Chapter 2033 - 841: "He Won’t Give Me a Reason, So I Have to Give Him an Excuse!"_3

Bennett thought for a moment.

"What about the gas station employee?"

The leader of the fourth group stood up.

"Pedro Morales, twenty-four years old, worked at the 'Eastern Petroleum' gas station in Guayaquil. After the incident, he took leave to return to his hometown, which is Durán, twenty kilometers north of Guayaquil. Our people went there this afternoon; he's in the village. His parents are there, along with a sister, sixteen years old."

Bennett nodded.

"Let him live."

The four group leaders froze for a moment.

"Boss, by 'live', you mean..."

"I mean don't kill him," Bennett said, "but make sure he never forgets that day for the rest of his life."

The four group leaders exchanged glances.

Bennett didn't explain.

He walked to the window, looking out at the night view.

"The one who poured gasoline, the one who threw the beer bottle, the one with the stick," he said, "and all those who cheered while watching, identify anyone recognizable, find them all."

He turned around.

"Three days."

The four group leaders stood up.

"In three days, I want them dead."

The operation's code name was "Day of Reckoning."

The people from the Counterintelligence Bureau called this sort of thing "cleaning." It wasn't a military operation, nor a police action, but something in between—a gray area—no uniforms, no public identities, no evidence left behind, no admission or denial.

Bennett had been doing this for twenty years.

Starting from the most brutal years of the Mexican drug wars, then following Victor to clean out domestic gangs and drug traffickers, and later expanding into Central America, South America, Europe, and Africa. He had a list of names, some of whom were dead, some had disappeared, and some were still alive but wished they weren't.

Victor never asked how he did it.

Victor only asked for results.

Early the following morning, the first team set out.

An unmarked Gulfstream jet took off from a private airfield outside of Mexico City, headed for Lima, Peru. Onboard were six people, all operatives from the Counterintelligence Bureau, carrying fake passports, false documents, and items inconvenient for customs.

Their route was: transit in Lima to Quito, then drive from Quito to Guayaquil.

The entire journey would take less than twenty-four hours.

At the same time, in Durán.

The village was called Santa Rosa, twenty kilometers from Guayaquil, at the end of a dirt road.

Pedro Morales hid in his parents' home.

He didn't dare to go outside.

That day at the gas station, when he ran out with the fire extinguisher, he just wanted to put out the fire. The fire was extinguished, that man fell to the ground, his face burnt off, his eyes exposed to the air, still alive, still breathing.

He was so frightened he dropped the extinguisher and ran.

After running home, he couldn't stop thinking about that face.

When he lay down to sleep, that face hovered before his eyes, keeping him awake.

On the third night, he fell asleep.

He slept very deeply.

When he woke up, he found himself in an unfamiliar place.

All around were cement walls, no windows, just a single lamp hanging overhead, the bulb so bright he couldn't keep his eyes open.

He moved a little and realized he was tied to an iron chair.

"Awake?"

The voice came from behind the light.

Pedro couldn't see what the person looked like, only a vague silhouette.

"Who... who are you?"

The person didn't answer.

"What do you want?"

The person took a step closer.

The light revealed his face—mid-forties, ordinary looks, wearing a black jacket, holding an 8848 phone.

An 8848 which played a video.

Pedro glanced at it, his face turned pale instantly.

It was recorded on the day at the gas station. He was running out with the extinguisher, spraying the burned man, then running away.

"You ran pretty fast," the person said.

Pedro's lips trembled.

"I... I just wanted to help him..."

"Help him?"

The person's tone was flat.

"He was on fire at your doorstep, you sprayed him, then you ran. You didn't even call for an ambulance. You didn't report it to the police. You ran."

Pedro couldn't say anything.

"Do you know what happened to that man afterward?"

Pedro shook his head.

The person turned the 8848 around, showing him another video.

It was shot from another angle, one Pedro had never seen. In the video, the burned man lay at the gas station entrance, smoke rising from his body, still twitching. People stood several meters away, watching, pointing, no one stepping forward. After about two minutes, he stopped twitching.

"He died," the person said.

Pedro closed his eyes.

"You know," the person said, "that day he wasn't the only one burned. There was also his wife, his child. A five-year-old child burned on the tires, only half remained."

Pedro opened his eyes, tears streaming down. 𝑓𝑟ℯℴ𝓂

"I... I truly didn't know..."

"You didn't want to know."

The person put away the 8848, walked up to Pedro.

"What's your name?"

"Pe... Pedro."

"Pedro, you're in luck. The Boss said to let you live."

Pedro was stunned for a moment.

"What... what does that mean?"

The person didn't answer.

He took out a knife, very sharp, its tip glinting coldly under the light.

Pedro started to struggle, but the ropes were too tight, he couldn't move.

"Don't move," the person said, "Moving could kill you."

He pointed the knife at Pedro's right eye.

Pedro screamed.

The scream echoed around the cement walls, making the ears ring.

The knife stopped a millimeter from his eyeball.

"Take a good look," the person said, "This is the face you saw that day. The one burned away. That face will always hover before your eyes, hovering for a lifetime."