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Chapter 134 Financial Practitioners Should Avoid Night Runs
Catherine Dale can't remember which day she started jogging at night.

Perhaps it was the end of 2009.

During that period, there was a lot of debate on Capitol Hill, with the draft bill on financial regulation being torn apart back and forth in the House of Representatives.

She had to deal with hearings during the day, and couldn't sleep at night when she got home.

So Catherine bought a pair of sneakers and started running along the Potomac River every night from Roslin.

Initially, it was just to sweat and catch her breath, to get those names and numbers she didn't want to remember out of her head.

Later, it gradually became a habit, and even a hobby.

Five times a week, never skipping.

In spring and summer, I usually go out after 7 pm, take a fixed route, keep my cadence at around 170, and run 7 kilometers in about 40 minutes.

Catherine has run many marathons.

My most recent time in Chicago was four hours and forty-eight minutes, which was neither good nor bad.

Therefore, even though she was nearly fifty, she was still in very good health.

At the SEC, many colleagues joked that she was "so self-disciplined that she didn't seem like someone in finance."

But few people mention that she came from Goldman Sachs—the first team to short MBS and escape through credit default swaps.

After the crisis, she was quickly recruited into the Office of Financial Policy, and two years later transferred to the Securities and Exchange Commission.

The process proceeded smoothly, attracting almost no public attention.

All of this was certainly related to her former boss—Henry Paulson, the then Secretary of the Treasury.

Today is Friday, and the average temperature in Washington, D.C. in June is 30 degrees Celsius.

Fortunately, the heat accumulated during the day gradually dissipated after the sun set.

Catherine left the apartment, wearing a short-sleeved compression shirt and gray running shorts.

In addition to his phone and first-aid pills, the fanny pack also contained a SIG P365.

She started carrying a gun during her years as a consultant—when she went for a run alone at night, especially in this city, it was better to have an extra layer of insurance.

At 7:35, she set off from the Mount Vernon Trail and headed south.

Passing the edge of Arlington Cemetery, around the George Mason Memorial, and then turning toward the Memorial Bridge—the old arched bridge that leads to the Lincoln Memorial.

A wide field of vision and few people can help lower your heart rate naturally.

However, when Catherine looked towards the bridgehead in the distance, her brows furrowed.

There is no light.

The lights on the memorial bridge are usually turned on at set times—from dusk until around 2 a.m.

But tonight, the entire bridge is shrouded in shadow.

The edges of the railing were hidden in the shadows, and only their general outlines could be barely discerned.

She stopped, took off her headphones, and stood a short distance away, observing for a few seconds.

There were no construction barriers or maintenance notices around, not even a single warning sign.

The lights were just off.

Catherine hesitated before taking two steps closer.

The distribution box is independently installed on a concrete base.

She glanced at it subconsciously.

The lock is intact, but the red indicator light on the control panel is not lit.

It's not emergency repair, it's not maintenance.

After a moment's thought, Catherine continued running.

She is a very organized, even somewhat obsessive, person who hates nothing more than having her rhythm disrupted.

Moreover, the pistol was still in his waist pouch.

The temperature dropped noticeably the moment I stepped onto the bridge.

The wind blowing from the river was slightly cool, but not enough to make one feel cold.

The asphalt surface still retained some moisture, probably from the light rain that afternoon.

Catherine slowed her pace, focusing on the landing and rebound, trying to keep her mind from wandering.

After running for more than ten meters, she suddenly noticed a small reflective spot next to the railing on her right.

It looks like shards of glass.

Catherine slowed down, stopped, and then walked over.

She poked at it with the tip of her shoe and found that it was indeed half a beer bottle.

There was a faint malty smell in the air, as if it had just been opened not long ago.

Catherine frowned again.

This route is usually not frequented by idlers. It's mostly frequented by cyclists or solo hikers like her who run at a steady pace and prefer not to be disturbed.

Who exactly is drinking and smashing bottles here?

Has the security situation in Washington, D.C. deteriorated to this extent?

Lost in her own thoughts, she prepared to restart.

However, at that moment, a very faint friction sound suddenly came to my ear.

Catherine turned around abruptly, her gaze not yet fully focused, only catching a blurry figure approaching from behind.

Before I could react, a sharp, dull pain shot through the back of my neck.

My vision suddenly blurred, and a high-frequency buzzing sound filled my mind.

She stumbled, lost her balance, and fell forward unsteadily.

Catherine instinctively tried to grab her fanny pack to draw her gun, but found that she couldn't lift her arm at all; her muscles wouldn't obey her commands.

Almost simultaneously, an arm reached out from behind and pressed down hard on her shoulder blade, while another hand suddenly covered her mouth and nose.

She struggled, but her movements were quickly subdued.

My breathing was blocked, and my vision blurred.

Then, his body was suddenly pushed, and his forehead hit the cold railing.

Unfortunately, the excruciating pain still failed to bring Catherine back to consciousness.

On the verge of losing consciousness, she felt herself being pushed down.

The wind suddenly picked up, as if the entire city had been left behind.

The scene before my eyes finally settled on the water beneath the bridge, rippling in the night.

In the end, everything returned to silence.

Zhou Yi casually stuffed the brick into his pocket.

In one day, $350,000 was in hand.

It sounds fast, but when you factor in all the preparations beforehand, it's really just breaking even in terms of time and risk.

This was even after the system weapons were used.

damn it.

Spending money is easy, but making money is hard.

That real estate agent named Linda really died too late.

After confirming that the woman in the water had completely stopped moving, Zhou Yi continued walking north.

Next, it's time to see Lucas.

There were less than fifteen minutes left until the agreed time.

Fortunately, his home is very close by, also located in Arlington.

A small, gated neighborhood north of Clarendon.

The building is three and a half stories high, with gray-white exterior walls and black eaves.

The backyard wasn't large, and it was surrounded by a circle of neatly trimmed holly trees.

"Standardized decent" American middle-class housing type.

Zhou Yi pulled the car over to the side of the road, turned off the engine, picked up the red wine he had just bought, and walked towards the villa.

He had just raised his hand to knock when the door opened first.

Sarah came to greet them.

Lucas's wife.

“Exactly,” she said with a smile. “He was just about to come downstairs.”

"Luckily, there's no traffic on the road." Zhou Yi smiled politely and raised his glass. "As is customary, this is a pre-dinner toast."

Sarah took the bottle of wine, her eyes pausing for half a second as she glanced at the label.

But soon, she looked up again, her smile returning to normal: "That's a very thoughtful gift, thank you, John."

Sarah stepped aside to make way for the doorway and gestured for us to come in: "Come in, dinner will be ready soon."

The room was at a comfortable temperature, the living room was clean, and the floor was polished to a shine.

After Sarah left, the faint smell of roasted meat wafted from the kitchen.

Zhou Yi didn't sit down. Instead, he stood in the center of the living room and slowly took the brick out of his pocket.

He held it in his hand, weighed it in his hand, and then wiped away the remaining bloodstains.

After a minute, footsteps were heard on the stairs.

(End of this chapter)