A heavily armed private special train exhaled billows of white smoke, pierced through the morning fog of Manhattan, and slowly pulled into a hidden platform at the Grand Central Terminal.
Felix stepped out of the carriage expressionlessly.
Frost closely followed behind, carrying a briefcase in his hand.
Outside the platform, several black carriages specially bulletproofed and modified by Golden Shield Security Company had been waiting for a long time. Security personnel with stern expressions stood all around, their hands placed extremely naturally on the inner side of their coats near the handles of their guns.
"Return to the Empire Bank Building."
Felix sat inside the carriage and gave a brief command.
The carriage drove smoothly on the cobbled streets and soon entered Wall Street.
Not long after Felix entered the top-floor office, Timmy, the deputy director of the Intelligence Department, followed right behind and walked quickly to the front of the desk.
"Boss, you are back."
Timmy bowed slightly, a sense of urgency in his tone.
Felix casually tossed his coat onto the sofa, walked behind the desk and sat down, cutting straight to the point.
"Report clearly to me on the situation in Argentina and Brazil, and the intelligence collected by the Intelligence Department. Which local tyrant did Barings Bank actually find to bite us?"
Timmy immediately opened the document folder in his hands, spreading out several hand-drawn maps and secret reports flat on Felix's desk.
"Boss, Barings Bank has really spared no expense this time. Through their agent in Buenos Aires, they bought off a local warlord named Vargas."
Timmy pointed to an area near the Argentine port on the map.
"This Vargas was originally a colonel in the regular Argentine army, and later defected with his infantry regiment under him, carving out a territory on the edge of the Pampas. He still has around eight hundred soldiers under his command equipped with old-style Enfield muzzle-loading rifles. In addition, Barings Bank also spent a large sum of money to hire nearly three hundred Gauchos."
"Gauchos?"
Frost frowned beside him.
"You mean those nomadic cavalrymen on the South American grasslands?"
"That's right. These Gauchos have lived on horseback year-round. Although their marksmanship is average, their mobility is extremely high, and their methods are extremely vicious. What they excel at the most are night raids and disrupting logistics lines."
Timmy flipped open another intelligence brief.
"And three days ago, the attack on our port warehouse was carried out by an advance force of Vargas in coordination with the Gauchos. Although our security team relied on the terrain to repel them, the local police and garrison at the port completely turned a blind eye. Barings Bank has clearly stuffed the local government officials full."
Felix leaned back in his chair, his fingers gently tapping on the desktop.
"Over eight hundred rebels, plus three hundred rangers. The local government stands by with folded arms. Barings Bank wants to create a lawless zone in Argentina and drag our railway project to death right at the port."
Felix looked a bit disdainful, a flash of cruelty crossing his eyes.
"That old bastard Charles Sterling is still using those rotten colonial tricks of the British Empire to deal with me. Does he really think that spending a few pounds to buy a few warlords in South America can block my path?"
"Boss, what we are facing now is not just a military threat," Timmy continued to report.
"The original roadbeds of those railways have been suspended for a long time. If we cannot quickly open up a safe passage from the port to the inland, the road-building machinery shipped over by the Metropolitan Trading Company will rust, and subsequent engineering personnel will not dare to disembark. The losses of staying at the port every day are a huge figure."
Felix stopped the action of tapping the desktop.
He stood up and walked over to the huge map of South America.
On the current South American continent, warlord melee and the penetration of powers' capital were the norm.
In this place devoid of any international law and moral bottom line, whoever had harder fists and thicker capital could make the rules.
"It seems they want to fight a proxy war."
Felix stared at Buenos Aires on the map, his voice bone-chillingly cold.
"Then throw the proxies straight into the meat grinder."
Felix turned around to look at Frost.
"Edward, send a telegram to Miller in Nevada immediately. Convey my order."
Frost immediately took out his notebook and fountain pen, his expression solemn.
"Tell Miller that the expansion plan in Nevada is temporarily slowed down, and to switch to a defensive posture. Have him pull Rambo out for me immediately. From that batch of elite security forces under him, select five hundred people."
When Felix issued the command, there was not the slightest bit of drag, displaying absolute autocratic efficiency.
"Have Rambo lead these five hundred people at the fastest speed to board the special train of the Union Pacific Railroad, and rush directly to Whitneyville in Connecticut."
"To the arsenal of Vanguard Military Industry?" Frost recorded quickly.
