"Damn it! Why won't these idiots pick up the phone?" Mr. Midnight was furious.
Mr. Midnight wasn't his real name; he had a code name. None of his underlings had ever laid eyes on his face. He operated solely through phone calls, using a voice changer to keep his identity under wraps.
Fists clenched tight with anger. He stormed around the room in the hotel where he'd been holed up for a few months.
"I want Draymond erased from this world; I can feel my hands itching to crush him," he seethed in anger.
Suddenly, his phone blared loudly. He picked it up hastily, "Sir, I've found them. They're already gone; the satellite showed their car went off a cliff," his subordinate reported.
Midnight's rage erupted, and he kicked a chair in frustration, "How the heck did that disordered guy manage to fight back against eight people, you stupid rascal!" he roared, his neck veins visible with anger.
