Chapter 1089: Money, Uncle, and a New Case (Patreon)

Ten billion eight hundred sixty million dollars—Jack truly hadn’t expected Justine to act on her own and black-bag the entire sum.

Maybe it was because she never really had a concept of money to begin with. For the first thirty years of her life, Justine had confined herself to a small room, connecting with the outside world only through computers and internet cables.

Chris had earned quite a bit during his time as an "accountant"—around a "small target," to use a particular turn of phrase. In dollars, of course. After laundering the gold bars and oil paintings, most of the remaining assets were managed by Justine.

But to her, it was all just numbers. Managing funds was like a digital game—buying bonds based on returns, analyzing gains and losses, investing in stocks.

Since receiving treatment from Jack, Justine had gradually shed the negative symptoms of Asperger’s, though her talent for numbers remained razor-sharp.

From the founding of Shangri-La to now, Justine continued to manage all of the accounts. But whether the pool was flush or empty, she never really cared.

"Isn’t this what we always do? Take out the bad guys, and take their money." Justine blinked innocently, clearly confused by the tension on the faces of her “brothers.”

"But we usually only take the money we’re sure about," Jack tried to explain the kind of risk this enormous sum carried.

Chris looked just as uneasy, while Braxton—who was bold, carefree, and simple—just grinned like a fool.

He’d never been much help with the company’s operations. During his downtime managing the farm, he occasionally played driver or bodyguard for Chris. Jack had once offered him a job managing security operations, but Braxton had turned it down flat—he just wanted a warm stove, a loving wife, and happy kids.

Unlike Justine, he understood what money was, but had no concept of scale. Whether they’d taken a few million or ten billion, to him it was all "money is money."

"But you said the FBI isn’t really interested in this money," Justine began to break it down, ticking items off her fingers. "South Korea doesn’t know about it. The North is focused on covering up their scandal."

"I scrubbed Michael Cho’s digital footprint and burned out his hard drive. After you shot the electronic key, that secret account is effectively ‘dead.’"

—

Excluding Braxton, who couldn’t grasp the stakes, Jack, Chris, and Justine debated the issue until dawn, examining it from every angle.

The conclusion? The account seemed actually... pretty safe.

FBI’s investigation into the imprisoned Jon Michaels and Zhang Mingjun’s offshore accounts had already been wrapped up. And none of those accounts were connected—directly or indirectly—to this particular Swiss account holding $10.86 billion.

Because the latter had been opened under the name of an investment fund registered in the British Channel Island of Jersey by none other than Michael Cho.

After Cho died mysteriously, and rumors surfaced about his ties to the North, his corporate-tycoon father had a stroke and was left paralyzed.

Now, Cho’s siblings were busy fighting over inheritance and distancing themselves from their disgraced little brother.

As for anyone in the North who might have had designs on the funds? They had no trail to follow.

Everyone who’d ever accessed the account—the senior official and his inner circle—were all dead. The digital key itself had been destroyed by Jack, right in front of Lin Zhelin.

The final matter was how to safely move the funds. After hours of brainstorming, the group settled on a plan: funnel the money through an island called "Macau" and route it through Dongda.

As a result, it was projected that U.S.–Dongda trade volume might mysteriously increase by 0.5 per mille over the next 5 to 10 years.

After agreeing the matter would stay between the four of them—and firmly warning Justine and Chris not to touch Dongda’s securities market—Jack finally relaxed and flew back to New York like nothing had happened.

For someone who’d lived two lives, Jack had never imagined he’d be troubled by having too much money.

—

While Jack had been caught up in Korea, the Fugitive Task Force wasn’t idle. Even Hannah—who’d been cooped up gaming under the excuse of injury—had gone to Canada.

They’d found a lead on the mysterious assassin group that had helped Zhang Mingjun. Undercover intel revealed their base: a castle estate in Canada believed to be the organization’s HQ.

Jubal had contacted the FBI’s elite Hostage Rescue Team (HRT), prepared to storm the place and wipe out the so-called “Damocles” assassin group.

What they didn’t expect was someone had beaten them to it. A lone wolf had cleaned out the entire place, leaving only an 80-year-old front-desk lady alive.

"This assassin outfit had a retirement policy," Jubal explained over a delicious oxtail stew and wine. "At 50, assassins could apply for retirement. Part of their commission would be placed into a retirement fund."

