The sky over Vienna looked as if it had been smothered by a dirty grey cloth.
Persistent rain hammered against the stone pavement along the drainpipes, splashing up circles of muddy water.
In the underground secret base of the Intelligence Department's European branch, the air was damp and stifling.
The telegraph machine's coils still emitted a faint, burnt smell.
"Echo" sat at that dilapidated wooden table, clutching the freshly decoded telegram in his hand.
His gaze lingered on the names on the slip of paper for a long time, feeling somewhat helpless.
"Eliminate Old Morgan's family, starting with his three daughters and their husbands. Root them out completely; don't even leave the family dog alive."
Echo read the contents of the telegram in an extremely low voice.
Truly, Boss Timmy's tone was too willful; he wouldn't even allow the dogs to be spared.
He held the slip of paper over the flame of the kerosene lamp, watching it curl and blacken before finally turning to ash.
"It seems Boss Timmy is truly enraged; the Boss must have encountered an extremely dangerous assassination attempt in New York."
Echo stood up from his chair, walked to the iron filing cabinet against the wall, skillfully dialed the combination lock, pulled open the second drawer, and took out three thick kraft paper envelopes.
Old Morgan thought himself clever; before deciding to go to war with the Argyle Family, he had secretly moved his three daughters, Juliet, Mary, and Flora, along with their husbands, out of London.
He had hidden them in remote estates in southern France and Switzerland, thinking this would allow them to escape any impending retaliation.
But Old Morgan had no idea just how deeply the Argyle Family's intelligence network had infiltrated Europe.
Years ago, from the very moment J.P. Morgan died on that cruise ship in the Atlantic Ocean, Echo had received a standing death order from New York: monitor every direct blood relative of the Morgan Family twenty-four hours a day, without interruption.
"Your hideouts are even more conspicuous on our maps than Buckingham Palace."
Echo patted the three kraft paper envelopes.
He walked to the door, opened it a crack, and said to the deputy guarding outside, "Go call Victor, Klaus, and Pierre in here, now."
In less than ten minutes, the three men walked into the room.
Victor was a burly Slav, Klaus was a taciturn retired Prussian soldier, and Pierre was a somewhat frail-looking Frenchman.
They were the captains of the most elite cleaner squads under Echo, each with hands stained with blood from the European assassination market.
"You're here. Sit down. There's a job, a big job."
Echo didn't bother with pleasantries and threw the three kraft paper envelopes directly onto the table.
Victor pulled out a chair, picked up a paper envelope, and roughly tore open the seal, pulling out the photos and addresses inside.
"France, a vineyard estate on the outskirts of Provence? The target is an Englishman and his wife?"
Victor frowned as he looked at the information.
"Boss, there isn't much profit in this kind of rural job."
"This is a kill order issued directly from the New York headquarters."
Echo stared at them with dissatisfaction, his tone icy.
"The targets are the three daughters and sons-in-law of that Junius Morgan in London. Old Morgan sent people to assassinate our Boss in New York, and now it is time to settle the score."
Upon hearing "New York headquarters" and "Morgan," the three killers immediately dropped their lazy attitudes.
They knew how generous the Argyle Family was with their payouts, and they also knew how miserable the consequences were for messing things up.
"What are the requirements from New York?"
The Prussian, Klaus, asked in a gravelly voice.
"Boss Timmy issued the order himself."
Echo rested his hands on the table, his eyes sweeping over the three like a viper.
"Root out the evil completely; don't even leave the family dogs alive. I don't want to see any living creature left breathing in these estates."
Pierre whistled.
"I like this job. No need to leave survivors means no need for interrogation, no need to hide our tracks."
Pierre drew the dagger from his waist and spun it nimbly between his fingertips.
"However, these rich people's estates have plenty of security personnel."
"Each of you take fifteen good men and go to the basement to collect guns and explosives. I don't require you to make it look like an accident."
"Blow the doors open and charge in; open fire on anything that moves. I want to see these three places turned into slaughterhouses. Finish this job, and there will be an extra twenty thousand francs in everyone's account."
"Understood, we'll make sure it's done beautifully."
Victor grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth.
The three men grabbed the paper envelopes and quickly exited the room.
...
Over a dozen hours later.
Southern France, a luxurious vineyard estate on the outskirts of Avignon.
The night was deep, and all was silent.
The estate's iron gates were tightly shut, and several security personnel leading hunting dogs were patrolling the courtyard.
This was where Old Morgan's eldest daughter, Juliet, and her husband lived.
They had been told half a year ago to hide here for a while; although they found it boring, they didn't feel much panic.
After all, experiencing country life occasionally was quite nice.
Suddenly, a deep, low engine sound rang out on the dirt road outside the estate.
"What's that sound?"
The security guard stopped in his tracks, alert, and unclipped the leashes of the hunting dogs.
Before he could react.
"Boom!"
A deafening roar tore through the night sky.
The estate's heavy iron gate was blown open directly by directional explosives, and the heavy iron railings flew over a dozen meters away, slamming into the lawn.
"Enemy attack!"
The security guard roared, drawing his revolver.
But his voice was quickly drowned out by the dense sound of Gatling gunfire.
Pierre, leading a dozen masked killers, charged into the courtyard like a pack of wolves.
Without any warning, they opened fire on everyone they saw.
The ferocious hunting dogs had just lunged forward when they were turned into mush by the dense hail of bullets.
"Don't stop! Charge into the main building, the master bedroom on the second floor!"
Pierre shouted orders in French, the submachine gun in his hands spitting fire, gunning down the bodyguards attempting to resist one by one.
The main door of the main building was kicked open.
In the second-floor bedroom, Juliet and her husband had long been awakened by the fright.
"What's happening!"
Her husband scrambled out of bed, trying to reach for the pistol in the drawer.
"Bang!"
The bedroom door was kicked open violently, and Pierre walked in, smoke rising from the muzzle of his gun.
Juliet let out a sharp scream, shivering as she huddled in the corner of the bed.
