Chapter 1074: A Hypothesis on Nerve Agents (Patreon)

After handing over the ponytailed man to the U.S. military base for CIA interrogation, it was already late afternoon. Famished, Jack and Ma Xidao found a hot pot restaurant to grab dinner. Midway through the meal, Anna joined them, deftly swishing beef tripe in the bubbling pot with her chopsticks.

“Find anything?” Jack asked in fluent Chinese as he ordered two more plates of tripe and lamb for the table from the charming middle-aged proprietress.

“Since your FBI report mentioned that this unusually pure synthetic meth was originally blue—if not for the red dye—I tracked the relevant precursor chemicals used to make it.

About a month ago, a pharmaceutical company’s warehouse was broken into. A batch of aniline-based asthma medication was stolen. The security guard had his neck snapped.

Around the same time, a chemical factory in Busan had its locks broken and lost several tons of industrial chemicals, including hydrochloric acid. Here’s the inventory list.”

She handed Jack a file folder, her alluring smile catching even Ma Xidao’s gaze more than once.

Though she had only undergone minor cosmetic work, Anna’s current appearance was so changed that even her former colleagues in the Paris fashion world wouldn’t recognize the once willowy supermodel.

If FSB’s full agents were custom Gundams, then Anna—like most field operatives—was more akin to a mass-produced Zaku unit.

But Jack had always believed: real men pilot Zakus; only soft boys go for Gundams.

For the FSB, field operatives like Anna weren’t exactly disposable—but they were rarely cherished.

Years of intense training had left her with lingering injuries, compounded by a modeling career full of crash diets and irregular habits. Beneath her glamorous surface, she was physically falling apart.

After leaving the FSB, Anna had been sent to Hainan, where a few months of coconut chicken and traditional acupuncture treatments—strongly recommended by Jack—had worked wonders.

By the time she returned, her figure had transformed completely, her bust had jumped two sizes, and after Jack gave her a buff back in Hawaii, it was as if she’d undergone a full-body overhaul.

Downing a large glass of coconut juice, her cheeks flushed from the spicy broth, Anna continued her report as she fished more ingredients into the pot.

“Justin also found footage from a highway camera of a suspicious truck loaded with blue plastic barrels—likely chemical containers. The location was called Yongin.”

Yongin lay about 40 kilometers south of Seoul. Originally a rural village, it had been redeveloped into an industrial zone, filled with chemical and pharmaceutical plants—a fitting place to hide a drug lab.

“Yongin’s not an easy place to search,” Ma Xidao muttered, chewing on a chopstick. “There are hundreds of abandoned factories and warehouses out there.”

Jack glanced at his still-silent phone. The CIA was taking their sweet time; it had been hours, and they still hadn’t produced results from interrogating the ponytailed gunman.

His attention turned back to the file Anna had handed him. He murmured, “Phosphorus trichloride? Why the hell would they steal that—and in such large quantities?”

Phosphorus trichloride was a chemical compound—but it had nothing to do with meth production.

“Aren’t these guys terrorists? Maybe they want to poison someone,” Anna offered.

Clearly, chemistry wasn’t her strong suit.

Phosphorus trichloride is toxic—but its primary danger lies in reacting with air to form hydrochloric acid mist, which irritates the respiratory tract. Even several tons of the stuff wouldn’t do much, especially in open air. Dumping it in the Han River would do less damage than the Viagra already in the water.

Jack sifted through his training, recalling FBI materials and chemistry knowledge he’d crammed years ago. Suddenly, he couldn’t sit still.

Many phosphorus-based chemical compounds are extremely harmful to humans. Organophosphate pesticides, for example, have long been associated with chemical warfare.

The infamous four nerve agents—Tabun, Sarin, Soman, and VX—all belong to the organophosphate or organophosphonate class. Ironically, most were originally developed as pesticides.

And phosphorus trichloride is a key precursor in manufacturing organophosphates.

Jack also remembered what a certain northern state had done in Malaysia. Combine that with a chemical expert capable of making ultra-pure meth, missing tons of phosphorus trichloride, and someone who’d once tried to buy hundreds of “Little Wing” shoulder-fired missiles...

“I need to make a call.”

A terrifying thought had taken root in Jack’s mind, and he couldn’t shake it. He grabbed his phone and stepped out, leaving the other two stunned.

There’s a 13-hour time difference between Seoul and Los Angeles. At this hour, Rossi was fast asleep.

When his phone rang, the old man squinted blearily at Jack’s name on the screen before answering. “You’d better have a good reason for this. Otherwise, I’ll tell JJ and Hannah the real identity of ‘John Doe’ they’ve been investigating.”

Jack paused. He’d forgotten about the time zone—but there was no turning back.

“In addition to meth precursors, Zhang’s people also stole massive quantities of phosphorus trichloride. Their purpose for flooding Korea with ultra-pure meth over the past month might not be profit—it could be to raise funds for an upcoming chemical weapons attack.”