"Once they turned 50, they could withdraw half of it at once and keep collecting the rest as a 6% annuity until they died. After death, the principal was returned to their estate."

Jack, ladling wild greens and mushrooms into Jubal’s bowl, raised a brow. "Retirement plans for assassins? What is this world coming to?"

"Technically, it was an import-export company," Jubal clarified, sipping the wine extract Jack brewed as a non-alcoholic alternative.

"But after the FBI and IRS froze a bunch of accounts on terrorism charges, the company lost $50 million in commissions and another $20 million in reserves. It nearly went bankrupt."

"So the owner decided to dip into the assassins’ retirement funds?" Jack’s face said it all—pure disbelief.

"Specifically, he planned to eliminate five assassins who were due to retire soon—worth $29 million in pension liabilities."

Jubal raised five fingers. "The plan went fine until he got to the last one—codenamed ‘Black Caesar.’"

"Never heard of him," Jack admitted. "Sounds badass, though."

"Here." Jubal slid a photo across the table.

Jack flinched. "I thought that was a French chef I know!"

Jubal frowned. "We found tons of canned goods in his Quebec safehouse—cuisine probably isn’t his forte."

He shrugged. "But the guy is terrifying. Killed a six-man elite team with just an eye injury. Then stormed the castle and beheaded the boss."

"Are you still going after him?" Jack asked, worried—mostly because that face looked exactly like the kind of character who plays Hannibal Lecter.

"Nah. We passed it to Canadian authorities. Damocles is finished. Not our jurisdiction anymore."

Jubal munched on his oxtail, sipping floral wine, looking every bit like a retired grandpa enjoying peanuts and liquor at dusk.

Jack, however, reminded himself that this guy was barely in his 40s—and not retired.

"Maybe you should find a girlfriend," Jack needled. "Why do you keep showing up here to mooch dinner?"

Jubal nearly choked. Scowling, he glared daggers. "I have a night life. I’ve just been pitying you lately, that’s all."

Everyone had heard by now about Jack’s trip to Korea with that beautiful mystery flight attendant. Even though it was work-related and successful, Hannah and JJ weren’t pleased—they’d both given him the cold shoulder.

Whereas once, Hannah and JJ were regulars at Jack’s post-work dinners (along with the always-single Jubal), lately they’d vanished.

They now spent every evening going out together—opera, art shows, anything but being home.

JJ, who also had a little office in the Federal Building for liaison work, hadn’t even come back to Long Island lately.

Everyone could tell something was up—but they also took some delight in watching the usually suave, smug Jack get stonewalled for once.

So tonight, only Jubal stayed behind to keep him company.

—

The next morning, JJ finally showed up—rushing into the office with serious urgency. From her expression, it clearly wasn’t to make peace with Jack.

"An hour ago, there was a massacre at a tech company called ‘Senalock’ in Charlottesville. Eight people dead—including the CEO. Five were shot, three stabbed."

Flushed from running in heels, JJ looked around the room.

"Already confirmed a suspect?" Jubal asked, surprised.

"Not yet. But NCIS handed the case to us. They haven’t said why," JJ replied, locking eyes with Jack—the one person in the room with connections to NCIS.

He had worked with them during the smallpox case in Hawaii over Christmas break. And everyone knew about that NCIS forensics girl who had a thing for him since college.

Usually, NCIS tried to steal cases from the FBI. Being asked to handle one was… rare.

"Maybe we’ll find out when we get there," Jack said, standing. "Let’s move out."

—

Charlottesville—a quiet town of under 50,000—was famous across the U.S. for one reason: it was the hometown of Thomas Jefferson, one of the nation’s Founding Fathers.

He also founded the University of Virginia. And when he did, he sold nearly everything he owned. He died in debt at age 83.

At 2 p.m., the team arrived, the site already packed with media vans. State police cordoned the area. Detective Tip Long greeted the agents.

"Thanks for coming so fast," he said, visibly relieved.

"Of course." Jubal shook his hand and introduced the team before cutting to the chase.

"A FedEx courier called it in. At 9:03 this morning, he passed by and saw something off."

Long led them forward. Flashbulbs popped beyond the police tape, but the team had donned shades in advance.

"This town is known for low crime. After the news broke, half the town called in sick. It's chaos."

Lowering his voice, he added, "These reporters are vultures. If the FBI could hold a press conference to calm the public, it’d be a huge help."

"We’ll consider it once we’ve assessed the scene," JJ replied professionally.