"Mhm, that's right. Frank has probably already intercepted the currently produced artillery and firearms over there, and has prepared enough ammunition."
"Have Rambo take the men to the arsenal to take over that batch of heavy firepower, and then immediately head to the secret port on the East Coast. Three armed merchant ships of the Metropolitan Trading Company are already standing by there; load the personnel and equipment onto the ships and set sail for Argentina at full speed."
With both hands braced on the desktop, Felix was like an enraged lion.
"Tell Rambo. When you reach the Pampas, don't talk to me about any negotiations or rules. Don't worry about the local police and government. I only want one result!"
"Find that warlord named Vargas. Flatten his camp with artillery. Turn all the Gauchos who dare to approach our railway construction site into minced meat with Gatling Guns. I want all the warlords and politicians in Argentina to know that dealing with the Argyle Family comes with the price of extermination!"
Listening to this bloody command, Timmy not only felt no fear, but instead felt a surge of hot-blooded excitement.
This was the style of doing things of the Argyle Family: as long as you make the first move,
then for any problem that can be solved with ammunition, never waste time reasoning.
"Understood, boss. The telegram will be sent immediately." Frost closed his notebook.
"This is only the first step."
Felix walked to the corner of the desk and picked up the handset of the wired telephone.
War was never just a showdown of guns and cannons, but a strangulation of logistics and supplies.
In the jungles and grasslands of South America, those fatal diseases and harsh environments often killed more people than bullets.
He had to prepare the most adequate survival safeguards for these five hundred expeditionary killers.
Felix cranked the handle on the side of the telephone and connected to the office line of Jones, the president of the Argyle Food Company.
Through the central exchange of the telephone bureau, a burst of chaotic current static came from the telephone receiver.
"Here is the Food Company President's Office, I am Jones." A slightly distorted, steady male voice came from the receiver.
"Jones, it's me."
Felix said into the funnel-shaped mouthpiece.
Jones on the other end of the phone immediately straightened his back.
"Boss, do you have any instructions?"
"Go and check the inventory in the company's warehouse."
"I need enough rations for five hundred adult able-bodied men to survive high-intensity in the wild for half a year. Pack them up immediately, and they must be transported to the exclusive dock of the Metropolitan Trading Company on the East Coast before dark tomorrow."
Jones on the other end of the phone quickly picked up the ledger, his brain spinning rapidly.
"Five hundred people, half a year. Boss, if it's conventional salted meat and flour, in that hot and humid environment of South America, it will be covered in green hair in half a month. The rats at the bottom of the hold will also destroy half of the food."
As the food industry overlord controlling the entire eastern rations, Jones had professional judgment on logistics and storage.
"I didn't ask you to transport flour." Felix interrupted him coldly.
"Transfer all of those military-grade canned beef pressed on our latest assembly line. That batch of canned goods used the high-temperature sterilization process improved by Mr. Louis Pasteur, as long as the tinplate seal is not broken, it won't spoil even if placed on the equator for a year."
"Understood, twenty thousand cans of beef." Jones quickly recorded.
"Meat alone is not enough, there are no fresh vegetables in the jungles of South America." Felix continued to instruct.
"And those high-sugar canned fruits made of apples and oranges, load ten thousand cans as well. Also those hard Hayes biscuits pressed by high-pressure machines, I want the kind that won't fall apart even if soaked in water for half an hour. I want my soldiers, when pursuing warlords, even if hiding in muddy puddles, to be able to take out biscuits to replenish their physical strength."
"Ten thousand cans of canned fruit, five hundred boxes of special compressed hard biscuits." Jones repeated the list, his tone professional.
"Boss, there is one more most important thing. If going to tropical or subtropical grasslands, clean drinking water is a big problem. I suggest adding two hundred barrels of sealed filtered purified water, as well as a sufficient amount of salt."
"Do as you say. Pack the salt well, I want to ensure that everyone can ingest enough salt every day to cope with heavy sweating." Felix highly appreciated Jones's meticulousness.
"Move fast, the packaging must use the sturdiest moisture-proof wooden boxes, lined with oiled paper inside. Don't be stingy with costs, this food is related to how far those lads can go."
"Rest assured, Boss. Before sunset tomorrow, all supplies will appear on the dock on time. Not even a fly can crawl into my cans."
Hanging up the Food Company's phone, the ammunition and rations were resolved.
But the mortality rate in South America was never entirely caused by war.
He shook the handle again, letting the switchboard connect the line of the Umbrella Pharmaceutical Company.