"Who are you, what are you doing! We can give you as much money as you want!"
Her husband raised his hands, begging for mercy in terror.
Pierre glanced at the photo in his hand, confirming the targets.
"Mr. Argyle sends his regards. When you get to hell, remember to blame your father for provoking the wrong person."
Pierre did not hesitate in the slightest and pulled the trigger.
"Rat-tat-tat-tat!"
Gunshots echoed through the spacious bedroom.
A few minutes later, the gunfire died down.
Pierre stepped over the corpses on the floor, glanced at the shattered birdcage in the corner, and after confirming that even the macaw was dead, he waved his hand.
"Retreat, let's go collect the bounty."
The same slaughter took place that night, almost simultaneously, on the outskirts of Zurich in Switzerland and in the Bordeaux region of France.
There were no trials or negotiations.
Only the most primal revenge belonging to the world of capital.
When the sky in the distance turned a fish-belly white, Echo, sitting in the basement in Vienna, received three simple telegrams:
"Cleanup complete."
London, 22 Broad Street.
The morning mist had not yet dispersed over the River Thames.
Inside the study of the Morgan mansion, the fire had gone out, and the air was permeated with a biting chill.
Junius Morgan sat behind the large mahogany desk. He had not closed his eyes all night.
Scattered across the desk were a pile of voided French government bond certificates, as well as several internal reports regarding the fracture of the Morgan Bank's capital chain.
The run on Lloyds Bank and the eighty-percent-discount acquisition were like a noose, tightening relentlessly around the throat of his fate.
The butler, Oliver, gently pushed open the door, holding a silver tray on which sat three top-secret telegrams just delivered by an express courier.
Oliver's face was deathly pale, and his hands trembled so much that the tray emitted a faint clattering sound.
"Sir..."
Oliver's voice was too dry to make a sound.
Old Morgan raised his bloodshot eyes, which seemed to have lost all vitality, glanced at the tray in Oliver's hands, and spoke with an unexpectedly calm tone.
"Bring it here."
Oliver placed the tray on the desk, stepped back two paces, and lowered his head, not daring to even look into his old master's eyes.
Morgan reached out with stiff fingers and picked up the first telegram.
"The Provence estate in France has been attacked. Juliet and her husband, seven bodyguards, and four servants are all dead. No survivors."
Morgan's hand paused slightly.
There was no screaming or weeping.
He slowly set down the first one and picked up the second and third.
"Zurich, Switzerland: Mary and her husband are dead."
"Bordeaux, France: Flora and her husband are dead."
The study fell into a deathly silence.
Morgan sat quietly in his chair, staring blankly at the three thin sheets of paper on the desktop.
Images of his three daughters running in the courtyard as children flashed through his mind like a carousel.
Scenes of him personally handing them over to their husbands at their weddings flashed by.
He had spent his whole life painstakingly managing things in Europe, scattering his family's bloodline in various safe corners. He had thought his plans were foolproof.
But now, everything was over.
His son had died on the Atlantic Ocean.
His three daughters had all been wiped out in the same night by that tyrant far away in New York.
Old Morgan's body began to tremble slightly.
This trembling was not out of fear, but because of the extreme, suppressed grief gnawing crazily at his bone marrow.
He closed his eyes, and two lines of muddy tears slid down his deep wrinkles, dripping onto the cold telegrams.
Oliver stood to the side, watching this man who had once commanded the winds and clouds collapse completely in this moment, a surge of sorrow welling up in his heart.
"Sir... please accept my condolences. Should we report this to Scotland Yard? Or apply pressure to the French and Swiss governments?" Oliver asked tentatively.
Morgan opened his eyes abruptly.
The grief in those eyes vanished without a trace in an instant.
In its place was a hair-raising madness and malice.
"Report it? Apply pressure?"
Morgan let out a shrill, miserable laugh.
"Oliver, don't you understand yet? That devil named Felix, since he dared to kill all my direct blood relatives in the same night, he doesn't care about laws or the police at all!"
Morgan picked up the three telegrams and slowly tore them into shreds.
"He is establishing his authority. He is telling me that this is the consequence of angering the Argyle Family. Not a single one left alive—what a ruthless method."
Morgan stood up and walked to the window.
"I should have thought of this earlier. From the moment he sent people to blow up my factories in America, I should have known he had no bottom line. I also guessed that if I sent people to assassinate him, he would move against my family. I hid them, but I still underestimated the terror of the Argyle intelligence network."
Morgan turned around to look at Oliver, his gaze cold.
"And over in Pittsburgh, Westinghouse and Edison have been out of contact for two full days. No news has come back."
"No news is the worst news; they must have been intercepted on the road by Argyle's people. Those Alternating Current data will certainly not be saved either."
Old Morgan analyzed his currently completely desperate situation with extreme calmness.
"The capital chain is broken, and the bank is about to go bankrupt. Partners have betrayed me. Now, even my last bloodline and my trump card technology for a comeback have all been lost completely."
Oliver looked at the old man.
"Sir, then what... what should we do? The people from Lloyds Bank will be here this morning with lawyers to demand payment."
"Whatever, let them come."
Morgan walked back to the desk, pulled open the drawer, and took out an extremely exquisite silver revolver.
He placed the pistol on the desktop and carefully wiped it with a handkerchief.
"I have lost. In terms of business and family continuity, I have lost completely."
Morgan raised his head, a twisted smile appearing on his aged face.
"But that does not mean this game ends just like that."
"Even if I, Junius Morgan, have to go to hell, I will drag that Irish bastard along with me!"
Morgan put the wiped pistol back into the drawer and closed it.
He looked at Oliver and issued his final order.
"Go and contact that middleman of ours on the London black market. Tell him to sell off all my remaining estates in London, as well as the secret shares in those overseas mines, at a low price for cash!"
Oliver was stunned.
"Sir, if those assets are sold off now, the price will be driven down to a ridiculous level, and that is your last retirement money!"
