Chapter 49 Chapter 49 Have you ever thought about returning to normal life? ...
"I don't think that's a wise choice, Mr. Reese," Finch emphasized into the headset. "Our job is to keep people out of danger, not to bring them into it."
"He lives in danger, Finch," Reese said softly. "We can't keep him 'out' of danger. And if you meet him, you'll see that he is the danger himself. Believe me, Finch, the approach I'm taking is the only way to keep him out of danger, or to prevent him from creating danger."
"By simply breaking into the nearest drug den?" Finch said.
Reese, sitting in the car, didn't answer. He tapped his earpiece twice and ended the call. Footsteps, almost inaudible, slid around the corner, and Elio quickly appeared before him.
"Thank you for the information," Elio knocked on the car window. "I've confirmed everything I needed to confirm."
"Good," Reese said. "Let's go."
But as soon as Reese came down, Elio put his hand on his shoulder.
"Just to confirm one last time," he said, looking into Reese's eyes. "Are you sure you want to go with me?"
"If you think you can get away from me by breaking into a heavily armed drug dealer's den," Reese cocked his gun, "you're wrong."
Elio watched him and smiled, but he didn't let go.
"If you insist on doing this," he said softly, "I think you need to bring more..."
Reese smiled back. Realizing what that smile hinted at, Elio let go. Reese went around to the trunk and opened the hood. Elio followed, peeked in, and couldn't help but whistling.
"Wow." He exclaimed sincerely.
"Take whatever you need," Reese said generously.
Over a trunk of munitions gleaming, Elio exchanged a pleasant glance with Reese.
As for the drug dealers whose homes were broken into that night, as well as other smugglers, counterfeiters, small black gangs, and "bosses" who illegally employed child laborers in every corner of New York - when they climbed out of their soft beds cursing and received the unfortunate news that their shops and factories had been smashed - their mood was far from happy.
The business was ruined, the men were beaten, the police came to the door; bad things happened one after another in this one night. Although they could bribe HR, the black police force of the New York Police Department, they could not be happy about bleeding for no reason.
What’s worse is that the culprit brazenly left a video at the scene.
"Good evening, or good morning, whatever." In the shaky footage, a black curly-haired kid with a scar across his face coughed softly. "My name is Elliot Smith, and I'm looking for someone. It's not my intention to act in a high-profile manner, so you probably didn't know my name before. If this is the first time you've heard my name, I sincerely suggest you pretend it never happened."
The camera trembled even more. The curly-haired guy who called himself Elliot Smith stopped talking, reached out, and adjusted the camera. "I know your knee hurts," he whispered to someone off-screen. "Hold on a little longer. We don't have any other suitable phone mounts."
The thug who was unfortunately picked whimpered pitifully, but held on tremblingly under Elio's encouraging eyes.
"…But if you know me, and you know why I'm looking for you, Templar, I suggest you stop everything you're planning," Elio said, looking back at the camera, "and run away immediately. Run as far away as possible. Oh, and write a suicide note first."
He suddenly leaned in closer to the camera. His green eyes, not particularly noticeable in the darkness, were so close to the screen that they suddenly lit up like eagle-like highlights in the reflected light.
"Because wherever you run," Elio whispered, "my shadow will follow you closely."
The scene ended there. In the pitch darkness, almost all of New York's underground illegal business operators jumped to their feet, asking each other: Who the hell is this Elliot Smith? How dare he leave such an arrogant video?
Of course, this raises another question.
Who was he looking for? And what were the Templars? A medieval-inspired codename?
It was a rare opportunity for the criminal leaders who had encountered Elio to sit down together and discuss the matter. They all knew that it wasn't just Elio who was causing trouble that night, but also that there was a man in a black suit who specialized in shooting people in the knees. However, the wise ones knew that he was working for the biggest gang boss in New York, Leah, so they tacitly put the matter aside.
As for that newcomer "Elio," one opinion is that we should unite and throw some dirt in the eyes of this ignorant brat; another opinion is that no matter who this "Templar" is, he should be held responsible for the trouble that Elio caused; another opinion is that the "Templar" among us had better stand up as soon as possible to prevent Elio from further destroying other people's businesses...
"What for?" Amidst the others' accusations of "shame on you," the proposer slammed the table in rage. "I'd like to retaliate severely and teach this guy a lesson, but Elliot Smith is no easy cat to catch! Look up his name on the black market, you idiots! I hope you'll realize how hard he is to get rid of after this!"
After figuring out what Elio's name actually meant, most people fell silent. The smart ones had already quietly withdrawn from the meeting to discuss a joint counterattack—just kidding, if they could really cooperate, they would have done it long ago!—and found ways to send Elio the ransom.
