Chapter 1078: Bad News, and More Bad News (Patreon)

"You've heard of me?" Jack raised an eyebrow as he stuffed Stanley's duffel into the back of the Suburban.

"Ah—no, not really, not until yesterday," Stanley replied as he placed a hand on the passenger door, wearing an expression of shy awkwardness that didn't quite match his age.

"Until then, I was working at the FBI laboratory in Washington. I've never been out on assignment before. But yesterday, they suddenly flew me to New York. Mr. David Rossi and Ms. Dana Mosier briefed me on the situation—and introduced me to you."

He climbed into the car and immediately launched into a rapid-fire monologue. "Although I had heard some stories floating around the lab. You know, little internal rumors—about someone storming into a fire in Dallas to rescue a baby with a pierced heart and somehow keeping it alive. Or the guy who drove an explosives-packed APC through Central Park..."

Though the tales were clearly stitched together and exaggerated, Jack could still make out the parts that were definitely his own “greatest hits.”

It seemed the chemical weapons expert had been cooped up in the lab too long—he had a serious case of verbal overflow. Jack finally had to cut him off when he started theorizing whether mutant cannibals might be real.

"Doctor—uh, Stanley. The survivor with the pierced heart was a grown man. He lived thanks to some absurd luck and the military doctor who was present. There was a baby rescued during that fire, but it was protected by its mother using her own body."

Jack chuckled, then added with mock gravity, “Please don’t spread those stories around too much—I’d like to keep some mystique for the memoir I plan to publish after I retire.”

Stanley eyed Jack’s absurdly young, handsome face, then smirked. “Well, then, I sincerely hope you retire early—so I get to read that memoir before I die. I'm sure it'll be... very entertaining.”

After the banter, the Suburban left Osan Air Base. Jack’s expression turned serious again.

“So, Stanley, how much do you know about VX?”

“VX was an accidental byproduct of a pesticide experiment back in 1952. It’s a colorless, odorless oily liquid. When stored over time, it can break down and produce small amounts of thiols—which means it can develop a slight odor.

But by the time you can smell it, you’re already too close to respiratory failure.”

He paused, then added with a strange kind of reverence, “It’s like champagne, you know? Back when monks first brewed wine, they didn’t mean for the second fermentation to add carbonation—”

Jack had to cut him off before he veered off into some bizarre wine metaphor. “Stanley. VX. Not champagne. You want a glass of bubbly, wait until we survive this mess—I'll buy you the best in town. And a Cuban cigar.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry—I get excited sometimes.” Stanley rubbed his head, a bit sheepishly, but soon sobered up.

“A tablespoon of VX spilled on the ground is enough to kill every living creature within a 100-foot radius. And because it evaporates slowly, its lethal effect can persist for days.

In 1968, the military ran a VX dispersal test using an F-4 Phantom. One of the tanks malfunctioned. About nine kilos drifted 20 miles off-course into a valley—and over six thousand goats died. That area was sealed off for over half a year.”

He stopped again and looked at Jack, as if gauging whether to go on.

“Though they call me an expert in chemical weapons, truth is, I wish this stuff had never been invented.”

—

Jack drove Stanley straight to the sealed-off lab site. Once he saw the data and checked the residue, the “middle-aged Cage” dove into the makeshift military lab without a second word.

An hour and a half later, Stanley emerged, pale-faced and visibly shaken.

“I don’t know who this guy is, but he’s absolutely elite. A real master. I reverse-engineered his synthesis route—he used precursor compounds that were toxic by themselves. The steps are so delicate that one mistake should’ve killed everyone for miles.”

Jack narrowed his eyes. “So how far along is he? How close is he to finishing the product? Can we estimate how much VX he’s going to end up with?”

“He’s one step away,” Stanley replied grimly. “But I doubt he has access to the right chiral separation agents. He’ll likely use high-performance liquid chromatography with a chiral prep column. If so, the final yield won’t be massive.

Realistically, in three days, he could synthesize about a kilogram of pure VX. That’s close to the upper limit given his equipment.”

Jack didn’t understand most of the chemistry lingo, but he got the part that mattered.

“Let me get this straight. If the lethal dose is 10 milligrams, that’s enough to kill... 100,000 people?”

“In theory, yes. Though actual dispersal efficiency depends on many factors,” Stanley nodded. “VX is very stable. Even explosive dispersion methods don’t fully break it down.”

Meaning Zhang Mingjun didn’t need to retrofit a missile. A couple of pesticide drones, the right weather, and some altitude—that was all it would take.

Jack exhaled slowly. “Yeah. I figured as much.”

“The good news,” he added, “is that their demolition expert is dead. Bad news? Every member of Zhang’s team has a military background. Throwing together a basic bomb won’t be hard for them.”

The overweight man—responsible for the Manhattan street bomb—was dead. The long-haired one with engineering skills, who’d built the suicide drones that injured Clay and Hannah, was also gone. CIA finally broke him with sodium thiopental and hypnosis—but then a careless guard let him strangle himself with a ripped bedsheet.

The DEA’s estimate had been spot on. According to his confession, Zhang Mingjun had entrusted a Korean conglomerate heir with his fortune—one billion dollars.

That money had been laundered years ago, and spread out as assets—stocks, bonds, real estate, even crypto. Over a month ago, Zhang found the heir and gave him a deadline: convert it all back to cash, deposit it into a secret Swiss account.

Tomorrow night, Zhang would return to retrieve the digital access key—in the VIP suite of a Cheongdam-dong nightclub.

Jack’s guess was dead-on. That one billion was bait. And it wasn’t just Zhang and chemist Kim Chulsoo. Nearly every core member of the group—engineers, bomb makers, soldiers—had lost their families in a mysterious “political purge.”

“I might be able to help,” Stanley offered. “Based on the shattered residue and container fragments, I think they plan to use an aerosol dispersal device. Whether it’s a basic explosive rig or a custom sprayer—neutralizing it is my specialty.”