"I don't need to retire anymore!"
Morgan slammed the desk and roared.
"I am about to become a corpse, what do I need so much money for!"
Morgan stared fixedly at Oliver.
"Take all the money, don't leave a single pound, and turn it all into bearer drafts. Then, through underground channels, wire it all to those outlaws in the American South!"
"Tell them the bounty is doubled! Not just for Felix Argyle. I want the lives of everyone around him! His partner and children—I want him to taste the pain of losing loved ones too!"
Old Morgan had lost all reason.
He did not care about his reputation or the bankruptcy of the bank; now his only goal was to use his last ounce of strength to tear into the flesh and blood of the Argyle Family.
"And..."
Morgan paused for a moment, as if recalling something.
"Over in Indianapolis, that drunkard Grant's special train. Has our informant, whom we previously planted at the station, sent back any news about the Argyle Family's recent movements?"
Oliver answered tremblingly.
"Yes. It is said that Argyle's security chief, Flynn, has been suspended by The White House. Furthermore, it seems that those Western outlaws in the South began their operations a few days ago. Grant is very panicked."
"That is good."
Morgan sneered repeatedly.
"As long as the fire in the South burns, as long as those outlaws make a big enough scene, no matter how capable Argyle is, he won't be able to handle it. I want to turn his America into a scorched earth!"
Just as various events were unfolding in Europe, in New York, at the headquarters building of the Umbrella Pharmaceutical Company in Manhattan.
The morning sun spilled into the spacious and bright top-floor laboratory area. Here, there was none of the pungent smell of boiling herbs found in traditional pharmaceutical factories; instead, it was filled with the strong scent of alcoholic disinfectant and chemical reagents.
Felix, wearing a well-tailored black suit, walked into the core laboratory surrounded by a group of researchers in white coats.
The president of the Umbrella Pharmaceutical Company, Catherine, was standing in front of a massive laboratory table.
She held a clinical data report dozens of pages long, her brows slightly furrowed as if she were contemplating some extremely complex problem.
"How is the situation? Dear."
Felix walked over and naturally put his arm around Catherine's waist.
"I heard from Frost that Dr. Thorne's new drug has run into a little trouble?"
Catherine turned her head to look at Felix and sighed helplessly.
"You're here, Felix."
Catherine handed the report in her hand to Felix.
"Dr. Thorne is indeed a genius. He successfully extracted and stabilized salicylic acid from willow bark. The fever-reducing and analgesic effects of this substance are three times better than we expected. This is absolutely a miraculous, era-defining drug."
"But..."
Catherine changed the subject, pointing to several sets of red data on the report.
"In the preliminary human trials conducted at our own hospital, we discovered that this unneutralized salicylic acid is too irritating to the human gastric mucosa. After taking high doses, over thirty percent of the test subjects experienced severe stomach pain, and even symptoms of gastric bleeding."
At this moment, a man wearing thick-rimmed glasses walked over quickly.
He was the Umbrella chief scientist who hadn't appeared in a long time, Dr. Thorne.
"Mr. Argyle."
Dr. Thorne nodded respectfully.
"President O'Brien is right. If we don't solve the issue of gastric irritation, this drug will never pass the Federal Medical Bureau's approval for large-scale sales. It will become a lethal poison instead of a life-saving medicine."
Felix flipped through the data.
Although he didn't understand the specific chemical synthesis equations, he possessed historical experience that surpassed this era by over a hundred years.
"Dr. Thorne," Felix said, closing the report.
"Then have you considered performing acetylation on the salicylic acid?"
"Acetylation?" Dr. Thorne was stunned for a moment.
"Are you suggesting adding acetic anhydride for the reaction?"
"I am just a businessman, not a chemist. But I once heard an old professor from Germany mention this approach."
Felix threw out the hint that would be enough to change the history of medicine.
"Perhaps you could try reacting glacial acetic acid and salicylic acid with a catalyst to generate a new compound. Maybe this could reduce its acidic irritation to the stomach. Even if we sacrifice a little efficacy, as long as it is safe, we can sell it to every family across America."
Dr. Thorne's eyes suddenly lit up.
It was like someone who had been groping in the dark for a long time and suddenly saw a lighthouse.
"My God, perhaps this is truly feasible! Acetylsalicylic acid! If that's the case, it will be relatively stable in the acidic environment of the stomach and will only be broken down and absorbed once it reaches the intestines! This would perfectly avoid gastric irritation!"
Dr. Thorne was so excited that he even forgot to greet Felix, turning directly and rushing toward his laboratory bench.
"Quick, quick, quick, get me some glacial acetic acid! Reconfigure the reaction vessel immediately!"
Watching the researchers descend into a frenzy, Catherine couldn't help but laugh.
"Wow~ Perhaps you really should have been a scientist, Felix. Because you can always solve dead ends they haven't been able to figure out for months with a single sentence."
Catherine happily took Felix's arm.
"Ha... how could that be possible. I only take responsibility for pointing out the direction, while they are responsible for turning that direction into dollars."
Felix smiled, led Catherine out of the noisy laboratory, and returned to the quiet president's office.
The two sat down on the sofa.
"As long as Thorne gets this 'acetylsalicylic acid' figured out, we at Umbrella might be able to try to monopolize the civilian medical market. This stuff doesn't need a prescription, doesn't need a doctor's diagnosis. Headaches, fevers, joint pain. Everyone will have to buy it."
Felix began to plan out Umbrella's future commercial map.
"How are those two generic drug factories in Boston doing?" Felix asked casually.
"Last night, I had someone go over there to check. Ever since their warehouse explosion, they have gone completely bankrupt. Those bosses are now facing lawsuits for massive debts; I estimate they will spend the rest of their lives in prison."
Catherine said with an indifferent expression.
"Alright, remember to take over all their sales channels in Boston. Once the new drug passes clinical trials, we'll distribute it directly."
"Rest assured, I've already prepared for that."