Yes, ransom.
Just like they were seeking protection from the gang boss, they were trying to get a way out of Elio's hands and prove their innocence: We have nothing to do with the Templars you're looking for! Don't mess with our business!
Bundles of Franklins and 400-ounce gold bars were delivered to the Continental Hotel in New York. Snow-white diamonds cascaded down from a dark-skinned hand, like a miniature waterfall, their "water droplets" scattering like sparks.
"This is a considerable fortune, Mr. Smith," the concierge, Charon, confirmed into the phone. "Are you sure you want to handle it this way?"
After getting his answer, he hung up. The other waiters watched his expression, hoping to get the concierge's opinion or a hint on the matter, but they got more.
"Do as he says," Charon instructed.
The waiter hesitated, "But we've never offered this service before..."
"I have every reason to believe that Mr. Smith's request should be met," Charon pointed at the service manual. "It's written right here."
The waiter looked over. The white lead typeface of "Luggage Service" dented slightly beneath the concierge's finger, then quickly rebounded. Charon closed the suitcase. "This is Mr. Smith's temporary luggage. Now, take it to his designated location."
Soon, a piece of news went viral. The public accounts of major New York charities had received a large donation from the same source, but the generous donor hadn't left his name. Whoever he or she was, they expressed their heartfelt gratitude to the anonymous individual.
On the busy street, a mysterious smile appeared on the face of the "anonymous person" wearing sunglasses.
"Feeling good?" asked Reese, who was standing next to him.
Elio smiled. "It doesn't belong to me. And you wouldn't accept it, so I figured this was the best place for the money."
Reese smiled back. Yellow taxis and New Yorkers on their phones passed by. Most of them had no idea what had happened last night, and a few hadn't even noticed today's news. But just seeing them walk by, going about their lives as normal, was a luxury for the vigilante.
"It looks like these two turbulent days are coming to an end, John." Elio, also looking at them, said to Reese, "While I'm happy to cooperate with you, I must say that the information you received about the danger seems to be a bit inaccurate."
"Yeah," Reese said, "So far we haven't encountered any danger, except for all those machetes and bullets that tried to kill us last night..." Looking at Elio's innocent expression, Reese seemed to suddenly remember something and said "Oh" in surprise, "...and those anesthetics and poisons that almost pierced our blood vessels."
“Okay,” Elio said with a laugh, “I have to admit, there were a few pretty dangerous moments. But that’s my job, John.”
Before, Reese had thought he was a professional killer. But after that night, he understood that Elio was indeed a "professional" of some kind, but his profession was not just murder. His profession was a kind of "vigilante," just like him and Finch, but with a different specialty.
"I know," Reese said, looking at the boy in the red short-sleeved shirt looming in the crowd across the street, "So have you ever considered changing jobs?"
"What?"
When Elio asked this question, it didn't mean that he didn't hear what Reese said clearly. But when he heard Reese's next words, Elio really began to doubt that he had heard it wrong.
Although Reese only said a very short sentence, his tone was as flat and hoarse as usual, as if it would be blown away by the wind.
"A friend of mine read the paper you wrote."
"What?"
Elio whipped his head around, staring at Reese in disbelief. It was so strange, someone suddenly mentioning the papers he'd written in the past—back when he was still under the rule of law, believing the world had its own justice and fairness—and even reading them!
"And all those internships and projects you've had," Reese said. "'They read like they're competitive,' that's what he said. So, do you ever want to go back to normal life?"
Elio stared at him in shock. It was as if, in that instant, a cat had snatched the tongue from this articulate young man, a recent assassin. When Reese looked at him, he almost instantly received a response from Elio's wide eyes.
"Can I...can I?" Elio asked incoherently. "I've killed so many people, I thought I would never be able to return to normal in my life...I have so many enemies, I-"
"Relax, Elio," Reese gently pressed his shoulder. "A false start doesn't mean you have to keep going down the wrong path. Maybe you made some mistakes, but everyone deserves a second chance."
Elio looked at him.
"You can change to an innocent identity," Reese told him. "We will send you to a remote and secluded place, so far away that no one can recognize you. There, you can forget everything that happened in the past few months."
Elio said nothing. The poor young man looked at Reese like a traveler who had walked alone in the desert for days looking at a source of water, looking at an oasis, like a traveler who had been trudging on ice for a long time looking at a flame, looking at something he had longed for, but thought he would never get.
Tears welled up quickly in his eyes, and when Elio spoke, he choked.
"I'm sorry, John," he said. "I'm sorry to have let you down. But I can't go back to 'normal'."
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