London, Kensington District, Wilson Manor
John Wilson's wealth may not be among the top in London, but as the founder of the Wilson Real Estate Group, his assets are sufficient for him to own a Georgian-style manor in the Kensington District. At this moment, the manor is surrounded by the police force of Scotland Yard both inside and out. Infrared monitors form a network on the lawn, and snipers have taken up positions at three commanding heights.
"There are still 36 hours left," Detective Thomas Wilson closed the tactical tablet, "I hope you can cooperate with our operation." He looked at John Wilson, who was sitting on the carved mahogany sofa. The real estate tycoon calmly swirled the glass of whiskey in his hand, and the sound of the ice cubes clinking was particularly clear in the living room with a ceiling height of five meters.
"There are three former members of the SAS (Special Air Service) in my security team," Wilson took a sip of the amber liquid, "But this is the first time I've had the police take over the manor like this." His gaze swept over the reflection of the bulletproof vests swaying in the darkness outside the window, "Please convey my thanks to Captain Morrison, and of course—" He took out a check and held it between his fingers, "Including you."
Thomas took half a step back: "Scotland Yard doesn't accept checks, Mr. Wilson."
Wilson chuckled and stuffed the check back into his alligator leather wallet: "Well, let me ask you another question—have you found out who wants me to be the headline of The Times tomorrow?"
"That's exactly what I need your assistance with." Thomas turned on the voice recorder, "Among your recent business rivals, is there anyone who..."
"Dear detective," Wilson interrupted him, "Last week, I just made the Claude family in Birmingham lose six million pounds in tender bond. Last month, I acquired the land plot at Chelsea Wharf—the original owner of that place is still in the hospital with a ventilator. As for the golf course development project three years ago..." He swirled the glass of wine, and the ice cubes refracted a cold light, "Do you want me to list the funeral attendees?"
At this moment, the sound of high-heeled shoes came from the spiral staircase. Margaret Wilson, wrapped in a silk nightgown, walked down the steps. The Van Cleef & Arpels necklace around her neck sparkled under the chandelier: "John, the doctor said you need to rest quietly."
Thomas turned to this lady who graduated from St Hilda's College, Oxford: "Mrs. Wilson, may I ask..."
"Call me Margaret," she gracefully took a seat, "Since I became a full-time housewife, my social circle is limited to charity auctions and the personal shoppers at Harrods. " She smoothed out the wrinkles of her nightgown, "I'd be very surprised if the murderer came from the baking group of the Women's Association."
After a long time, neither John Wilson nor Margaret was able to provide Thomas with any useful information. So, he lost interest in continuing the conversation, and the atmosphere became somewhat silent.
At this time, John looked around the room and asked, "Detective Thomas, do you think that person will really come?"
He was well aware of the situation both inside and outside the villa. In his opinion, as long as the "phantom" wasn't a madman, he definitely wouldn't come. If he dared to come, he would definitely not be able to kill him and would be caught instead. There was no doubt about that.
In fact, the villa was heavily guarded both inside and outside. The food and water supplies had all been strictly inspected. Even for the sniper positions that had an extremely low probability of existence, the police had made thorough preparations. Under such circumstances, the other party couldn't possibly succeed. At least, both the police and John thought so.
"Regarding this point, we've privately discussed it and unanimously believe that that guy probably won't come." Thomas explained, "If that guy really wants to kill you, he could just do it secretly. Why bother notifying us in advance? So, we think he must have some other purpose for doing this, but we just don't know what that purpose is yet."
As he said this, Thomas's expression became serious: "However, even so, we can't let down our guard. What if that guy really dares to come? So, let's just wait. There are only 36 hours left."
"Sigh! There's nothing else we can do." John sighed.
10:00 p.m., Master Bedroom
John lay on the bed, unable to fall asleep no matter what, and felt a bit irritable. So, he reached out to touch Margaret's breast.
However, as soon as his hand touched her, it was gently held by a slender hand.
"I still haven't recovered from the cold. Let's wait a little longer," Margaret's voice was tinged with apology, "I know you've been pent up these past two days, but it wouldn't be good if I infected you."
Upon hearing this, the desire that had just flared up in John instantly vanished. He gave Margaret a cold look and then turned over: "Go to sleep."
London, Dream-Fulfilling Community, No. 109, Unit 1, Building 1
In the living room, Victor Black sat quietly on the sofa. The room was pitch black, and only the occasional headlights from outside the window illuminated his silhouette.
"Pop—"
A wisp of flame ignited, and the light of the lighter revealed his sharply contoured face. His gray-blue eyes looked especially cold in the firelight. He slowly raised his hand and brought a piece of paper filled with names close to the flame. The paper was instantly set ablaze, and the firelight illuminated the densely packed names—the first name on the list was none other than John Wilson.
These people were all Victor's enemies and also on his revenge list. There were a total of 99 names on the list, and he was going to send all 99 of them to hell.
Burning the list was a ritual, a tribute to his deceased relatives. His father, mother, sister, grandfather, and grandmother—his relatives in the underworld, his revenge had finally begun.
When the paper burned out and the ashes fell to the ground, the room was once again plunged into darkness.
After a long time, Victor slowly got up, turned on the light, and walked towards the bedroom. He took out a wooden box from the bottom of the cabinet. When he opened it, there was an old-fashioned Nokia mobile phone inside. He pressed the power-on button, and there was only one number in the address book. Without hesitation, he dialed the number directly.
"Doo—doo—doo—"
The call was connected, and the other party let out a deep sigh.
"Sorry, teacher. In the end, I just couldn't stay indifferent," Victor's voice was low and firm.
"Have you thought it through? It's still not too late to turn back," the voice on the other end of the line was old and tired.
"It's too late," Victor said indifferently, "The first revenge has already started, and that person will die tomorrow night. Moreover, I don't want to turn back."
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Finally, the other party just reminded him: "Be extremely cautious and don't leave any clues. Otherwise, Scotland Yard will definitely keep an eye on you."
"I know."
"Go ahead and do what you have to do. From now on, our relationship is over, and we'll never contact each other again."
Upon hearing this, Victor smiled, a genuine smile: "Okay, teacher. Take care of yourself."
The call ended, and Victor felt extremely relaxed. His only concern was gone, and he could finally go all out. In fact, he had long wanted to start his revenge, but he had been enduring it all this time for fear of implicating his teacher.
This teacher was the person who had saved his life in that disaster, the person who had helped him identify his enemies, and the person who had taught him how to take revenge. It could be said that without this teacher, there would be no Victor today.
He looked down at the mobile phone in his hand and smiled brightly. He gently took out the SIM card and broke it in half. Then, he picked up the mobile phone and the broken pieces of the card and left the bedroom.
He needed to destroy these things and completely sever his connection with his teacher—at least, on the surface, no one should know about their relationship. This was of vital importance.
After dealing with everything, Victor washed up and went to bed. He closed his eyes and quietly waited for the dawn to arrive.