"By the way, how are those additional hospitals you mentioned doing now?"
Felix suddenly remembered that Catherine had previously mentioned increasing the number of hospitals, so he asked about it.
"It's going well. Currently, Federal Real Estate is laying the foundations. I heard from Hamilton that they will be ready for use next year. Oh, right, those twenty-some primary and secondary schools and that comprehensive university have also started construction. When shall we go take a look?"
"Let's wait until things are more stable. Things haven't been too good lately."
Just as the two were discussing matters, the office door was suddenly knocked on and opened.
The chief secretary, Edward Frost, entered. He was clutching a red urgent telegram, his face full of anxiety.
"Edward, what happened? Why are you in such a rush?" Felix frowned slightly.
Frost rushed to the coffee table, gasping for breath.
"Bo... Boss."
Frost swallowed hard and handed the red telegram to Felix.
"Something happened in Indiana."
Felix's heart suddenly sank, and his brows furrowed.
Indiana.
That was the current location of Grant's campaign train.
"What is Grant up to now?"
Felix took the telegram and scanned it quickly.
When he saw the contents of the telegram clearly.
This Wall Street tycoon, who usually remained composed even if Mount Tai collapsed before him, suddenly stood up from the sofa.
In those deep eyes, a terrifying, murderous glare erupted.
It read on the telegram:
"The presidential train was attacked in an assassination attempt in Indianapolis. President Ulysses S. Grant is severely injured, status unknown. A large quantity of Southern-issue weapons produced by Vanguard Military Industry was found at the scene."
Let's turn the clock back more than a dozen hours.
On a dedicated siding at the Indianapolis train station, the presidential train, puffing white steam, sat quietly.
Inside the presidential carriage, Grant sat alone on a large leather sofa.
The carriage door had just closed behind Chief of Staff Howard Marshall.
He had gone to carry out the order to revoke the surveillance on the Argyle Family and to reinstate Flynn and the others.
Grant held an empty glass in his hand, feeling extremely uncomfortable inside.
This supreme commander of the United States, who had once commanded thousands on the battlefield and forced the commander-in-chief of the Confederacy, General Robert Lee, to surrender, felt unprecedented frustration at this moment.
It wasn't even him who ordered it, yet he still had to appease the other party.
He looked down at the puddle of whiskey on the carpet that had not yet dried, his mind replaying the moment he had just agreed to Marshall's plan.
What is this?
As the elected president of the United States of America, he actually had to bow his head to a businessman entrenched in New York.
He had only ordered the suspension of Flynn and his group a few days ago, but as soon as something happened in New York, he had to rush to withdraw the order as if he had done something wrong, and even take the initiative to clear up the other party's "misunderstanding."
The order was issued just two days ago, and today it has to be changed back.
The dignity of the presidency has been trampled into the dirt!
"It is absolutely absurd."
Grant gritted his teeth and slammed the empty glass in his hand onto the tabletop.
The carriage door was knocked on gently, and the captain of the presidential guard, Donovan, pushed the door open and walked in.
"Mr. President, your breathing sounds very rapid. Do you need me to call Dr. Finch over to take a look at you?"
Donovan stood straight, his tone filled with caution.
"I'm not sick, Donovan. I just feel that the air in this carriage is so stifling it makes me sick."
Immediately, Grant pointed to the chair opposite him.
"Sit down and keep me company for a while."
Donovan hesitated for a moment before sitting down as instructed, but his back remained straight.
"Donovan, you followed me during the Civil War. When we were in Vicksburg, we were surrounded by the Confederates and ate moldy biscuits for a month. Have you ever seen me bow to the enemy?"
Grant stared at his guard captain, his eyes filled with a complex sense of frustration.
"Of course not, why would you ask that, Mr. President? You must know that you are the strongest shield of the Union." Donovan answered without hesitation.
"That's right~ I never retreated on the battlefield. But what about now?"
Grant let out a laugh full of self-mockery.
"I am now sitting in The White House, holding the highest executive power in all of America. But I always feel that there is an invisible gun pressed hard against my head. And the person holding that gun is not even thirty years old."
As he spoke, Grant stood up and paced back and forth in the narrow carriage.
"Argyle has been assassinated, you know? This news of the assassination came too coincidentally, Donovan. Tell me, is there really such a coincidence in this world?" Grant stopped pacing.
"I just moved against his people, and the next moment he was ambushed on his own turf. It makes it look like I, the president, sent someone to assassinate him."
"No matter how you look at it, it seems like a carefully planned drama. Do you think he might have orchestrated this assassination himself?"
Grant threw out this thought that had been circling in his mind; after all, it was really too coincidental, and he hadn't sent anyone to do it.
"Perhaps he just wants to use this method to force me to withdraw the order. He wants the whole of Washington to know who is the person in this country that truly cannot be provoked. He wants to slap me in the face, and he wants to do it with justification!"
Donovan frowned and thought seriously for a moment.
"Uh~ Mr. President, I think you might be overthinking it. Mr. Argyle is a pure businessman. Even if he wanted to force you to take a stand, arranging for rifle fire at his own carriage on the streets of Manhattan is too risky. If a bullet had pierced the steel plate, he would have lost his life. I don't think a person with billions in assets would risk his own life to act in a play."
After listening, Grant sighed.
"What you say makes sense; he doesn't need to take such a big risk. Marshall is right; this is most likely the work of that madman Old Morgan. But I just can't swallow this anger. Whether he orchestrated it or not, I, Ulysses S. Grant, have completely lost face today."
Grant tugged at the tie around his neck, feeling that the smell of coal and cigars in the carriage mixed together, suffocating him to the point where he could barely breathe.
"Get my coat, Donovan. Come down with me for a walk; I need to get some cold air to clear my head."
"Mr. President, the security outside right now..."
Donovan instinctively wanted to stop him.
"This is Indiana, our stronghold! The perimeter of the station is full of our people, what is there to fear?"
Grant interrupted him impatiently, walked straight to the coat rack, pulled down his overcoat, and put it on.
