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Novel Catalog
Chapter_270
“I understand,” Nash said calmly, his tone faint and unreadable.
Without another word, he turned and walked away, his figure quickly disappearing into the night.
Back in his room, he took out his phone, his fingers moving swiftly as he dialed a number.
Meanwhile, in Capiton’s opulent Jackson estate, Lucas Jackson reclined on a velvet couch, an expensive cigar burning slowly between his fingers. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes gleamed with ambition.
Around him stood a group of masked men, dressed entirely in black. Their presence exuded discipline—and menace.
One masked individual sat hunched over a laptop, eyes glued to the array of surveillance feeds flickering on the screen. Footage from traffic cams along the Cape River Expressway cycled rapidly.
“Mr. Lucas,” the man said, voice muffled through the mask, “the Ninth Division convoy will cross into Capiton territory in approximately four hours.”
“Move now,” Lucas ordered flatly. “Intercept them before they reach Capiton.”
Without hesitation, the masked operatives filed out in silence.
Just then, a woman’s voice cut through the tense air.
“Lucas, those are Special Security Institution agents. Are you sure you want to do this?”
It was Lana Jackson, Lucas’ older sister. Graceful and composed, she stood near the stairs, her brows furrowed in concern. She had a sinking feeling that something catastrophic was about to unfold.
Lucas didn’t even flinch. “The rise of a great family always demands blood,” he said coldly. “Besides, our company is developing a specific cure for HIV. Millions of patients will benefit.”
“But the national laboratory can do the same once they receive the FS Microbacteria,” Lana protested. “And unlike us, they won’t charge prices that drive patients into crippling debt!”
She had always been at odds with the Jackson family’s ruthless business ethics. Yes, their drugs worked—but they came at a soul-crushing cost. Families went bankrupt, and survivors spent the rest of their lives shackled by debt.
Lucas scoffed. “That’s a woman’s sentiment. That’s why Grandfather never let you touch company affairs!”
His expression darkened, eyes narrowing. How could someone born into the Jackson family be so soft?
Lana looked at her younger brother, disappointment clouding her gaze. She didn’t argue further. Instead, she turned and quietly ascended the stairs to her room.
Two hours later, as dawn painted the sky with faint hues of gold, a heavily guarded convoy from the Ninth Division rolled along the Cape River Expressway.
Inside one of the vehicles, Judas Deacon opened his eyes from meditation.
Outside his window, a young agent in sunglasses approached and reported, “Mr. Deacon, there’s an accident up ahead.”
Judas frowned instantly. Something felt wrong. “Turn around. Get off the highway. Now.”
“But sir,” the agent replied cautiously, “we’ll lose at least two hours if we detour…”
Judas snapped, “That’s an order!”
The young man gulped and turned to obey—but he suddenly froze.
A silent bullet streaked through the air and nicked his shoulder. He stumbled back, blood trickling down.
“Ambush!” he shouted hoarsely.
Chaos erupted.
Agents from the Ninth Division immediately sprang into action, drawing weapons and scanning their surroundings.
Masked attackers burst out from the dense woods on either side of the highway. Armed with advanced firearms and military-grade gear, they opened fire in a coordinated onslaught.
Gunfire thundered across the expressway.
Judas stood, then with a powerful leap, burst through the roof of the SUV like a missile. Soaring into the air, he turned into a blur, diving toward the attackers with deadly precision.
One masked enemy broke through the ranks and met him mid-air. The collision of their fists sent shockwaves rippling outward—a clash between martial titans.
Above, helicopters hovered into position and began aerial fire suppression. But the masked attackers wore bulletproof tactical vests. Sniper rounds bounced off with little effect.
More attackers swarmed from the treeline. Their numbers ballooned.
Within minutes, over a hundred masked men flooded the expressway.
“Calling headquarters!” an agent shouted into his radio amidst the chaos. “We’re under heavy fire! Ambush confirmed! Requesting immediate backup!”
The battle stretched on.
Bullets gave way to fists as ammo depleted. The gunfire faded, replaced by the harsh sounds of close-quarters combat—grunts, clashes, bones breaking.
It had become a brutal melee.
But the Ninth Division would not go down without a fight.