A few seconds later, Catherine's familiar voice came from the receiver.
As the president of Umbrella, she insisted on handling the core business of the company every day.
"Felix?"
Catherine was somewhat surprised; usually Felix rarely looked for her in this way during working hours.
"Has the trouble over at the university been resolved?"
"That side has already been sorted out, Principal Armand has managed those professors very obediently."
Felix's voice softened a little, but quickly returned to the seriousness of work.
"Catherine, something happened in South America. Barings Bank hired warlords there to attack our railway camp. I must send an armed force of five hundred people over to clear them out."
Catherine on the other end of the phone fell silent for a moment.
As Felix's partner and business partner, she had long been accustomed to this kind of bloody expansion.
"What do you need the pharmaceutical company side to prepare? Battlefield medical kits?"
Catherine's reaction was extremely rapid, cutting straight to the point.
"Almost."
"Emergency supplies for stab wounds and gunshot wounds must be sufficient. Load all the Iodine Glycerin solution in the warehouse, this is currently the only thing that can effectively prevent wound suppuration and infection. There is also a large amount of pure cotton absorbent gauze and tourniquets. I want to make sure that every shot soldier, as long as they weren't hit in the heart, can return to the ship alive."
"I'll have my men go and check right away."
Catherine calmly commanded on the other end of the phone.
"One hundred boxes of Iodine Glycerin, fifty barrels of high-purity carbolic acid disinfectant. These can handle conventional surgical trauma."
She paused, and with her excellent medical common sense, pointed out the problem.
"Felix, going to the Pampas grasslands and tropical rainforests of South America, the real killers are not bullets. They are malaria and dysentery. Mosquito bites and unclean drinking water can completely incapacitate a force of five hundred men within half a month. Just like Napoleon's army in Haiti back then, water purification tablets are needed."
Felix suddenly understood.
"I know, Jones just mentioned this problem too. By the way, is Umbrella's current quinine reserve enough?"
Quinine, extracted from cinchona bark, was the only miraculous medicine of this era that could effectively treat and prevent malaria.
Furthermore, the seeds of the cinchona tree were strictly controlled by European powers, and the price of quinine was even more expensive than silver of the same weight.
"Our smuggling line in Peru and Bolivia just shipped back a batch of high-purity cinchona bark last month. The laboratory has completed the extraction."
Pride showed in Catherine's voice; this was the advantage of the Argyle Family laying out a monopoly on medicine in advance.
"I will allocate 80% of the quinine powder in the warehouse to you, enough for these five hundred people to take daily for prevention. In addition, I will issue them Umbrella's newly developed'Stomach An' pills, whose main ingredient is bismuth subsalicylate, which is very effective against tropical acute diarrhea."
"Well done, my dear."
Felix did not stint on his praise.
In this world, the only one who could provide him with such perfect support in logistics and medical care was this commercial closed-loop he built with his own hands.
"Pack these medicines separately, and send the most reliable people to escort them to the dock. Tell the military doctors leading the team that when they arrive in South America, even if they don't drink water, they must swallow the quinine powder on time every day. This is a death order."
"I will arrange it well, after all, the situation in South America is even more chaotic than the West. Don't work yourself too hard." Catherine whispered a reminder before hanging up the phone.
"Rest assured. Chaos is precisely the ladder for us to establish a new order."
Felix hung up the phone.
Weapons, ammunition, canned goods, medicines.
When the whole of Europe was still wrangling and protesting over the departure of dozens of scholars.
This capitalist family across the Atlantic Ocean was already like a precise war machine wound up with a spring.
From the artillery workshop in Connecticut to the canned goods assembly line in Brooklyn, to the pharmaceutical warehouse in New Jersey.
All the gears were spinning frantically around a single will.
Felix walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking at the New York citizens below who were still bustling for the science fund.
"Meeting me, you are so lucky!"
In Nevada, at the remote silver mine camp of Saineng Mining Company.
Howling winds whipped up the flying yellow sand across the sky, mercilessly lashing against those crude wooden houses.
In this wasteland ruled by the scorching sun and drought, only the toughest weeds and the coldest men could survive.
Inside the largest and most heavily defended wooden house in the center of the camp.
Miller, president of Saineng Mining Company, was sitting in front of a rough wooden table.
On the table lay a well-maintained Vanguard Model 70 repeating rifle, along with a red urgent telegram that had just been transmitted via the internal dedicated line.
