PFC Chapter 4566 The Day of Brightest Day (25)
Chapter 4566 The Day of Brightest Day (25)
Chapter 4566 The Day of Brightest Light (Twenty-Five)
In many African countries, it's not uncommon for children to surround you and beg for money. Because there's no compulsory education, most children have nothing to do during their childhood, making them vulnerable to joining gangs and learning petty theft. The bolder ones, however, will engage in what's called begging, but is actually a form of subtle robbery.
These teenagers are a major problem for tourists. They don't look like adults yet, but they already possess considerable strength. Being surrounded by them means that if you make a move, locals will definitely come to cause trouble, and if you don't fight back, you can't get rid of them. For vulnerable groups among the tourists, they are like a pack of hyenas.
Getting involved with Deathstroke and Schiller should have been their just desserts. But in reality, Deathstroke obediently paid up the money—and anyone with eyes could see that it was ill-gotten.
Deathstroke didn't have any change—for dollars, tens of dollars aren't small change, but large bills—he didn't even have tens of dollars, only green Franklins.
People's impression of the US dollar is mostly of hundred-dollar bills, but the source of this impression is itself suspicious. Those clean banknotes that appear in Hollywood dramas and are always neatly stacked in boxes are either taken by bank robbers or assassins. This clearly shows that such money is generally dirty money.
The death knell was no longer performed. The banknotes he pulled out were so clean they looked freshly printed. This meant the money hadn't gone through a bank, but had instead reached him directly through a special channel.
Undoubtedly, this attracted the attention of a segment of the population. The children may not understand, but the interest groups behind them immediately took notice of the sudden appearance of the death knell and Schiller in Cairo.
Despite its relatively underdeveloped status, Egypt's geographical location is incredibly delicate. It lies on the fringes of small-state conflicts, yet at the heart of great power rivalry. It's far more chaotic than many developed countries on their own soil. The intensity of espionage and political maneuvering there is among the highest in Africa.
Therefore, Deathstroke's act of throwing money around quickly triggered a chain reaction. As they stood in front of the car rental shop, two people emerged from the alley across the street. One of them gestured to the owner of the rental shop, who then went inside. Deathstroke and Schiller turned to look in that direction.
"Where are you from?" The other person's English wasn't very standard, and they were dressed like a local.
“The Red Sea,” said Deathstroke.
"Who is your employer?" he asked again.
Deathstroke frowned; as a mercenary, he clearly disliked this topic. At that moment, Schiller looked at him and said, "Just as you're from the Greater Cairo area, we're from Washington."
Now it was the other person's turn to frown. Deathstroke glanced at Schiller; this answer was unusual. Typical CIA agents would have disguises, often posing as backpackers from around the world, claiming to be from Australia and traveling the globe.
It's not that there aren't genuine tourists from Washington, so it's not surprising that someone would claim to be a Washingtonian. But the key lies in the first part. Thinking of this, Deathstroke suddenly had a flash of inspiration: the person in front of him didn't seem to be from Cairo.
When those children surrounded them asking for money, they spoke to them in the local language. Of course, Egyptian is no longer spoken in Egypt; Arabic is used instead. But there are many different languages of Arabic, and the Arabic accent in the Cairo area is quite distinctive, making it easy to distinguish between them.
The person in front of me didn't speak Arabic, but the pronunciation of his English sounded different from the other children, which suggested that he might not be a local either.
By saying this, Schiller was essentially telling him: We know you're not from Cairo. Furthermore, the Washington we're referring to isn't a literal location, but rather a metaphor for the US government.
Young, but exceptionally cunning and experienced—that was Deathstroke's assessment of Schiller. He handled this situation with remarkable skill and composure, displaying remarkable maturity.
Deathstroke, due to his profession, usually wouldn't act so aggressively. He'd rather say a few calm words to get by, or slip some money, or if that didn't work, just leave, rather than waste time talking to these local bullies.
This is the difference between an intelligence agent and a mercenary. More precisely, it's the difference between an agent of a major power and a freelance mercenary. Even if a mercenary becomes the best in the world, sometimes their deterrent power is still inferior to that of the CIA. The only reason to blame is the CIA's notorious reputation.
Hearing Schiller's words, the other side's momentum indeed weakened somewhat. He walked over, spread his hands, and said, "Listen, we're not here to cause trouble. No matter which direction you landed from in the Red Sea, you should have heard about what happened in Hegada. It's very distressing, isn't it?"
“This is something we didn’t expect,” Schiller said. “A complete blockade is not good for anyone. Those who want to take advantage of the chaos won’t stop just because the army is on the streets.”
“I completely agree with you. In fact, we came here seeking support as well…”
Before he could finish speaking, Schiller and Deathstroke almost simultaneously darted to the right, rolling behind a nearby car. With a few swift movements, the man was riddled with holes and collapsed helplessly in front of the door.
This time, the group that arrived spoke with a Cairo accent, but they were clearly much less friendly. "Get out, Americans! You're not welcome here! Haven't you caused enough trouble in Hegada?!"
