What the hell is the "kill line" when you're in America?

He had just witnessed a gunfight that looked like something out of a war movie.

On one side were well-equipped, tactically proficient men in black.

On the other side are a "rabble" hiding in various parts of the garbage mountain, whose marksmanship is sometimes accurate and sometimes inaccurate, but who always manage to hit their targets from unbelievable angles.

The entire battle was breathtakingly fast; from the first sniper shot to the last enemy falling, it took no more than five minutes.

Gordon looked at that face, or rather, at those eyes, and an extremely strange sense of familiarity welled up from the bottom of his heart without warning.

He felt as if he had seen this person somewhere before.

It's not the kind of vague impression you get when you brush past someone on the street, but a deeper and more enduring familiarity.

But no matter how hard he racked his brains, he couldn't find any face in his memory that matched the one in front of him.

The other person's features were clearly visible, but in his perception, they seemed to be shrouded in a thin mist—visible, yet impossible to grasp, and easily forgotten.

This feeling made Gordon's temples throb, and he even wondered if he was hallucinating from the intense stress of the past few days.

"Stop looking."

Gordon looked around.

The sniper who fired from a distance was sliding down a towering crane, his gun slung over his shoulder.

Meanwhile, the armed men who rushed out from behind the containers were quickly and professionally cleaning up the battlefield.

They picked up weapons, looted ammunition, and even skillfully cleared the ground.

"Who are you?" Gordon gripped the old-fashioned revolver tightly.

Although he knew that in front of these people, the gun was no different from a fire poker.

"A kind-hearted citizen."

Li Ang casually made up a story.

"What... exactly do you want?"

Gordon knew that if these people wanted to kill him, he would already be a dead man.

Li Ang didn't say anything. He walked to the wrecked Ford and pulled open the door.

Inside, Representative Hall had shrunk into a ball of flesh, trembling all over, with a large dark water stain seeping into the crotch of his expensive suit trousers.

"Drag him out."

Li Ang waved to Jack beside him.

Jack, wearing that comical clown mask, roughly grabbed Hall by the collar, dragged him out of the car like a bag of garbage, and threw him into the pile of scrap metal.

"Ah! Don't kill me! Don't kill me!"

"I am a senator... I have immunity... You cannot..."

"There is no immunity here, Mr. Congressman."

Gordon took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing that strange sense of familiarity.

He walked up to Hall and squatted down.

The old tape recorder clicked as the record button was pressed.

The red indicator light flashed in the dimly lit junkyard.

"Now, all we have are confessions, or corpses."

Li Ang leaned against the container next to him, arms crossed, watching the scene with great interest.

In his field of vision.

The text above Representative Hall's head is undergoing a dramatic change.

[Kill threshold: High]

The once gleaming golden character "高" is now fading at a visible speed.

That golden shield representing power and status is crumbling due to fear and impending disgrace.

When a person in a position loses the protection of power, loses his dignity and respect, he is like a fat pig whose thick skin has been peeled off, exuding an enticing aroma of meat in the eyes of predators.

"I...I'll say..."

Hall's psychological defenses were more fragile than Gordon had imagined.

Or rather, the one-sided massacre just now had completely shattered his pride as a "big shot".

He watched as his expensively hired team of bodyguards collapsed like wheat being harvested in less than five minutes.

In the face of the absolute violence of death, cunning and eloquence become utterly worthless.

"That account... in the archipelago..." Hall's voice trembled.

"The Sacred Heart Charity Foundation... deposits money into it every month..."

"That's...that's political donations..."

Gordon's eyes turned cold.

"Is it just money?"

He took a step closer, the muzzle of the old-fashioned revolver flashing intentionally or unintentionally in Hall's eyes.

"I don't believe Father Brown gave you so much money just so you could raise your hand in parliament."

"What else?"

"What exactly is that 'Nightingale Project' list?"

Upon hearing the words "Project Nightingale," Hall's pupils contracted sharply to the size of pinpoints.

His breathing became rapid, his chest heaving violently, as if an invisible hand was gripping his throat.

"No... I can't say..."

Hall shook his head frantically, his fat face jiggling.

"I told them... I'd die... They'd kill my whole family..."

"If you don't talk now, you'll die right now."

Li Ang suddenly spoke.

He emerged from the shadows, toying with a gleaming dagger in his hand.

Those were spoils of war smuggled from one of those unlucky bodyguards.

He walked over to Hall, squatted down, and gently patted Hall's cheek with the back of his knife.

"And believe me."

Li Ang leaned close to Hall's ear, his voice as soft as if he were telling a bedtime story.

"My methods are more creative than those people's."

"Would you like to give it a try?"

In this madman's eyes, he was just a talking lump of meat.

"I'll talk! I'll talk! It's...it's an organ..."

"organ?"

Gordon repeated the word, his voice dry as if his throat were filled with grit.

"You mean... organ trafficking?"

Hall felt as if his spine had been ripped out; he collapsed to the ground, tears streaming down his face.

Now that the conversation has begun, the rest follows naturally.

Fear is like a flood that has breached a dam; once it breaks, it can never be stopped.

"Homeless people...those homeless people no one wants..."

Hall spoke haltingly, each word like a nail driven into Gordon's heart.

"Sacred Heart Asylum...they screen those who are physically healthy...young..."

"They gave them physical exams... supposedly for health records... but actually it was for tissue matching..."

"Once a match is found... they will disappear..."

"Some went to private clinics...some were directly put on ships...and transported to international waters..."

Gordon felt a wave of dizziness.

He thought of those missing persons lists.

I was reminded of those homeless people who lined up in long queues outside the shelter, their eyes numb, just for a bowl of hot soup.

"Who is the buyer?" Gordon asked through gritted teeth.

"Many..." Hall stammered, "There are billionaires... foreign dignitaries... even... even a few Hollywood stars..."

"As long as you pay... Father Brown can get his hands on the goods..."

"I just... I just helped them sort out those administrative problems..."

"For example... for example, changing the records of those missing persons... to accidental death... or... no such person found..."

"I didn't kill anyone! I really didn't kill anyone!"