Chapter 261: Chapter Two Hundred Fifty-Five: Vulgarity
The Special Search Team is a counter-terrorism unit from the country of Francie.
George, speaking fluent French, joined them.
Johnson had strong counter-surveillance abilities; he destroyed numerous clues, installed trackers on other vehicles, and misled those monitoring each other.
But all these arrangements seemed like tricks to George.
For in his eyes, he could see traces of red smoke in the air, like the smoke trails left by acrobatic planes; those were the marks left by the traitor.
George said to the helicopter pilot: “Continue east, towards Paris.”
The captain beside him turned pale; he said, “Based on experience, he will be unconscious for at least half a day after breaking his promise.”
“A person’s will can work miracles,” George said. “I met Johnson three years ago; he was among the first elders. His country hasn’t suffered her harm, but under good guidance, he found us. What really happened? Have you heard of anyone bullying him?”
“No, sir, you’ve seen his file too.”
“Right,” George said, “I thought he encountered dark dealings within the organization and became disillusioned with our cause, but he didn’t.”
“He’s just a traitor,” the captain spat angrily; he was both Black and Francien. “He sold us all to her!”
“Ding ding ding.”
The alarm rang.
George took out the timer and said, “We’ve got fifteen minutes left. If we don’t find him in fifteen minutes, he will likely regain his ability to speak.”
The sound of the helicopter’s rotors rumbled.
Someone reminded, “He has a smartphone with internet access.”
“Not to worry, the organization has suspended his account and implemented counter-divination strategies, inciting netizens to post a bunch of unknown truths in her comment section.”
The helicopter pilot reported: “We’ve received clearance to enter the city.”
The helicopter thundered over the sea of unmanned vehicles below, and the distant landmark of the iron tower came into view.
Suddenly, the radio shrieked.
“Terrorist attack! Johnson texted that he left a pressure cooker bomb on the street! Dammit, when he escaped, he took a bundle of TNT explosives with him. There’s an electronic display on it! It’s counting down.”
George listened patiently and asked, “Where did he say the pressure cooker is?”
“He said in a trash bin on the pedestrian street.” The captain’s face turned red with anger. “He has become a terrorist!”
“I remember we have a bomb disposal expert here?”
“Yes.”
“You go defuse the bomb first,” George said. “I’ll pursue him alone.”
The captain looked down at the bustling metropolis, crowded with people.
“Are you sure? I can guarantee that if you jump from the helicopter, tomorrow’s headline in the Parisian newspapers will be filled with your photo.”
“I’ll take a rope and pretend I’m rappelling down,” George said as he took off his exoskeleton and bulletproof vest, revealing a short-sleeved athletic shirt. “Then I’ll transform into a parkour athlete and search for him.”
“Alright! We’ll go find that traitor first.”
The radio screeched again.
The captain cursed, “We don’t have much time; he said the timer on the bomb has fifteen minutes left before it explodes!”
“You all immediately go evacuate the crowd,” George said. “I’ll drop down right here.”
“Okay.”
George grabbed a rope, donned a mask, and with a firm grip swung down, pretending to rappel, his feet landing on the ground with a thud.
He startled a woman nearby dressed in a brown-black trench coat, holding a baguette.
George leaped again, pushing off the wall with his feet, the powerful momentum enveloping him as he soared towards the rooftop of a nearly three-story building. However, he grazed the wall edge, feigning to use it for support.
Upon reaching the rooftop, the red trace of the traitor became clearer, pointing straight towards the Paris Opera.
Even with so much interference online, if the two met offline, the consequences would be unimaginable.
Thinking this, George quickened his pace, flying across the blue rooftops. The Paris Opera drew nearer, its classical architecture glowing a pale gold under the sunset; it stood tall against the surrounding buildings.
But a red dot was more conspicuous.
On the street, a man was riding his motorcycle recklessly through the flow of unmanned vehicles, overtaking one car after another with a do-or-die attitude, heading toward the opera, evidently intent on crashing into it.
