Chapter 1134: Father and Daughter Reunited (Patreon)

If Hollywood ever needed a surefire formula for showing the soft side of a tough guy, aside from pairing him with a sultry femme fatale, giving him a "daughter complex" would do the trick just as well.

Now, an old man who had been locked away in a secret prison for nearly thirty years having a 25-year-old daughter might seem bizarre—unless you knew the story. Well, Mason had escaped prison twice. And it just so happened that during the one month between his escape from Alcatraz and his recapture, he’d had a chance encounter with an American woman in a bar that ended in one unforgettable night.

Jack already knew the backstory, but even so, he still found the entire thing absurd beyond belief.

Still, he had a lingering question that needed answering. "Sir, since the FBI knew he had a daughter, was it never considered... using her as leverage? For example, to force Mason to give up those microfilms?"

Director Womack responded with a face full of righteous indignation. "The FBI hasn’t operated like Hoover’s Bureau for a long time."

Jack replied with a half-smile, half-smirk that said “Yeah, right.”

Womack sighed. "Okay, fine—it was David Rossi. He strongly opposed the idea back then."

"And looking back now, that was clearly the right call, wasn’t it, sir?" Jack said with quiet relief. Yep, that was the Rossi he knew—the same old good-hearted man.

Just then, a harsh crash erupted from the next room. Both men turned sharply in alarm and stared in shock at the interrogation room’s one-way glass, now bearing a spiderweb of cracks.

When Jack had left earlier, he’d deliberately chosen not to re-shackle Mason to show goodwill. Now, the old man—muscles rippling—was lifting the steel chair he’d been sitting on and slamming it into the glass with furious strength.

Jack instinctively stepped in front of Womack, drawing his firearm and aiming it at the interrogation room.

"Don’t shoot! Jack! Don’t shoot!" Womack shouted frantically from behind him.

Of course Jack had no intention of pulling the trigger. But the gesture was necessary. Better to play the part now than catch flak later from a rattled director.

Another loud crash. The reinforced glass cracked into a lattice of fine lines. Mason dropped the chair—easily as heavy as he was—and drove an elbow into the weakened glass, smashing a jagged hole through it. Shards rained down as the security alarm blared.

Womack stood dumbstruck, gaping at the wild-eyed, white-haired man.

"WOMACK! I knew it had to be you, you piece of shit!" Mason roared, face contorted in fury.

The door burst open, and two baton-wielding guards along with a nearby agent rushed in. Mason wisely dropped into a crouch with his hands over his head—his surrendering posture so practiced it was almost pitiful.

"Two hours, Jack. Remember, you only have two hours," Womack grumbled, red-faced with rage and embarrassment, storming out while tossing the warning over his shoulder.

—

The Fairmont is one of the most iconic hotel brands in the world. In places like China’s Shanghai, its counterpart the Peace Hotel is a household name.

The Fairmont on Nob Hill in downtown San Francisco dated back to 1907. It was in this hotel’s opera house that the United Nations Charter had been signed.

Flush with federal funds, the FBI rented out the entire top floor. It was midday, only for two hours—not exactly an inconvenience for the elite guests who usually stayed here.

Nearly a hundred agents had sealed off the area like it was a war zone. But when Jack arrived outside the hotel with a young woman in tow, what he saw stopped him cold.

Director Womack was dangling by a shower curtain rope off the top-floor balcony.

Jack glanced at his watch. Huh. He’d only been gone an hour.

On the balcony above, agents were scrambling to rescue their boss. Jack casually looked up, noting that no one seemed to have spotted him yet. No need to rush in playing the loyal subordinate.

The hotel entrance was a grand neoclassical arch more than three meters high, flanked by three marble columns on either side. Valets in red uniforms bustled about, juggling luxury cars and shouting instructions.

As bystanders screamed, an older gentleman in a sharp suit—freshly shaved and sporting a trimmed haircut—staggered through the hotel entrance, weaving through the crowd toward a parked Hummer.

Jack raised his voice. "Mason, I think the person you came to see is right here."

Mason turned in confusion, his gaze landing on Jack before drifting toward the girl beside him—Jack’s arm resting lightly around her shoulders.

"Jade?"

His face changed instantly. He stormed forward, shouting, "Get your filthy hands off my daughter, you FBI bastard!"

—

The Palace of Fine Arts is one of San Francisco’s best-known landmarks, located not far from the Golden Gate Bridge.

Despite its name, it wasn’t a palace in the traditional sense. Rather, it was a Roman-style rotunda—red pillars and curved stone walls surrounding a breezy, open-air pavilion. Originally built for the 1914 Panama-Pacific Exposition, the structure had survived for over a century and remained a popular spot for wedding photography.

In the center sat a stone flowerbed surrounded by carved stone benches. Jack, ever the gentleman, motioned for the pair to sit while he discreetly moved to the side to give them privacy.

"I last saw a photo of you when you were ten years old," Mason finally said after a long, hesitant pause.

Jade Angiero—his daughter—remained calm. Jack had already explained everything to her on the way here.

"I recognized you. After Mom passed, I found an old photo of you among her things. You haven’t changed much."

"Ah... well... I..." Mason’s throat bobbed as if trying to swallow the avalanche of words stuck in his chest.

Eventually, it was Jade who broke the silence.

"I know you’ve been in prison all these years. But that FBI agent told me... you’re not a bad man. Just a patriot. I’m not sure what that means exactly. But I’m willing to believe it."

Mason instinctively turned to glance at Jack, who stood with his back to them a short distance away. His eyes softened in surprise.

After some pacing—sitting, standing, then sitting again—Mason finally found the strength to speak.

"Jade... all these years, I kept rehearsing what I’d say to you if I ever got the chance. Over and over, I tried to find the right words.

But now that you’re here, I don’t know where to begin. There’s just... too much.

About your mother and me. About why I wasn’t there. About... everything."