Chapter 2067 - 849: The Situation Is a Complete Mess

Black Mamba said nothing.

"They are the ones you sent to the ship in Africa. Seven people. Six adults and one child. They arrived in Italy three days ago. Last night, they were killed. Execution style. Shot."

Black Mamba's eyes shifted slightly.

But he still said nothing.

Graham pushed the photo forward a bit.

"That child, about seven or eight years old. A boy. His eyes were open when he died. Do you know why?"

Black Mamba looked at him.

"Because he wanted to see what the person who killed him looked like."

Black Mamba's fingers twitched.

Graham noticed.

"Mr. Diawlo, how many people did you send?"

Black Mamba spoke, voice hoarse:

"Three hundred."

Graham nodded.

"Three hundred. We caught twenty-two, seven are dead. Two hundred seventy-one remain. Do you know where they are?"

Black Mamba shook his head.

"I don't know."

Graham stared at him.

"Do you really not know?"

Black Mamba looked back at him.

"Really."

Graham was silent for a few seconds.

Then he stood up, walked to the door.

"Mr. Diawlo, the person you're protecting isn't worth it."

He pushed the door open and walked out.

Black Mamba sat there, looking at the photo.

That child's eyes were really open.

…

Volkov stood by the window, watching the heavy snow flying outside.

He had made more than twenty calls. Italy, France, Germany, Greece, Albania—all the people he knew, all the contacts he had, he called them all.

But no one knew where those Chechens were.

Those people seemed to have vanished.

Footsteps came from behind.

"Volkov."

The Boss's voice.

Volkov turned around.

The Boss stood in the center of the living room, looking at him.

"Any news?"

Volkov shook his head.

"No."

The Boss nodded.

"Then keep looking."

Volkov hesitated for a moment.

"Boss, those people—why were they killed?"

The Boss looked at him.

"What do you think?"

Volkov said nothing.

The Boss stepped closer.

"Those seven were silenced. Not our people. Not the police. Someone else."

Volkov was stunned.

"Who?"

The Boss was silent for a few seconds.

Then he spoke a name:

"Hendrick."

Italy, outskirts of Rome, in a basement.

Hendrick sat on a broken chair, five people stood in front of him.

Tamara stood at the front. Her face still had no expression, but there was a glint in her eyes—the kind you see after witnessing too many deaths on the battlefield.

"Those seven have been dealt with," Hendrick said.

Tamara said nothing.

"They were being watched. Not dealing with them would endanger everyone."

Tamara looked at him.

"What about the child?"

Hendrick was silent for two seconds.

"Dealt with as well."

Something flashed in Tamara's eyes.

But it was just for a moment.

"What's next?" she asked.

Hendrick stood up, walked to the wall, and unfolded a map.

The map had over a dozen marked points. Rome, Milan, Turin, Florence—the entire Northern Italy, all red dots.

"You split into five groups. Four people in each group. Head north, into the Alps. There are people in the mountains to assist."

He pointed at a red line on the map.

"This line is the smuggling route. Few travel it; the police can't find it. Over the mountain, and you'll be in Switzerland. Once in Switzerland, you're safe."

Tamara looked at the line.

"What about after Switzerland?"

Hendrick looked at her.

"After Switzerland, someone will tell you."

Tamara was silent for a few seconds.

Then she turned around and said a sentence to the four people behind her.

Chechen. Hendrick didn't understand.

But those four people, upon hearing it, immediately stood up, moved to the map, and started examining the line.

Hendrick looked at Tamara.

"What did you tell them?"

Tamara didn't answer.

She just looked at the line, for a long time.

Then she asked:

"Who killed our child?"

Hendrick was taken aback.

"What?"

Tamara turned around, looked at him.

"Those seven. Six adults, one child. Who killed them?"

Hendrick was silent for a few seconds.

Then he spoke:

"I don't know."

Tamara stared at him.

"Really don't know?"

Hendrick looked back at her.

"Really."

Tamara asked no more questions.

She left the basement with those four people.

Hendrick stood there, watching her silhouette fade into the darkness.

Then he took out his phone and dialed a number.

"Boss, they left."

The other end was silent for two seconds.

"That woman—Tamara—did she ask?"

Hendrick nodded.

"She asked."

"What did you say?"

"I don't know."

The other end was silent again.

After a few seconds, the voice said:

"She won't believe it."

…

Victor stood by the window, looking at the night view of Mexico City.

Bramo stood behind him.

"Victor, there's news from Hendrick's side."

Victor didn't turn around.

"Speak."

"He killed those seven Chechens, five adults. All shot."

Victor was silent for a few seconds.

Then he turned around.

Victor walked back to the desk and sat down.

He looked at the photo on the desk, the child lying on the ground with open eyes, a bullet hole in the center of his forehead.

"Damn it."

He cursed.

Bramo said nothing.

Victor put the photo down.

"Who is Hendrick working for?"

Bramo thought for a moment.

"Black Mamba? Or Volkov?"

Victor shook his head.

"Neither."

He stood up, walked to the window.

"Hendrick is working for himself."