The door was rudely pushed open.
A stalwart man whose muscles were as hard as granite walked in.
He wore a suede vest stained with sand and dirt, and his two thick arms were covered with scars from knives and gunshot wounds.
Two heavy Colt revolvers hung at his waist, and an extremely sharp Bowie knife was tucked into the outside of his thigh.
He was Rambo.
Miller's fiercest security captain, and a boning dagger of the Argyle Family in the western wilderness.
"Boss, you are looking for me."
Rambo walked up to the table, grabbed the iron kettle on it, tilted his neck, and gulped down a few mouthfuls of water.
His voice was low and hoarse, exuding a heavy smell of gunpowder smoke.
Miller did not speak, but simply pushed the red telegram on the table in front of Rambo.
Rambo put down the kettle, picked up the telegram, and glanced at it.
That pair of eyes, always carrying a beast-like vigilance, lit up instantly after seeing the contents of the telegram.
"South America? Argentina?"
Rambo licked his dry and cracked lips.
"I heard that people there all ride horses and kill with lassos. Mercenaries from Barings Bank teamed up with local warlords to smash our place?"
"That's right."
Miller leaned back in his chair, pulled a cigar out of his pocket, and lit it.
"Frank gave me a hint not long ago, saying that headquarters might transfer people. I didn't expect the order to come so fast."
"The boss made it very clear in the telegram, asking you to pick five hundred of the most ruthless brothers to go to the Pampas Grasslands and teach those natives what a real war is."
Miller exhaled thick smoke, looking at his most capable general.
"How about it, bastard? This job is not easy. That place is full of jungles and meadows, and the mosquitoes are more lethal than bullets."
"And the opponent has more than eight hundred regular soldiers and over three hundred gaucho cavalry, twice your number."
"Tsk~ Numbers have no meaning in front of machine guns."
Rambo sneered, slamming the telegram heavily on the table.
"Playing hide-and-seek with those petty thieves who only know how to rob every day in this damned desert, our brothers' gun barrels are almost rusting."
"Going to South America is just right to stretch our muscles. How much time do you give me to pick people?"
"No time."
Miller stood up and walked up to Rambo.
"Put down all unnecessary equipment and only bring your close-fitting weapons. The special train is already waiting at the railway station thirty miles away."
"Stations along the Union Pacific Railroad will give you the green light all the way, without stopping for water or coal. You must rush to the factory at the fastest speed."
Miller patted Rambo's solid shoulder.
"Leaving five hundred people to defend here is enough, you take the best batch. Don't embarrass the boss, and blow off the head of that warlord named Vargas for me."
"As you wish, sir."
Rambo stood at attention, gave a less-than-standard military salute, then turned and strode out of the wooden house.
In less than half an hour.
Amidst the deafening whistles and curses.
Five hundred gunmen in uniform, whose eyes exuded the same bloodthirsty and icy aura, finished assembling in the open space of the camp.
"Everyone, grab your gear! Target east!"
Rambo vaulted onto a black steed, walking at the very front of the procession.
Five hundred horsemen whipped up the flying sand across the sky, like a black torrent of steel, roaring out of the desert of Nevada.
A few days later.
Connecticut, Whitneyville Railway Station.
The harsh whistle pierced the tranquility of the town, and a special train hauling more than a dozen carriages slowly drove into the platform.
The doors opened.
Rambo led his group of dusty yet murderous western gunmen to jump off the train.
On the platform, Frank Cole, president of Vanguard Military Industry, had been waiting for a long time.
Seeing these familiar old faces, a smile appeared on Frank's face.
"Rambo, you arrived three hours earlier than expected."
Frank stepped forward and gave Rambo a heavy hug.
"Cut the crap, Frank."
Rambo glanced at the heavily guarded factory guards around the railway station.
"The boss said you left good things for me in the warehouse, where are the goods?"
"Guaranteed to satisfy you."
Frank turned around and waved his hand.
The doors of a row of huge wooden warehouses behind the platform were slowly pulled open.
Inside were neatly arranged twelve breech-loading steel cannons that had just been intercepted from the production line, gleaming with a blue-black cold light.
Next to the artillery were ten Gatling Guns equipped with heavy brass barrels and full feeding devices.
Mountainous piles of ammunition boxes were stacked like a wall deep inside the warehouse.
"This batch of artillery was originally prepared for the War Department, but I managed to withhold it."
Frank patted the cold barrel.