Donovan, helpless, could only draw his sidearm to check the cylinder, then followed closely behind Grant.
The two pushed open the carriage door and got off the special train.
The siding at the Indianapolis train station was very quiet. Most of the staff had already gone off duty, with only a few dim gas lamps swaying in the cold wind.
Occasionally, the neighing of horses could be heard from the main road in the distance.
Grant took a deep breath of the cold air, feeling the frustration in his lungs ease slightly.
With his hands behind his back, he slowly paced along the gravel path beside the tracks. Donovan, along with four elite members of the presidential guard, formed a fan shape to protect Grant in the middle.
"Actually, I don't want to completely fall out with Argyle either." Grant whispered to Donovan as he walked.
"His influence in Congress is growing bigger and bigger. Without his financial support, the upcoming election will be very difficult. I just want him to understand where the government's bottom line is. But he is too arrogant, so arrogant that he doesn't put federal law in his eyes at all."
Just as Grant finished speaking.
On top of a row of abandoned freight warehouses next to the siding, a faint metallic reflection suddenly flashed.
Donovan's intuition, honed on the battlefield, instantly sounded a deadly alarm.
"Get down! Mr. President!"
Donovan roared at the top of his lungs, lunging toward Grant like a cheetah, trying to pin the president underneath his own body.
But everything was too fast.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
The crisp and continuous sounds of rifle fire exploded over the quiet train station.
This was definitely not that kind of old-fashioned muzzle-loading rifle, but a lever-action repeating rifle with a very high rate of fire.
Tongues of fire from the muzzles spat in the darkness.
Grant only felt two bursts of sharp pain in his right chest and shoulder, as if he had been hit hard by a heavy hammer. The huge impact knocked him completely to the ground.
"Ah!"
Grant let out a scream and fell heavily onto the gravel path. Warm blood instantly soaked through his heavy overcoat.
"Assassins! Counterattack! Protect the President!"
Donovan's eyes were splitting with rage; he dragged Grant, who was lying in a pool of blood, behind the railroad ties next to the tracks, while drawing his revolver and firing wildly toward the muzzle flashes on top of the warehouse.
The remaining four members of the guard reacted extremely quickly; they were not panicked at all, immediately dispersing to take cover, and their weapons began to spit out an extremely fierce net of fire.
"Don't let them escape! Second team, flank the back door of the warehouse!" Donovan, while firing to suppress, gave orders to the large number of peripheral police and special agents who had arrived at the sound.
The assassins clearly did not expect the presidential guard's reaction to be so swift and fierce.
They had originally planned to retreat along the roof of the warehouse immediately after hitting the target.
But under this dense crossfire, the few black shadows on top of the warehouse were pinned down and couldn't even lift their heads.
"Bang!"
An assassin who tried to jump off the roof was hit in the chest by Donovan in mid-air and fell onto the tracks, dying on the spot.
The other three assassins, seeing that retreat was hopeless, simply gave up on fleeing and raised their rifles, preparing for a final fight to the death.
But what they faced were dozens of well-equipped, furious professional soldiers.
In less than two minutes.
The dense gunfire turned the outer wall of the abandoned warehouse into a honeycomb.
The remaining three assassins, while firing back in desperation, were riddled with bullets, their bodies rolling down the sloping roof and slamming heavily into the mud.
The gunfire finally stopped.
The train station was filled with the pungent smell of gunpowder and the thick scent of blood.
"Quick, doctor! Call the doctor over!"
Donovan knelt by Grant's side, pressing his hands hard against the bloody hole in the president's chest that was bubbling with blood, shouting loudly.
In the communications carriage in the middle of the President's special train, Chief of Staff Howard Marshall was standing behind the telegraph operator, O'Brien.
"Mr. Marshall, the line to Washington has been connected." O'Brien's fingers rested on the telegraph key.
"Shall I send the instructions to lift the investigation into Deputy Director Flynn and restore him to his position now?"
Marshall glanced at the codebook in his hand, preparing to nod in confirmation.
At that very moment.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
A series of gunshots rang out, clearly audible to both of them.
These were not the exhaust sounds of the train; they were unmistakably the sounds of a repeating rifle.
And they were extremely close, right outside the special train!
O'Brien's hand shook with fright, and he almost pressed the wrong key.
"What is going on? Where is that gunfire coming from?"
Marshall's face turned deathly pale in an instant.
Immediately after, Donovan's gut-wrenching roar came from outside: "Assassins! Protect the President! Get a doctor!"
Hearing the words "Protect the President," Marshall felt as if his heart had been ruthlessly squeezed, and his mind went completely blank.
The President had been assassinated?
Grant had been attacked?
If Grant died at this moment, he, Howard Marshall, as the President's Chief of Staff, would see all his political prospects and his entire power network collapse completely!
The five hundred thousand dollars he had received from Old Morgan would not even begin to buy him any room to survive in Washington!
"Don't send it! Stop the transmission!"
Marshall roared at O'Brien like a madman and ripped the connection cable off the telegraph machine.
That order, which was intended to curry favor with the Argyle Family and lift the intelligence agency's investigation, was abruptly cut off just a second before it could be sent.
Marshall pushed open the iron door of the communications carriage, stumbled off the train, and sprinted toward the side track where the gunfire had originated.
The night wind whipped against his face, but Marshall could no longer feel the cold.
When he rushed, panting, behind the pile of railroad ties, the sight before him made his legs give way, and he collapsed onto the gravel path.
President Ulysses S. Grant was lying in a pool of blood.
His face had turned a deathly gray, and his eyes were tightly shut.
Donovan was covered in blood, his hands pressed tightly against Grant's right chest, with fresh blood continuously gushing out from between Donovan's fingers.
The accompanying senior military physician, Finch, carrying a heavy medical kit, scrambled over under the cover of two Secret Service agents.
"Move aside! Let me see the wound!"