George, running on the rooftop, considered for a moment and decided against jumping down, as that would be too conspicuous.
At that moment, the timer beeped, reminding him that fifteen minutes were almost up. Without another word, George pushed off, soaring into the air, his gaze locked onto Johnson. Just as Johnson was about to overtake a vehicle, the car’s front swerved towards the sidewalk with no one ahead.
George took a deep breath and forcefully blew towards Johnson, nearly a hundred meters away. His massive lung capacity turned into a gust of wind that weakened after crossing the distance.
Yet Johnson was struck by an invisible fist, tumbling off his motorcycle and crashing hard onto the sidewalk, the silver bike rolling and smashing against a sturdy wall, flaring sparks and producing a deafening sound as he rolled on the pavement, his limbs limp like overcooked noodles.
Because he was a perjurer, vulnerable, and an ordinary mortal.
Based on George’s experience, although Johnson had some mechanical implants, he was still human, and being able to maintain clarity of mind was remarkable.
Thus, he acted like a normal parkour runner, descending from the rooftop. As soon as he landed on the sidewalk, he saw Johnson stirring with remarkable willpower, opening his mouth and struggling to say: “Ji Ma… I…”
George immediately puffed up his cheeks.
At that moment.
Inside the opera house, Ji Ma was engaged in a group performance with beautiful, graceful ballet dancers.
She sharply felt someone nearby mentioning her name and momentarily perked up her ears to listen, filtering through the beautiful music.
“… I… love you.”
Hmph.
Ji Ma coldly huffed in her heart, rolling her eyes, and continued embracing the tall ballet dancer beside her.
On the other side.
George had already restrained Johnson. He showed his credentials, called for backup, and knelt on one knee before Johnson.
Johnson wore a satisfied smile; he didn’t mention Ji Ma again because he knew he wouldn’t have a chance in front of George.
“… Thank you,” Johnson said in English. “For giving me a chance to finish.”
Among the onlookers, a Francien murmured, “Another American.”
George asked in English, “Why?”
Johnson was gasping; he was in pain.
At that moment, George’s communication device beeped.
“The crowd has been evacuated.”
Johnson grinned, saliva and blood dripping from the corners of his mouth. “Don’t worry, there’s only flour I bought from the supermarket in that pressure cooker.”
George asked, “Why?”
“I…” Johnson’s tears flowed down; at that moment, he looked less like a tough guy and more like a clown. “I… love her. I… know this is very… very… bad, but I just love her… I saw her from a distance during the Olympics, and she is my goddess… my dearest… I love her so much…”
George fell silent.
“Sorry for… disappointing you, disappointing the curse…” Johnson forced a smile, “I know this is very bad… it must be that she put a curse on me… but I’ve checked… I’m not cursed… I’ve seen much of her evil deeds… but I just… love her… I’m sorry… I’m really sorry… I can’t accept… that I have to kill her.”
George tightly grasped his hand and said, “I won’t blame you.”
“Thank you.” Johnson took a deep breath, his body relaxed, then closed his eyes, finally saying: “But please don’t treat me… I don’t want the people who want to kill her to treat me.”
The aftermath was quick.
Local police treated him as a terrorist, lifting him onto a stretcher and loading him into an ambulance for humanitarian emergency aid.
George stood on the rooftop, gazing at the classical Paris Opera. Little Ji appeared beside him and asked, “Brother, do you want to see her?”
“No, she said she wants to restore the Paris Opera to the fine traditions of the 19th century.”
“What does that mean?”
George, being knowledgeable, explained:
“19th-century ballet, though originating from court dances, was not considered high culture. A major highlight was the underwear and thighs, modified skirts to avoid exposure. Back then, ballet dancers were called little mice, and the Paris Opera… resembled a higher-class brothel.”
“Ah? So she…”
“Exactly.” George sighed deeply. “I really don’t want to see her in such a… vulgar manner.”
“But did you know she has always been vulgar?”
“Yes.”
George turned around as if avoiding something. “Let’s go, Little Ji.”