"The breech mechanism is the newest, and the rate of fire is more than three times faster than muzzle-loading cannons."
"I have prepared five times the baseline of explosive shells and shrapnel for you, enough to blast a medium-sized city to flat ground."
Rambo's hand stroked the crank of that heavy Gatling Gun, excitement flashing in his eyes.
"With these treasures, those South American warlords won't even be able to get within a mile of us."
"Load the cars! The brothers' hands are itching."
The railway station immediately became busy.
Cranes hoisted the heavy artillery and ammunition boxes onto the cargo train that had been prepared long ago.
Late that night.
This train, fully loaded with killing machines and five hundred hungry wolves, drove into a private port on the East Coast of New York.
Bill, president of Metropolitan Trading Company, was standing on the dock.
The sea breeze ruffled his hair, but he was still full of spirit.
Behind him.
Three 3,000-ton steam cargo ships originally used for ocean-going trade had been converted.
Thick bulletproof steel plates had been added to the decks that were originally open to load more cargo.
On both sides of the hull were concealed shooting ports for artillery and machine-gun fire.
This was by no means a merchant ship, but an armed auxiliary cruiser in sheep's clothing!
"Rambo!"
Seeing Rambo getting off the train, Bill greeted him loudly.
"Mr. Bill."
Rambo stepped forward and glanced at the three giant ships.
"Are these our warships?"
"Yes, the coal capacity has been filled. Twenty thousand cans of beef from Food Company and anti-malaria drugs from the pharmaceutical company were loaded into the bottom hold yesterday."
Bill pointed to the crane loading and unloading artillery.
"The boss gave strict orders that these three ships do not need to abide by any trade rules at sea."
"If you encounter pirates or blind interceptors, open fire directly. Once all the artillery is loaded onto the ships, you can leave."
Rambo turned around and looked at his five hundred brothers who were carrying ammunition onto the ship.
In the night, the waves of the Atlantic Ocean constantly beat against the breakwater.
Under this tranquil appearance.
The sharpest poisonous fang of America's capitalist empire had been completely quenched with venom.
"Board the ship!"
The swells of the Atlantic Ocean beat endlessly against the freighter's black loadline.
The compound steam engine at the bottom of the hold emitted a dull and rhythmic roar, pushing this steel behemoth toward the increasingly scorching Southern Hemisphere.
Rambo stood on the slightly swaying deck, biting down on half an unlit cigar in his mouth.
The salty sea breeze condensed a fine layer of water droplets on the precision-crafted steel gun barrels.
Holding a coarse cloth soaked in gun oil, he carefully wiped down the brass feeding hopper of the Gatling Gun.
"Holy crab~ Captain, this bloody weather is getting hotter and hotter. Those lads in the bottom hold are vomiting almost enough to bring up their gallbladder bile."
A bearded man with a penetrating scar across his right eye walked over to report the situation.
His name was Gerrit, one of the several squad leaders among the five hundred gunmen. He used to be a cattle driver in Texas and had extremely accurate marksmanship.
"It doesn't matter, Gerrit. You'll get used to throwing up. Tell them to open those canned tangerines distributed by the Food Company and swallow them down with the sugar water. If anyone dares to get scurvy at a time like this, I will throw him straight into the sea to feed the sharks."
Without lifting his head, Rambo continued to fiddle with the crank handle of the machine gun.
"Has the ammunition in the bottom hold gotten damp?"
"Not at all. The wooden boxes are all lined with oiled paper and sawdust. The people under President Frank still do things quite competently."
Gerrit leaned against the bulletproof steel plate, looking out at the boundless sea.
"Captain, I heard that Argentina is all vast prairies. Can we manage to haul these heavy cannons of ours?"
"Even if we can't haul them, we have to."
Rambo raised his head and took the cigar in his hand.
"The local warlord has more than eight hundred men, plus cavalry. If our five hundred men don't rely on these twelve breech-loading cannons to nail down our positions, we'll just be moving targets on the plains. When we reach the port, directly requisition the local mules and horses. If anyone dares to stop us, pay them with bullets."
Gerrit grinned, revealing a few scorched-yellow teeth. He liked this kind of simple and brutal rule.
"The brothers think so too. I heard from the Intelligence Department that Barings Bank has scattered bundles of pounds over there. This time we go, not only must we seize back that railway, but we'll also make those bumpkins spit out every single pound they've swallowed."
