Chapter 473

"Received. You should run now."

The divine decree's tone remained calm; there were so many cameras on the island, there must be a central monitoring room managing the surveillance equipment.

Within ten minutes at most, or just a few, they could locate the security guard Bob's silhouette and find the villa where the blond youth Walter was staying.

"Mm, right away."

Joker was about to flip down from the second floor when he suddenly saw a yacht on the sea lowering an inflatable rubber boat, carrying several people speeding toward the island, crashing straight onto the beach.

One of the men on the rubber boat, an elderly Asian man, looked oddly familiar.

Joker couldn't help exclaiming: "Li Changyu? He's come ashore too?"

Li Cheng raised an eyebrow upon hearing the name and said quickly: "The real-world leaked Epstein case files don't mention him, but his presence on the guest list isn't particularly strange."

Epstein Island was not only a place for America's upper class to submit their loyalty oaths, but also an entertainment and leisure venue.

It regularly invited outstanding experts and scholars from various fields to discuss professional topics like the universe, science fiction, human civilization history, psychology, and criminology, refining the sensibilities and purifying the souls of its SVIPs and VIPs.

Li Changyu, as a Chinese-American, was internationally renowned for criminal investigation and forensic technology, having served as Director of the Connecticut State Police Department—the first Chinese-American state-level police chief in the U. S. —and holding numerous honors in both China and the U. S. His invitation was entirely reasonable.

Of course, compared to his forensic skills, Li Changyu's political instincts were even sharper.

He had handled the Mei Le Sect assassination case, the Mei Ting Sect Watergate incident, the young Kennedy escort case, and the Mei Lian Sect assistant suicide case; as a Chinese-American criminal investigator, he had navigated Washington's treacherous political whirlpool multiple times and never once "committed suicide" or "died in a car accident."

You could say he was incredibly impressive.

He understood criminal investigation—and politics even better.

As a counterexample, Zhao Anji, sister of Zhao Xiaolan, the former U. S. Secretary of Labor and a top representative of Chinese-American elites, chairwoman and CEO of the Fu Mao Group,

in February 2024, inexplicably drove a Tesla Model X into the pond of her vacation resort in Texas and drowned in confusion.

In short, since security guard Bob was no important figure, Li Changyu would naturally not be politically constrained—he would pursue the case with full force. The player's exposure risk surged dramatically.

————

"So, Dr. Li Changyu,"

in the underground prison, the mustached supervisor asked sharply: "What have you figured out?"

"From the prison's traces alone—footprints, bloodstains, fingerprints—the most likely scenario is that the prison's security personnel took away the two detained individuals."

Li Changyu had handled many major political cases; he knew what to ask and what not to ask. He deliberately ignored the child-sized handcuffs and leg irons in the room and said firmly: "But several points don't add up."

"For example, the damp pillow in Room A, the footprints on the ceiling pipes, the scalp flakes on the keypad in Room B."

"What do you mean?"

The mustached supervisor frowned: "Could you explain more clearly?"

"There's a slight possibility that the two detainees in Rooms A and B managed to attack the prison guard, and somehow coerced or threatened him into taking them out of the underground prison."

Li Changyu shook his head even as he spoke: "This is merely a speculative hypothesis based on the scene's traces."

The theory also fails to explain why the guard, who weighed several times more than the detainees, offered no resistance whatsoever.

Even if the two detainees hid under the blankets, the guard still obeyed their commands."

The speaker meant nothing by it; the listener took it to heart.

The supervisor's expression turned grave, his mind plunging into a mental storm.

As Epstein's trusted aide, he knew full well the island's position within America's upper echelons.

If the events on the island were fully exposed, the effect would be like tossing firecrackers into a village's dry latrine—total collapse, shit everywhere, a stench-filled deluge. Security guard Bob's social background was simple and clear—he didn't look like someone who had meticulously infiltrated the island undercover.

Then who was pulling the strings behind the scenes?

High-ranking members of the Elephant Party aiming to sabotage the Democratic Party in the midterms? The Russian KGB? Or a former CIA agent whose children had been brought to the island?

The movie "Taken 2" had already been released in 2008.

Just as his face flushed alternately pale and purple, a soft "beep" came from his waistband communicator—coming from the monitoring center.

The supervisor hesitated before answering: "Hello?"

"Hey, boss, we found Bob on the monitor—he's near the vineyard on the island's west side, and he's… digging up cables?"

The monitoring center staff's tone was uncertain; on the screen, Bob swung his shovel like a pro, digging a 70-centimeter-deep pit and exposing the insulated cable.

What was he doing?

The staff member instinctively leaned forward, nearly burying his head into the screen.

Bob appeared to have spotted a surveillance camera hanging from a tree branch—he grinned directly at the lens, then swung his shovel hard at the power cable.

Zzzzzt—

The monitor screen went instantly black. The staff member shouted into the radio: "I can't see him anymore!"

"Hss."

The supervisor took a deep breath. Little Saint James Island was far from the mainland and had no solar panels installed—it relied entirely on diesel generators and underground cables for power.

He sprinted out of the underground prison, dashed past the Hollywood celebrities indulging in debauchery beneath the pavilion, and stood on the lawn, gazing westward.

Clearly visible: all lights on the higher western side of the island had gone out simultaneously.

The supervisor, with his prior experience at a PMC private military company, reacted instantly. He grabbed the radio and called the security team on the island's west side: "Hello! This is Supervisor Eric—watch out for Bob. He's defected. Repeat: Bob has defected and may be armed."

"Understood."

The radio crackled back with calm precision; the security captain issued orders to his team: "Group A, go to every room and evacuate the VIPs via emergency fire exits."

"Groups B and C, hold the entrance to the underground level of the vineyard."

"Group D, you four—take weapons and secure the ground floor."

With the power lines on the island's west side severed, all surveillance cameras had gone offline; communication was now limited to radios.

The supervisor could only guess what was happening on the other side by the voices coming through the radio.

"Report! Group D found Bob—he's collapsed at the vineyard entrance? Oh no, oh God, he's just a skin!"

A skin?

Supervisor Eric gripped the radio tightly, utterly unable to comprehend the statement, and shouted: "Do you mean a costume prop? Hello?!"

Boom—crash—clang—clatter—

The walkie-talkie burst with a dense cacophony: gunshots, bodies colliding, blades slashing, heavy objects falling.

No matter how Supervisor Eric shouted, there was no response.

Moments later, all was silent.

From the other end of the walkie-talkie came footsteps drawing nearer, then the sound of something being picked up, and breathing.

Supervisor Eric swallowed hard and whispered, "Hello, Group D, report your status."

"There is no Group D anymore."

The blonde girl wiped the blood from her face, pushed aside the entrails tangled around her neck, and clipped the walkie-talkie to her waist.