Dr. Finch pushed Donovan aside and violently tore open Grant's blood-soaked coat and shirt.
Finch's hands rummaged rapidly through the medical kit, pulling out large amounts of hemostatic gauze and packing it layer by layer into the horrific gunshot wound.
"The bullet pierced the edge of the lung lobe; it may have damaged a major blood vessel. The rate of blood loss is too high!"
Dr. Finch's forehead was covered in sweat as he turned and roared at the stunned Marshall and Donovan.
"This is a train station; the medical facilities are insufficient. If we cannot perform vascular suture surgery within half an hour, the President will be in mortal danger."
"Quickly, lift the President onto a stretcher and take him to the nearest church hospital in the city center. Mobilize all police forces to clear the way!"
Donovan roared his commands like a crazed bear protecting its cub.
Several strong Secret Service agents carefully lifted the unconscious President Ulysses S. Grant onto a stretcher and sprinted toward the carriage that had been waiting outside the train station.
Marshall stood there blankly, staring at the large pool of blood on the ground.
Is this how it ends?
That once invincible Federal general on the battlefield, just like this, fallen in a train station in his own country?
"Mr. Marshall!"
Donovan walked up to Marshall, his hands covered in blood. His eyes were extremely fierce, filled with a predatory, savage rage.
"Go look at the assassins' bodies."
Donovan pointed to the bodies not far away, which had been beaten beyond recognition.
Marshall took a deep breath, forced himself to calm down, and followed Donovan over.
Several Secret Service agents were searching the bodies.
"Captain, these people have no identification on them. They are all unfamiliar faces."
A team member stood up and reported.
"What about the weapons?"
Donovan asked, gritting his teeth.
"The weapons are here."
The Secret Service agent handed over the three repeating lever-action rifles and several revolvers seized from the assassins.
Donovan took the rifle and carefully inspected the gun body under the light of a lantern.
This was clearly not some shoddy black-market weapon; the bluing process on the barrel was extremely exquisite.
When Donovan's gaze fell upon the inscription on the side of the receiver, his pupils constricted sharply.
He brought the lantern closer.
On the side of the receiver, a line of English letters was clearly imprinted: "Manufactured by Vanguard Military Industry."
And below the letters, an extremely unique emblem was etched. It was a pattern composed of a shield, wheat stalks, and a gear.
It was the exclusive logo of the Southern Development Company.
This type of specially supplied weapon was only issued to the internal armed security teams of the Southern Development Company and basically did not circulate on the market.
Donovan shoved the rifle directly against Marshall's chest.
"Do you see clearly now, Mr. Chief of Staff?"
There was a chilling murderous intent in Donovan's voice.
"Vanguard Military Industry, Southern Development Company."
Looking at the emblem, Marshall only felt a chill shoot from the soles of his feet to the top of his head, and he began to mutter to himself.
"The Argyle Family..."
Donovan grabbed Marshall by the collar, his eyes bloodshot.
"A few days ago, the President just ordered their intelligence chief to be suspended. Today, their special-issue weapon has pierced the President's lung!"
"Were you just on your way to the telegraph room to send a telegram to those murderers?!"
"No! I didn't!"
Marshall shook his head desperately, his brain racing frantically.
He understood the complexities involved better than Donovan.
This was too obvious.
It was so obvious that it was as if someone had deliberately shoved this gun into the hands of the assassins and then shouted, "The Argyle Family did it."
But now, the President's life hung in the balance.
In this extremely sensitive and panic-stricken moment, reason and logic had no meaning.
The Secret Service and the military would only look at the evidence, and this gun was the most damning evidence.
"You go send the telegram."
Donovan pushed Marshall away, his tone carrying the decisiveness of a soldier taking over power.
"Notify Washington, notify the vice president and all the cabinet ministers."
Donovan pointed to the rifle bearing the Southern Development Company logo.
"Tell them that the President was assassinated in Indiana and is in critical condition. The murder weapon seized at the scene points directly to the Argyle Family in New York."
Marshall stood in the cold wind, watching Donovan's hate-filled back.
He knew very well that regardless of whether the Argyle Family had actually done this, the politicians in Washington would absolutely not let this rare opportunity pass them by.
The telegram that was originally intended to clear up the misunderstanding had been cut off.
In its place, there would likely be a political tsunami that would completely tear the United States apart.
The capital of the United States of America, Washington, D.C.
The veil of night had been torn open by the rising sun, but the gloom hanging over Capitol Hill and The White House was heavier than any midwinter night.
"Extra! Extra! President Grant has been attacked! Status unknown!"
The newsboy's shouts shattered the morning silence.
God knows how these newspapers found out about President Grant being attacked so quickly; who knows.
Inside the meeting room of the Capitol Building.
This was the nerve center of the entire Federal Government during wartime or in the face of extreme emergencies.
The heavy double oak doors were pushed open again and again, as cabinet ministers and senior legislators, who were usually poised and calm in public, flooded into the meeting room.
At the head of the conference table sat the current vice president of the United States and President of the Senate, Thomas Clark.
As Felix's father-in-law, Thomas had originally possessed immense prestige and an incredibly stable political base in Washington.
But at this moment, the expression on this old politician, who had weathered countless storms, was graver than ever before.
He clasped his hands on the table, his sharp gaze sweeping over the colleagues around him who were whispering to each other and even casting strange looks in his direction.
"Order!"
The secretary of state pounded his gavel on the table, trying to quell the clamor in the meeting room, which sounded like a vegetable market.
"Gentlemen, the latest telegram from Indianapolis has arrived. Dr. Finch has completed the initial vascular repair surgery. However, the President has lost a great deal of blood and remains in a deep coma. Whether he can pull through remains unknown."
The secretary of state's words plunged the room into a freezing atmosphere. If the President were to die, the power vacuum would trigger immeasurable turmoil.
Just then, a thin, gaunt congressman with a sinister look in his eyes stood up.
He was the senior Senator from Ohio, Elias Vance.