That got Rossi’s full attention. He sat bolt upright, nearly throwing his back out, then exhaled in relief—at least Jack wasn’t in the U.S.

“Are you certain? What’s the likelihood?” he rasped, reaching for water.

“It’s only a theory for now—no hard proof. But we’re talking multiple tons of phosphorus trichloride. There’s intel that Zhang defected with a military chemical expert. The meth’s purity levels alone prove that someone very skilled is involved.

And don’t say ‘Breaking Bad’—that was fiction. In the real world, meth purity on the street barely reaches 20%. The 80% stuff found in the UK was the upper limit for amateur labs.”

Jack continued, “So whoever this chemist is, he’s at least 1.5 times better than Walter White. And if he’s military, it’s unclear whether he’s more proficient at making meth or making nerve agents.

I suspect Zhang originally planned to modify the Little Wing missiles for chemical dispersal.”

Rossi was out of bed, pulling on his robe and heading to the study.

“If they’re working with nerve agents, even using conventional explosives would be catastrophic. With Seoul’s population density, a favorable wind could kill 100,000 people.”

He paused. “Keep digging. I’ll bring in specialists to support you. If it’s confirmed, notify the Koreans and get out immediately.”

Chemical weapons are sometimes called the “nukes of poor countries” because they’re cheap, easy to produce, and just as deadly. Their residual toxicity can be as bad as nuclear fallout.

The U.S. had sprayed “Agent Orange” during the Vietnam War, affecting 4.8 million people. At least 400,000 died. Many infants died at birth, and hundreds of thousands of survivors were born with severe deformities.

Even Korea’s own auxiliary troops suffered exposure—one-third of the 300,000 were contaminated, with over 20,000 dying later from related diseases.

And “Agent Orange” was just a herbicide contaminated with dioxins. It wasn’t even classified as a proper chemical weapon.

By contrast, nerve agents like VX have lethal doses measured in milligrams. With these, the issue isn’t long-term effects—it’s sudden death.

So Rossi’s first instinct was to get his protégé the hell out. This stuff was too dangerous.

But Jack, despite not being fond of Koreans, couldn’t sit back and watch civilians die by the thousands. After the ferry disaster years ago, he had little faith in Korean leadership. It was up to him to act.

Still, Rossi had questions.

“Wasn’t Zhang confirmed to have defected? Why would he attack the South? If he was military, he’d know this wouldn’t spark war.”

Technically, the South’s wartime military command still belongs to the U.S.-led Joint Command. Even if the president declared war on the North, they could only command a few thousand troops from the Capital Defense Corps. The rest were under U.S. control.

With the North posturing and the South begging for peace, even a massive attack wouldn’t lead to war. The U.S. would bear the brunt. The public might protest, maybe slice off a few fingers in ritual anger, and then film a movie about it.

In short, unless Zhang had lost all rational thinking, he’d know this wouldn’t trigger war.

But then Jack recalled something he’d heard earlier from Kang Jintae.

“There’s a diplomatic meeting next week. A Northern delegation is visiting. I suspect Zhang’s true target is among them.”

“An indiscriminate assassination?” Rossi quickly caught on. “I’ll request the delegate list from Korean authorities and run checks. Be careful, Jack.”

“Don’t worry. Once I hang up, I’m getting atropine and oxime injectors.”

Even though Jack probably wouldn’t die unless locked in a gas chamber and force-fed the stuff, carrying emergency antidotes was wise.

Nerve agents aren’t like other poisons. They don’t require inhalation. Skin contact is enough. And ordinary clothing doesn’t protect—it absorbs.

These agents shut down your nervous system. Victims don’t bleed or rot. They just... shut off.

—

“Why is it every time I run into you, I end up in a life-threatening situation?” Ma Xidao muttered. Still, his face was calm.

The Audi S6 Jack had just received lasted less than a day. That afternoon, the embassy sent another Suburban. Anna, seated in the front, looked equally unbothered.

“You should be thankful I’m always here to save your ass with brains and brawn,” Jack quipped.

He pulled over. A waiting Humvee opened its door, and a U.S. Army lieutenant with a red cross armband stepped out.

He saluted. “Sir, everything you requested is in here. Do you need a briefing?”

Jack, not in uniform, couldn’t return the salute. He shook the man’s hand. “No need. I’m trained. Thanks.”

Inside the medical kit were rows of preloaded antidotes—atropine and oxime injectors.

Because nerve agents act fast, these were designed for one-time, emergency use. Pop the cap, stab the thigh, and break the ampoule—instant delivery.

“Let’s hope we never need these,” Ma Xidao muttered after Jack explained how they worked.

The Suburban started up again, heading toward Yongin.

Still no word from the CIA, but Rossi had urged them to accelerate the interrogation.

Ironically, it was the other team—Kang Jintae and Lin Zheling—who struck gold. They’d found a suspected hideout of Zhang Mingjun.

In Yongin City.