Chapter 365: Distraction!

As he spoke, he used his left hand to make a gesture.

Hearing the command, two agents rushed toward the driver's cab door from both the left and right sides simultaneously.

"FBI! Get out of the vehicle! Hands over your head!"

The door to the driver's cab was pulled open.

The lights inside the vehicle turned on.

Under the light, a face was revealed.

But it was not Chu Chen.

It was the face of a middle-aged man, with dark brown skin, black curly hair, and a thick beard.

He was wearing a washed-out plaid shirt.

His whole body was trembling.

His face was covered in tears mixed with snot, and he looked extremely weak.

【Holy crap, not Chu Chen?】

【Who is that?】

【Mexican descent?】

【Where is God Chu? Where did God Chu go?】

【What on earth is going on?】

【Is the truck fake? Did God Chu disappear again?】

Henry stepped forward, lowering his muzzle slightly, but he did not put his weapon away.

His gaze lingered on the man's face for a few seconds, then shifted to his hands.

At this moment, his right hand was clutching a mask.

"Who are you?" Henry asked.

The man was trembling violently.

He opened his mouth; his lips were chapped, and he licked his upper lip with the tip of his tongue before saying in English with a heavy accent: "Officers, this really has nothing to do with me..."

"It was that Huaxia man... he... he made me drive the car here..."

Henry's brow twitched: "Who is he?"

The man's Adam's apple bobbed up and down: "Just that Huaxia man, he... he gave me this phone."

His hand slowly moved away from the steering wheel, pointing to a black phone on the passenger seat.

The phone screen was lit up, showing a countdown interface with red numbers that had stopped ticking.

The time finally displayed 14:23.

"What is this?" Henry's voice tightened.

"A bomb... there is a bomb in the cargo hold... he set a timer... he said, as long as I drove to this location within the specified time, the timer would stop. But if I stopped or slowed down too early... the bomb would..."

The barrage in the live stream paused briefly at that moment, then erupted with even greater intensity.

【A bomb?! Holy shit!】

【No wonder he had to drive so fast!】

【So he was speeding the whole time because he had to?】

【This is truly God Chu's style!】

Henry's face turned ashen.

He turned around and roared at the agents behind him: "Evacuate! Everyone retreat two hundred meters! And notify the bomb squad immediately! Hank, you guys take the man away first!"

Although the bomb's countdown had stopped, to ensure absolute safety, the bomb squad still had to be notified in such a situation.

The members of the Expert Group began to retreat under the guidance of the agents.

Li Changyu walked the slowest.

His eyes were still fixed on the man's face, seemingly deep in thought.

Zhou Yun was the last to retreat.

His muzzle had moved away from the driver's cab, but he did not holster his weapon; the muzzle pointed downward, his finger resting on the outside of the trigger guard.

After returning to the vehicle, Henry picked up the radio again and switched to the air support channel: "We've been played by him again. Have any suspicious persons been spotted around the distribution center in the target area?"

The voice of Desert Eagle One came through the radio, accompanied by the noise of rotors and the static of electrical interference: "Thermal imaging has scanned a one-kilometer radius around the distribution center; no heat signal inconsistent with the driver's physical characteristics has been detected. Repeat, none detected."

Henry put down the radio and stood in place; the beam of the vehicle's headlights shone from behind him, casting his shadow onto the cargo door of the truck—long, black, and like a man nailed to a cross.

Meanwhile!

Lower Manhattan!

Federal Bureau of Investigation New York Branch Temporary Detention Center.

This was a gray-white, windowless building separated from the main building, surrounded by barbed wire and high-definition surveillance cameras.

The building's main door was made of steel, its surface coated with matte gray anti-rust paint; the lock was an electronic keypad, and every entry and exit left a record in the system.

The lights in the hallway were fluorescent, the pale light illuminating the walls and floor like an operating room.

On both sides of the hallway were rows of tightly closed metal doors, each embedded with a number and a small observation window protected by iron mesh.

Pinkman was locked in the room on the left at the end of the hallway.

Number B7.

He sat on the iron-frame bed, his hands on his knees, his back slightly hunched, looking at the gray concrete floor beneath his feet.

His dark green velvet suit had been taken away and replaced with an orange, pocketless prison uniform with "FDC" printed on the chest.

The collar of the prison uniform was too large, revealing a small patch of pale, loose-skinned chest below his collarbone.

His graying hair, which had been styled quite stylishly, was now disheveled.

A few strands of hair hung over his forehead, the sheen of the hair gel appearing dull and greasy under the fluorescent lights, yet he still did not lose the demeanor of a Yingguo gentleman!

He had already been sitting here for who knows how long.

From the moment he was escorted out of the underground parking garage by two agents, he had not spoken another word.

At this moment, footsteps came from outside the door.

Leather shoes stepped on the concrete floor, the rhythm neither fast nor slow, the distance between each step almost identical.

Then came the sound of metal clashing—the faint, tinkling noise of a keychain swaying against a leather belt loop.

The observation window on the door was pulled open.

A pair of eyes appeared behind that small window protected by iron mesh.

Those eyes were black, the pupils large, reflecting a tiny speck of light under the corridor's lamps.

After scanning the room, that gaze finally landed on Pinkman.

Pinkman did not look up.

Immediately after, the door lock turned.

The sound of the latch retracting from the door frame was exceptionally crisp in the quiet corridor, like a bone being snapped.

The iron door was pushed open, the hinges of the door axle emitting a low groan.

A person walked in.

He was wearing the standard-issue dark blue uniform of the FBI Temporary Detention Center.

A golden badge was embroidered on the chest.

Hanging from the leather belt at his waist were a set of keys, a walkie-talkie, and a black police baton.

In his hands, he carried a white plastic tray, on which sat a standard dinner: a carton of milk, a sandwich, a small packet of crackers, and a banana that had already gone a bit limp.

He placed the tray on the small table by the door, then took a step back, standing on the inside of the door frame.

His hands were not on the police baton, but hung at his sides, his posture very relaxed, like someone taking a walk in a park.

Pinkman finally raised his head.

His gaze started from those black leather shoes, moved upward along the dark blue trouser legs, passing the keychain and badge at the waist.

Passing the identification tag on the chest.

Passing the face half-hidden by the brim of a cap, and finally landing on those black pupils.

Those eyes.

Pinkman's pupils suddenly dilated in an instant!

"You..." he was so surprised he couldn't finish his sentence.

He only managed to say a single word.

The voice was as hoarse as sandpaper rubbing against rust!