searched endlessly but found nothing. Consumed by despair, they jumped to their deaths. Do you know that? You deserve every second of suffering."
Jason's words reduced Oberla to shaking his head violently, sobbing, "I'll compensate—I'll pay! One million US dollars, ten million US dollars, one billion! Please, just don't kill me!"
"The filthy greed of capitalists and their spineless cowardice," Jason retorted coldly. "See it for yourself, gentlemen—they still think they can buy us off. But I regret to inform you… I refuse!"
He grabbed a curved blade handed over by a teammate, swinging it abruptly to slice off Oberla's ear. Amid deafening screams, Jason took his time amputating the man's facial features piece by piece, eventually gouging out his eyes and stomping them into pulp on the floor!
With a final blow, he severed Oberla's head...
Jason exhaled deeply, looking up with icy eyes at Oberla's wife and children. A cruel smile tugged at his lips. "Send them to join him."
Two teammates raised their machine guns and opened fire on them!
It was already an act of mercy.
Using the blood pooled on the floor, Jason scrawled onto the wall: "Mexico Illuminati!"
"When darkness falls, call upon Victor!"
He led his team retreating from the manor, already hearing the wail of approaching police sirens.
Oberla's identity was sensitive—though the Austro-Hungarian Empire had fallen, plenty of loyalists still remained. To ensure his safety, the police station was not far from his residence.
Usually, it was uneventful.
But tonight, after hearing gunfire, the on-duty officer knew something was wrong and quickly mobilized reinforcements.
Five police vehicles raced to the scene, their lights flashing brightly.
At a corner, a van was parked diagonally in the middle of the road.
"Move the vehicle! Clear the way!" the sheriff shouted into a megaphone.
The van door swung open, revealing a fire god cannon within!
A monstrous twelve-barrel weapon...
The police chief in the lead car widened his eyes in shock—words never made it past his throat as bullets began raining down: rat-a-tat-tat...
The police cars were shredded like sieves.
As the gunfire-drenched van passed the battlefield, Jason gave it a glance, "Next target: Vittorio Oliver!"
"Entire Austrian royal family slaughtered!"
"Super-rich estate dweller dies brutally! Gruesome beyond belief!"
By morning, news filled the papers; such events simply couldn't be hidden.
Outside Oberla Manor, crowds of onlookers of differing nationalities gathered. Police and armed soldiers surrounded the site in full force, and in fury, the Austrian Government dispatched specialists to investigate.
Among them stood Hercule Poirot, clad in a trench coat, donning a hat, with his distinct mustache, accompanied by his assistant. The horrifying carnage in the living room caused Poirot's assistant to rush outside, vomiting into a bag.
Poirot was Austria's top criminologist.
Yet even someone well-versed in homicide scenes struggled with this one, primarily due to Oberla's head… reduced to something resembling a ball.
Poirot inhaled deeply, scanning the room until his eyes landed on the bloody letters scrawled on the wall. His brow twitched. "Victor…"
"Isn't that the name of the Tyrant in Mexico? Could he be the one behind this?" queried the assistant, pale-faced. "Highly possible, sir. Victor did previously announce he'd hunt down targets on a list, and Oberla ranked as number 174!"
Poirot furrowed his brow. On face value, it seemed likely; still, evidence was paramount. "Was there any surveillance footage?"
"About ten perpetrators, heavily armed, working in absolute synchronization, and merciless—no one survived."
Poirot nodded, but as he opened the inner door of the bedroom, his foot pressed against something—lowering his gaze, he spotted an envelope? It was stained entirely in blood, making it nearly invisible unless one looked closely.
Retrieving it with gloved hands, Poirot tore open the envelope seal and discovered a stack of photos: unfamiliar twins and their parents?
Why would these be here?
Inside, there was a folded piece of paper...
Unfolding it, he read:
"Darling, it's been 1213 days since you've left. Mom misses you so much. I keep thinking I see your face every day—I ache to cradle you in my arms and hum your favorite lullaby."
"My child, Mom can't hold on anymore…"
"My child, Mom's here—Mom hears your cries. Where are you."
The assistant, now standing nearby, saw the note too. He whispered softly, "Sir, the Mexican Government's provided evidence accused Oberla of torturing the twins and having their skin turned into shoes. Do you think…"
Poirot winced, clenching his jaw tightly.
"You said Oberla was number 174? How many were on the list total?"
"Check the next ten names—see if they're still alive. Contact a facilitator for intel."
The assistant hurried off, dialing familiar facilitators and exchanging money for needed insight.
Five minutes later, the assistant rushed back, visibly rattled, "Sir, they're dead—all ten executed in attacks last night. Including a member of the British Royal Family, albeit from a lesser branch. When he was found, he was dangling…"
"Off London Bridge! At the center span, his XXX…" he exhaled shakily.
"Hung with a banner reading: The fate of rapists!"
Goddamn—it was brutal.
A member of the British Royals displayed like that on London Bridge—it certainly matched the symbolism.
"Coordinating simultaneous assaults—it couldn't have been done by an individual. Even a conventional group couldn't manage it," Poirot declared, leaving the sentence hanging—his assistant understood nonetheless.
Only a formidable organization could execute this: rich in resources, intelligence, manpower—lacking nothing…
This had Victor's fingerprints all over it!
"What exactly does he want? The world inherently has darkness—is he trying to destroy the existing order?" the assistant vented in frustration, unsure of whom he blamed.
"Does he genuinely see himself as a Savior?"
"Does he intend to kill them all?"
Just as some sympathize with capitalists, some defend their bosses, and others pity the "perpetrator."
Poirot smiled faintly, eyes narrowing.
"The world shouldn't be this way. We need those who stand for justice."
The assistant looked at him in bewilderment. "Sir, haven't you always opposed vigilante justice?"
Poirot fell silent momentarily, speaking softly, "Because I can't defeat him."
Justice versus Injustice… Aren't they dictated by the weapon you're wielding? When the blade is in your hand—you become the judge.
Victor embodies Justice!