Deathstroke gave Schiller a wink; there was really no need for them to fight these guys here. Killing them wouldn't bring any benefit, it would only needlessly increase equipment wear and tear and waste bullets.
But this is where the difference between mercenaries and special agents becomes apparent. Mercenaries are responsible for their own profits and losses; the better the equipment, the higher the maintenance and upkeep costs. Even mercenaries like Deathstroke, with their modest income, have to be careful with their equipment. Schiller, on the other hand, is different; all maintenance costs for special agents are covered by public funds. Moreover, the American government invests an unimaginable amount in espionage and special agent operations, even resorting to mandatory equipment replacement on an hourly basis to ensure reliability. Using one and discarding it immediately is no joke.
As a top agent, he received priority access to all advanced equipment. Schiller had no concept of wasting bullets; even specially customized bullets, with a weight far exceeding that of gold, were readily available. He rarely avoided combat due to "insufficient benefits."
Schiller raised his hand as if to draw his gun, and the other man reacted almost instinctively, raising his gun to fire. But Schiller didn't actually reach for his revolver; instead, he reached out and snatched the gun the instant the other man raised it.
He grabbed the other man's wrists with both hands and jerked them upwards. "Bang!" He then pulled the man in front of him, using him as a shield to block a shot from his comrade behind him. "Bang!" Taking advantage of the panic in the man behind him, he kicked the man in front of him away, then delivered a straight punch to the face of the man behind him. As the man staggered backward, he snatched the guns away. "Bang! Bang!"
Two shots took out two men. Schiller glanced at the pistol in his hand, an unremarkable Desert Eagle. But that didn't mean these men were backed by Israel. The mixing of equipment in the Middle East was incredibly sophisticated; military standard issue, police standard issue, ordinary civilian versions, modified versions, even special pistols—anyone could end up in their hands. That alone didn't prove anything.
Schiller bent down to examine the pistol. Unfortunately, it was a bit old, not in great condition, and only a few bullets remained. Clearly, it couldn't replace a revolver, but it still had a few shots left and could be used, albeit barely.
Deathstroke, observing Schiller from the sidelines, had to admit that Schiller's series of actions demonstrated his exceptional professionalism: quiet and swift. Violence, through restraint, always sheds its primal ugliness and evolves into an elegant art.
“Let’s go,” Schiller said, looking at him. “Let’s find a hotel first, then see what’s going on at the museum. I have a feeling we’re not the only ones watching that area.”
Deathstroke followed behind him, still somewhat inclined to chat, but he knew Schiller was already in professional combat mode, and if he tried to pull him back to home mode, he'd likely get shot. So he said, "Although I don't want to fight them, you did a really good job just now."
Why don't you want to fight them?
“There’s no need,” Deathstroke said. “If I were to intervene, it could become very bloody. That could easily snap some people’s nerves, and if they attack me recklessly, the cost could far exceed expectations.”
“No wonder you make money,” Schiller said as he loaded his revolver. “I never thought about controlling costs.”
"Yeah, after all, you have a gun with unlimited ammo."
“Don’t even mention that gun,” Schiller said irritably. “It’s just a signal flare. If I fire it, all of Egypt will attack me. It’s a real pain in the ass.”
Deathstroke initially didn't quite understand Schiller's complaints. It was obvious he was on Diana's side. Deathstroke's fighting style was aggressive and swift. Although he was the world's top mercenary and assassin, his assassination style seemed more like that if he killed everyone, no one would notice his infiltration.
Before a fight, he would shrewdly calculate his resources and then avoid battle. But when faced with a battle he had no choice but to fight, he wouldn't hesitate. Most of the time, he would just swing his sword and charge in, cutting down enemies as easily as chopping vegetables, before gracefully and calmly leaving.
So he didn't see anything wrong with the revolver Diana provided to Schiller. It was indeed a very good weapon. One shot would terrify the enemy, and it was also very good at creating panic and chaos.
However, having witnessed Schiller's actions firsthand, Deathstroke had to admit that the revolver was definitely not his style. Schiller's execution was true "assassination": using the simplest and most effective movements to subdue and kill his opponent, striving to avoid any "grand spectacle." Even the angle of the pistol execution was meticulously chosen—shooting diagonally upwards from the back of the neck, with a chance that the weaker pistol bullet would jam against the hard skull, minimizing bleeding. Schiller did exactly that, and both shots were successful. This proved his experience; he never missed.
For someone like him, carrying a megaphone would be incredibly painful. Deathstroke could tell that Schiller was currently loading his revolver, seemingly trying to find an option to switch modes.
Unfortunately, this Colt Python wasn't meant to be. It's clear that when Vulcan created this thing, he genuinely wanted to help his sister. His intended targets were probably Hera or Zeus—divine bullets, divine power activation. Even if he couldn't kill them, he wanted to at least inflict pain. This resulted in the gun having no second mode.
Oh no, there are still some. Deathstroke suddenly remembered that when Schiller used it before, he could stack six bullets together and fire, making a deafening explosion with just one gun. But it's best not to tell Schiller, otherwise he'll be even more desperate.