The roar of the waves echoed across the deck as this warship, fully loaded with violence, unstoppably approached Buenos Aires.
Meanwhile, thousands of miles away from these waters in Manhattan, New York.
The roar of the waves had transformed into the steady ticking of the floor-standing clock inside the Empire Bank Building on Wall Street.
Tom Hayes, president of the Patriot Investment Company, was sitting across from Felix's desk, holding a long financial statement with a focused expression.
"Boss. I have completely sorted out the capital pool for the South American railway."
Hayes pushed the statement in front of Felix, circling several key data points with his finger.
"After Prime Minister Gladstone returned to the country, he indeed fulfilled the transaction. The cabinet has secretly approved the transfer of the concession. But Barings Bank is extremely cunning. They issued a large number of bearer bonds regarding these Argentine railways on the London Stock Exchange to extract money from the public. Now those railways have become unfinished projects, and the prices of these bonds have fallen to sixty percent of their face value in the secondary market."
Holding black tea, Felix leaned back in the comfortable leather chair and said in a cool voice:
"Charles Sterling wants to physically exhaust our engineering team using those mercenaries and warlords. That way, he can announce to investors in London that it is our Argyle Family that is unable to take over the project, thereby shifting all the responsibility for the unfinished project onto our heads."
"It seems he wants to protect the reputation of Barings Bank and, by the way, make our investments in South America go down the drain."
"Yes, a completely correct judgment, Boss." Hayes nodded.
"If that warlord Vargas really destroys the railway camp we established, the newspapers in London will definitely hype up the disastrous defeat of American capital in South America. By then, not only will we lose the railway that is almost within our grasp, but those bonds will also completely turn into waste paper."
Felix put down his coffee cup, a calculation flashing through his deep black eyes. He leaned forward, crossing his hands on the desktop.
"Tom, war has never been just about shooting at each other on the battlefield. Since Charles Sterling is playing a double game with me, we will give him a thorough strangulation."
"You will immediately use the secret account of the Patriot Investment Company later. Through our agents in London, borrow a large amount of Barings Bank South American railway bonds from Citibank and several European banks close to us."
Hayes's eyes suddenly lit up.
As a financial hunter, he immediately smelled the scent of blood.
"Shorting? Boss, do you want to short these bonds?"
"Yes, but not just shorting."
A playful arc curled up at the corner of Felix's mouth.
"I want you to borrow all the railway bonds available on the market within these half a month, and then quietly sell them off. Smash the price down from sixty percent! Smash it down to thirty percent, or even twenty percent!"
"But this will cause panic in the market." Hearing this, Hayes calculated rapidly in his head.
"Once investors in London see the bond prices plummet, they will frantically sell off following the trend. To stabilize the market, Barings Bank must use a large amount of cash reserves to prop up the market. This is a test for their cash flow."
"I just want to drain their cash flow dry." Felix said coldly.
"When the news is passed back to London that Rambo blasted the warlord named Vargas along with the Gauchos into pieces of meat on the Pampas grasslands, Barings Bank's agent network in South America will be declared completely bankrupt. By that time, no one can save the credibility of those bonds."
Felix looked at Hayes.
"When the panic reaches its peak, and when all investors think that railway will never be built, you then use the funds we cashed out at the low position to buy back all those bonds at ten percent or even lower prices and return them to the banks. The price difference in the middle is enough to pay the lifetime salary of Rambo's five hundred security guards."
Hayes admired in awe; the boss still loved using this trick.
It perfectly combined military strikes and financial strangulation. Using the enemy's money to pay for the military expenses of the war, and by the way, trampling the enemy's reputation into the mud.
"Boss, this move is too ruthless. If Charles Sterling knew that his mercenaries not only failed to stop us, but instead became an ATM for us to short his bonds, do you think he would directly commit suicide by swallowing a gun in his office?"
"Heh... Whether he lives or dies has nothing to do with me; I only care about the numbers on the ledger."
Standing up, Felix walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window and overlooked the gradually prospering Wall Street.
"Go and handle it quickly, Tom. Time difference is the key. Before the artillery on Rambo's side fires, all our funds must be in place. I want those old aristocrats in the City of London to understand that provoking the Argyle Family comes at a price."
"Understood, Boss. I'll go back to the office immediately to set up the shorting plan." Hayes picked up the statement and strode out of the office.
Felix stood alone in front of the window, listening to the crisp ticking sound coming from the stock Typewriter on the desk.
"What can you possibly do?"