“Hope you don’t do anything stupid, Ian.” Feston lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply. Derrick could read nothing else from that calm, unreadable expression.

“Boss must have it in for these rich folks. The order came straight from the director. And this is Greg Kaida of the Kaida Group—boss hardly bothers with him,” Jonathan whispered quietly, watching Feston. It was clear Feston’s attitude toward Greg was cool at best.

Greg noticed too. Patting the opposite end of the sofa, he said, “Agent Feston, don’t be so cold. Come on, tell me—who’s trying to kill me this time?”

Feston gave him a long look. Though it had been a while since they’d met, Greg was still so reckless. “This killer… no one knows he exists, no one’s seen him. You’ve heard of the major incidents in the past two years? In my assessment, he’s behind them all.”

“What major incidents? Too many things happen these years—are they all his doing? He must be busy as hell.” He sipped his drink and laughed. Seeing Feston’s serious expression, he knew better than to joke, so he straightened and asked, “Okay, domestic or international?”

Greg maintained proper respect, which might surprise others seeing such a wealthy, high-profile man cooperate. Feston showed no particular expression. “Both. The Moroccan king’s secretary, Karim Lati, died in a plane crash three years ago; Congressman Carneson fell to his death in Washington…”

“Those seemed like accidents.” Dark brown hair brushing his collar, gold-rimmed glasses neat and precise, Greg straightened. Feston watched him, drawing in another drag of smoke. “They weren’t accidents. Both were cleverly disguised assassinations. No one’s ever seen this killer. No one knows his name or age. He’s never failed.”

“Like a ghost!” Jonathan thought, why didn’t the boss say we have more intel on him? The others assumed Feston simply didn’t want to reveal internal info.

“Like a ghost? But you said people have seen him. If no one knows he exists, how could you have? Wouldn’t he kill you to stay hidden?” Feston’s words seemed pointed, and Greg swirled his glass. Not easily fooled.

Feston didn’t answer—he had no intention of explaining the inner workings. Seeing him silent, Hans stepped in to smooth the tension. “Of course, it’s because of the Captain’s marksmanship. Only he can counter the Ghost, not only matching him but almost capturing him.”

Hans didn’t call him “boss,” formally addressing him as “Captain.” The surrounding team members stiffened; the entire luxury suite watched the man in the corner.

Greg smiled, envious. “Agent Feston, looks like you have a good team.”

“Of course I do. No need for you to tell me.” Sending others to double-check positions, Feston approached Greg. “During these three days, I expect full cooperation from you.”

Greg stood and shook his hand. “Naturally. If you weren’t leaving home, you should be in this position at Kaida Group. I’m supposed to follow your lead.”

Whether Greg genuinely thought this or not, Feston shook hands and said, “This is Las Vegas, not some other place. Be careful. For the next three days, wherever you go, I’ll be following. Understand?”

Greg nodded, already aware of protective protocols from past experiences. Finally, he asked, “How confident are you in catching this killer?”

Feston paused at the door, turning back without hesitation. “Fifty percent.”

Half and half. Knowing Feston’s abilities, Greg hadn’t expected such a conservative answer. “And killing him on the spot?”

A live capture was harder; killing him was more feasible. Greg knew this. Feston stood at the doorway, silent.

After Mrs. Maberry left, Feng Zhannuo flipped through his notes in his room. Every operation was meticulously planned. He didn’t rely on luck; he invested significant time and effort to ensure perfection.

All possible contingencies—expected or not—were calculated. To him, killing wasn’t just firing a gun. It was highly technical, highly challenging.

The target now knew assassination was imminent, increasing difficulty—but Feng wasn’t discouraged. Among past contracts, this one was manageable… except for one factor:

Feston Kaida.

Setting the notes aside, Feng flopped onto the bed. Thoughts of the FBI agent stirred unease. He began exercising in the middle of the suite, hanging upside down from a decorative railing, performing sit-ups with his legs secured above. Everything below was inverted. From the corner of his eye, he checked the door gap—no anomalies.

Simple, practical tools: a transparent bead in the gap, two touch-sensitive makeshift bombs fixed to the door frame. No one had come.

The phone rang. Knowing it could only be Mrs. Maberry, Feng leaped down and answered. She spoke first, her voice taut. “I’ve heard the target is being protected by the FBI—not ordinary bodyguards.”

He detected her tension. “Relax, ma’am. People make mistakes when they’re tense. Unless you want to make one.” His voice was reassuring, rich, elegant—a baritone that calmed her.

She exhaled. “I’m not nervous. I want an extra condition. Kill him in a crowded place—a warning. His death must create panic. Can you do it? I can pay extra.”

A warning to the masses. Women could be crueler than men. Feng sipped water. “Any client request is fine. This service is already included—no extra needed.”

“The FBI… be careful. I’ve checked—they’re not ordinary agents. Assigned directly by the director. Not easy to deal with.” She reminded him, concerned for herself.

Laughter on the line. “That’s no obstacle. If you want, I can tell you—I’ve completed over ten contracts involving the FBI.”

“And the results?” She knew the question was rhetorical.

“Go ask the dead ones.” Laughter, then the line went dead.

Her satisfaction evident, she instructed staff, “Ask guests if they need anything. Whatever it is, provide it.”

She wasn’t entertaining Greg—she was entertaining Ian. This would raise no suspicion. Even if the FBI suspected her, without evidence, they could do nothing. And if Greg relaxed before his death, it would only make her job easier.

The event celebrated the grand opening of the “Treasure Island” Holiday Hotel. Mrs. Maberry’s lavish investment had once drawn attention, but when Kaida Group announced new hotels and casinos, the public’s focus shifted.

Now, reporters, international tycoons, and affluent tourists filled the luxury hotel. In such an environment, people didn’t hide desires—hedonism prevailed. Doing anything seemed natural; refraining was odd. Receptionists busied themselves attending guests’ needs.

“Sir, anything else?” Feng, just done exercising, thought he deserved a little relaxation. “Send someone up for a massage.”

Reception asked about gender, noting clients’ preferences. Feng considered Mrs. Maberry’s staff well-trained—anything could appear—but he only wanted a massage. “Woman. Fifteen minutes.”

Women relaxed him; men reminded him of Feston Kaida. This FBI agent was his biggest obstacle—but his target remained Feston’s cousin.