Within Congress, Vance had always styled himself as a radical "anti-monopoly Vanguard."
In reality, everyone knew that his primary source of funding came from those traditional industrialists in the Midwest who were on the verge of bankruptcy due to the pressure from the Argyle Family, and even included secret political contributions left behind by Old Morgan in Washington.
"Mr. secretary of state."
Senator Vance's voice echoed through the hall.
"We are not sitting here just to pray for the President's injuries. We must immediately ferret out the true culprit behind this despicable assassination! We absolutely cannot let such a terrorist act that tramples on the Constitution of the United States go unpunished!"
Vance turned his head, his gaze locked directly on the vice president, Thomas Clark, who was sitting at the head of the table.
"According to a top-secret report sent back by Donovan, the captain of the President's guard, the assassin killed at the scene was using a repeating rifle specifically manufactured by Vanguard Military Industry for the Southern Development Company. Furthermore, those firearms clearly bore the exclusive emblem of the Southern Development Company!"
Vance slammed several documents in his hand onto the conference table.
"I would like to ask everyone present. In all of America, who has the ability to mobilize special-issue weapons from Vanguard Military Industry? Who has the reach to fund those desperate outlaws? We all know the answer!"
A collective gasp of shock immediately filled the meeting room.
Vance was truly bold, pointing his finger so directly at the Argyle Family.
However, many legislators who had accepted political contributions from the Argyle Family in the past lowered their heads in guilt, not daring to stand up and refute him at this moment.
After all, this matter was too significant.
Another congressman named Nathaniel Reed also immediately stood up to support Vance.
"I agree. And this is not an isolated assassination event at all, but a premeditated political retaliation!" Congressman Reed waved his fist.
"Everyone, recall what has happened recently. In order to safeguard the nation's economic security, President Grant just issued an executive order a few days ago. He suspended the duties of those intelligence personnel within the Federal Intelligence Bureau who had previously worked for the Argyle Family, including Deputy Director Flynn!"
Reed loudly laid out his so-called "chain of evidence."
"The President even had a heated argument with Mr. Argyle in the Oval Office over the issue of European capital. The President was also determined to curb the monopolies of those oligarchs after his re-election. And then?"
Reed sneered repeatedly, his finger pointing straight toward New York.
"Then... just three days after the President ordered an investigation into their intelligence network, the President was ambushed at the train station with these special-issue weapons! What does this mean? It means that the commercial conglomerate entrenched in New York has become arrogant to the extreme! They believe that their money and private army can stand above the laws of the United States and the highest executive power! He is using bullets to demonstrate against The White House!"
"Unfounded accusations!"
Thomas Clark could finally take no more.
The dignified vice president slammed the table hard and stood up.
"Senator Vance, Congressman Reed. You are using crude logic in the meeting room of the Capitol Building to frame one of the most legitimate businessmen in the United States. This is simply an insult to the law!"
Thomas's gaze met those of the attackers without flinching.
"Weapons from Vanguard Military Industry have a huge circulation in the market. Even if they are stamped with the Southern Development Company's logo, couldn't they have been resold by black-market arms dealers? Or, this could be an obvious frame-up!"
Thomas began to counterattack using his extremely seasoned political savvy.
"If Felix Argyle really wanted to assassinate the President, would he be stupid enough to let an assassin take weapons stamped with his own company's name to the scene? Is he afraid that people wouldn't be able to trace it back to him? Everyone present here is a veteran of the political arena. Can't you see through such a clumsy method of framing someone?"
Thomas's words caused the centrist legislators in the meeting room to nod slightly.
Indeed, this logic was too abnormal.
Any normal person could see that something was wrong.
But Senator Vance was clearly prepared and gave Thomas absolutely no chance to argue.
"Mr. vice president, you will, of course, do everything in your power to defend Argyle."
Vance sneered maliciously.
"You say this is a frame-up? No, this is not a frame-up. This is arrogance!"
Vance walked to the center of the conference table, passionately inciting the emotions of everyone present.
"That young man known as the 'King of New York.' He doesn't care at all if it's clumsy. He just wants to leave that mark! He wants all of us to know that he did it. Yet, he is certain that we lack direct evidence, and he is certain that his umbrella in Congress can protect him."
Vance's gaze swept over the legislators who were keeping their heads down.
"He is using that gun to warn us. Whoever dares to touch his interests will be the next president lying in a pool of blood!"
This vicious rhetoric instantly pushed the panic in the meeting room to a fever pitch.
For these politicians, facing a capital monster that dared to kill even the President and made no attempt to hide it, the only reaction—besides fear—was the instinctual urge to destroy it completely.
"Gentlemen, we cannot retreat any further!"
Vance's hand slammed onto the table.
"We cannot let a capitalist go unpunished after assassinating the President of the United States! I propose that Congress immediately authorize the Department of Justice to deploy the Federal Marshals or even the National Guard!"
Vance's roar echoed in the security meeting room.
"Send people to New York to blockade the Empire Bank Building! Arrest Felix Argyle immediately on charges of treason and murder!"
The roar of Senator Vance echoed in the meeting room of the Capitol Building, making the gas lamp shades overhead tremble slightly.
This highly inflammatory speech was like pouring a basin of cold water into a sizzling hot oil pan.
There was a brief, dead silence in the meeting room.
Immediately after, an unprecedented political storm erupted directly across this long conference table.
Having operated on Capitol Hill for so many years, the political contributions, railway shares, and insider information that Felix had thrown out had long since woven a web of interests.
Now that someone was openly clamoring to bypass judicial procedures to arrest the biggest financier in America, how could those allied congressmen who had taken his money sit still?
"Simply preposterous! What bullshit logic!"
Senior Senator Richard Bowman from New York state stood up abruptly and slammed his hand on the tabletop with such force that the inkwell on the table jumped.
Bowman pointed at Vance's nose and cursed without reservation.
