Last time, I had a mask on, but now Soros already knew that Kirstie Allen was gone, and the man who took the favor for faking someone's death wore a tiger mask.
I needed to look like someone else—someone new in the club.
A few hours later, as the skies had darkened, the helicopter touched down softly on the Freewinds yacht near New York Harbor.
I stepped off the helicopter and onto the deck.
It was quite warm outsite despite the late hour. I could see a few of the members still lingering outside.
As I walked around the deck, I noticed something peculiar.
There were two men standing near the railing and talking with each other. One was wearing a dark red suit while the other wore a black mask with a white suit.
I couldn't hear much, but I caught a word that stood out—Soros.
My ears perked up at the mention of that name.
What were they talking about?
I made a mental note of it as I headed inside the yacht.
