Chapter 647 Escaped a Calamity
"Let Ms. Stuart know George's arm is taken care of. Time to settle the final payment." The hitmen made sure their voices echoed through the alley, loud and clear for George to hear.
"Why are you wasting time? Finish him off already!"
"Got it, boss."
Just as the hitmen moved in for the kill, the sound of police sirens grew closer.
"Who tipped off the cops? Retreat!"
The hitmen quickly fled, but not before leaving a final threat, "You got lucky this time! Next time, you won't be so fortunate!"
After they left, George, despite the excruciating pain, picked up a communication device the hitmen had "accidentally" dropped. He pressed the play button, and Emma's voice, meticulously edited, came through: "George must be eliminated at all costs. He has to die."
George's hand trembled uncontrollably, causing the device to fall to the ground. He didn't want to believe it, but he couldn't deny the evidence. Emma, the woman he once loved deeply, the one he would have done anything to protect, now wanted him dead.
"Emma," he whispered in agony, closing his eyes as blood dripped from his arm onto the device, staining the evidence of betrayal crimson. "Why? What happened?"
In a secret hideout, Emma woke up from a nightmare, her pajamas soaked in cold sweat.
She had dreamt of George, covered in blood, standing before her with a look of despair and questioning in his eyes. A sharp pain pierced her heart, as if something vital had been forcibly ripped away. Uneasy, she walked to the window and stared at the pitch-black night sky, feeling that something terrible had happened, though she couldn't pinpoint what.
Meanwhile, in the city's hospital, George refused any help, sitting alone in the corner of the emergency room, tending to his wounds.
As the alcohol swab touched the gaping bullet hole, he didn't even flinch. The physical pain was nothing compared to the torment in his heart. Each bandage felt like it was tearing at his soul... The woman he loved most had not only betrayed him but now wanted him dead.
He recalled the scene at Michael's mansion earlier that day, where he saw Emma, disheveled, in Michael's arms. Connecting it to tonight's assassination attempt, everything seemed to make sense, yet it was so absurd.
Days of continuous rain had soaked the city in a damp fog, and the glass facades of skyscrapers were shrouded in a misty haze.
George stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of a five-star hotel, his left arm still throbbing with pain, the skin under the bandages stinging. Since that night, he felt like a hunted animal, constantly aware of eyes watching him from the shadows.
In the hotel's hallway surveillance blind spots, the dark corners of the parking lot, even among seemingly ordinary diners in the restaurant, he had to stay vigilant.
"Mr. Russell, we've spotted another suspicious person." Ulysses entered the room, his face as grim as a winter frost, his voice low. "This time, it's a woman, wearing a black mask and oversized sunglasses, but her silhouette is familiar."
"Who does she look like?" George turned sharply, a faint glimmer of hope in his eyes, like a candle flickering in the dark, only to dim quickly.
Ulysses hesitated, his Adam's apple bobbing. "She looks like Ms. Stuart. She's been lingering in the hotel lobby, seemingly waiting for someone. She left a note with our men, with an address on it."
George's fingers clenched unconsciously, his knuckles turning white from the pressure, the veins on the back of his hand standing out. Logic told him it was impossible; Emma should be with Michael now. How could she be here?
And if Emma wanted him dead, why would she come to see him? Was she checking if he was still alive?
No, Emma was too kind-hearted to be so ruthless.
A thought suddenly surged in George's mind. The hitmen's words and the evidence they left were too deliberate. Could it be a setup?
Yes, it must be.
Michael wanted him dead, and Emma discovered his plot, so she came to clear up the misunderstanding.
But the pitiful hope in his heart grew like wild grass, impossible to suppress.
Despite knowing it could be a deadly trap, George couldn't resist the urge to confirm, even if it meant just seeing her from afar.
"Get the car ready. I'm going to meet her." George's voice was hoarse, rough like sandpaper. "Don't alert anyone. Just the two of us."
The abandoned Pier 3 was shrouded in thick fog, the damp wooden planks creaking underfoot, threatening to break at any moment.
George walked alone towards the slender figure facing away from him, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it would burst from his chest, each beat bringing a dull ache. The figure wore Emma's favorite beige trench coat, and even the curve of her hairstyle was similar.
"Emma?" he called out tentatively, his voice filled with cautious hope, like he was afraid of startling a resting butterfly. The salty sea breeze tousled his hair.
The figure slowly turned, removing her sunglasses, and George's pupils contracted sharply. It wasn't her.
Though her makeup was flawless, even mimicking the curve of Emma's lips, the cold murderous intent in her eyes was something Emma would never have. Those eyes held no love, no warmth, only the cruel satisfaction of a hunter seeing its prey fall into a trap.
"Mr. Russell, so devoted," the woman sneered, her red lips curling into a cruel smile as she suddenly raised her hand hidden under the trench coat. "Willing to risk your life just to see your beloved."
As the gunshot rang out, George's years of training kicked in, allowing him to dodge swiftly.
The bullet grazed his temple, leaving a menacing hole in the container behind him. But as he retreated, the wooden planks beneath him suddenly gave way, and he fell into a pre-arranged trap. Above him, the woman's maniacal laughter echoed, "Goodbye, Mr. Russell! Say hello to the Grim Reaper for me!"
The deafening explosion rocked the entire pier, the sky-high flames turning the fog blood-red, the scorching heat wave overturning everything within a 150-foot radius.
The last thing George saw was the flying sparks, reminiscent of the New Year's Eve fireworks he and Emma had watched from the balcony.
Back then, Emma had leaned on his shoulder, smiling, saying each spark was a fallen star. Now, these "stars" were rushing towards him with the heat of destruction.
In a luxurious office, a man in black stood respectfully before Michael, unable to hide his smugness. "Mission accomplished. The pier is in ruins. The police have been dredging all day and only found this."
He handed over a charred watch, its cracked face resembling a spider's web, but still recognizable as George's usual Patek Philippe.
The leather strap was curled and deformed from the fire, but the unique engraving on the watch face, Emma's initials, was still faintly visible.
Michael toyed with the watch, a satisfied smile on his lips, his eyes gleaming with the light of victory. "Are you sure he's dead? Where's the body?"
The man in black hesitated, then replied, "The explosion was massive. There's no way he could've survived. The body's probably in pieces, scattered in the water."
Michael's smile widened. "Good. Make sure the police stay off our backs. We don't need any loose ends."
"Understood, sir," the man in black said, bowing slightly before leaving the office.
Michael leaned back in his chair, still holding the watch. "Goodbye, George," he murmured to himself. "You were always a thorn in my side. Now, you're just a memory."
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