"Vance! Is your brain filled entirely with cow dung from the Midwest? Send federal marshals to New York to blockade the Imperial Bank? Do you know what that sentence of yours implies? The Imperial Bank holds nearly one-third of all railway settlements and commercial discounts in America! If you dare to send people to blockade the gates today, the stock exchange on Wall Street will completely collapse by tomorrow noon. Factories all across America will shut down because their capital chains will break! Can you bear this responsibility?"
Congressman Reed stood up to fight back, unwilling to be outdone.
"Senator Bowman, the President of the United States is currently lying in a pool of blood! Just because Argyle has money, does that mean he can be above the law? The murder weapon at the scene clearly bears their company's logo; this is ironclad proof!"
"Ironclad proof? You call this fucking ironclad proof?"
Another congressman from Pennsylvania, Marcus Cole, sneered repeatedly; he was also a staunch ally of Felix's camp.
Cole looked around at everyone in the meeting room, his tone filled with mockery.
"Gentlemen, none of us are new to Washington. Use your own brains and think about it: who is Mr. Argyle? He is a business genius who beat European capital until they were scrambling for their teeth. If he really wanted to assassinate the President, would he be stupid enough to let an assassin go to the train station to open fire with a rifle produced by his own arsenal, one that also specifically bears his own logo?"
Cole spread his hands.
"This is equivalent to leaving a business card next to the corpse after killing someone, with 'Felix Argyle was here' written on it. You actually treat this kind of frame-up that insults our intelligence as ironclad proof? Do you think Mr. Argyle is an idiot, or do you think the investigators from the Secret Service are all blind!"
"Who knows if he did it on purpose."
Vance argued sophistically, trying to justify himself.
"This is his arrogance!"
"What you're doing is presumption of guilt; it is a complete political frame-up!" Senator Bowman did not back down.
The meeting room immediately turned into a chaotic mess.
Those who supported the arrest, those who opposed it, and the moderates trying to smooth things over were all pointing fingers at each other, spitting while they argued.
The politicians, who were usually refined and courteous, had all torn off their masks at this moment, screaming desperately for their respective interests like gangs on the street.
vice president Thomas Clark, sitting in the main seat, watched all of this coldly.
He knew that if the situation were allowed to spiral out of control at this moment, it would be extremely unfavorable for the Argyle Family.
Although the absurd proposal to arrest Felix could absolutely not pass in Congress, once this kind of public opinion spread, it would seriously affect the reputation of the Imperial Bank.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
Thomas picked up the gavel and struck the tabletop heavily three times in succession. The crisp sound of wood striking wood finally managed to barely suppress the arguing.
"Enough! Gentlemen! This is the United States Congress, not a tavern."
Thomas's gaze was full of majesty, and the aura of the President of the Senate was fully released.
"The President has been assassinated; this is a national tragedy. Any suspicion is reasonable, but it is only suspicion. Without conclusive evidence from the FBI and an arrest warrant from the Supreme Court, no one has the authority to move against a legitimate citizen of the United States. Especially when it is the economic pillar of America!"
Thomas directly set the tone.
"However, given that the logo of the Southern Development Company does indeed exist on the murder weapon, Congress cannot sit idly by."
Thomas looked toward the Attorney General and the Secretary of the Interior.
"I propose that Congress immediately authorize the formation of a joint advisory investigation team. Send people to New York to conduct inquiries and investigations into the military enterprises under the name of the Argyle Family. Find out the flow of that batch of weapons. Remember! It is an inquiry, not an arrest. Anyone who dares to cross the bottom line of the law, I, Thomas Clark, will be the first to initiate an impeachment against him!"
The old fox's methods were extremely slick.
Sending people to conduct inquiries both gave the opposition an explanation and firmly kept the initiative within legal procedures.
New York was Felix's territory; if a few investigators went there, besides drinking a few cups of good tea, they wouldn't be able to find out anything substantial at all.
Moreover, he did not believe that Felix would do such a thing.
Although Vance and Reed were unwilling, they knew this was the greatest concession they could fight for, so they could only sit down sullenly.
"Additionally." Thomas turned to look at the communications director.
"Immediately send a telegram to Indianapolis, and report the President's latest medical condition every half hour! We must have the most accurate information at all times."
With Thomas's methodical arrangements, the panic in the meeting room stabilized slightly.
But just at this moment, Senator Bowman suddenly threw out a question that caught everyone off guard, yet was extremely realistic.
"Mr. vice president, fellow colleagues."
"The telegram says that President Grant has lost too much blood and is in a deep coma. Dr. Finch also says it is unknown whether he can survive the night."
Bowman looked around.
"The country is currently in a state of extreme turmoil, and the public is very panicked. We cannot let the power of The White House fall into a vacuum. According to the legal spirit of the United States, during the period when the President is unable to perform administrative duties due to injury or illness, it should be the vice president who temporarily takes over domestic affairs and acts on behalf of the President's authority to stabilize the public's emotions!"
Once this sentence was uttered, everyone felt their nerves twitching.
Bowman was making a power grab!
He was trying to take advantage of Grant's coma to push Thomas Clark directly onto the throne of America's highest power!
But the die-hard congressmen of the Republican Party who belonged to Grant's faction immediately jumped up, reacting extremely fiercely.
"Absolutely not!"
Congressman Reed shouted, almost screaming.
"Who doesn't know the relationship between Mr. Clark and the Argyle Family! Right now, Argyle is the prime suspect in the President's assassination. If Mr. Clark is allowed to act on behalf of the President's authority at this time, will the assassination case ever be solved? This is simply a conflict of interest!"
"This is legal procedure, Reed. Do you want to bring the country to a standstill!" Cole retorted loudly.
"Then wait for the President to wake up. Before the doctors declare that the President is completely unable to perform his duties, any act of overstepping authority is a coup!" Senator Vance held onto his position firmly.
The two factions once again fell into an extremely intense squabble and struggle.
Everyone was clear that whoever held the executive power at this moment could determine the direction of the subsequent investigation, and could even determine the future political landscape of America.