Jonneth's hand shook as he reached into his pocket.
His expression changed after he made the call.
Nathan frowned, sensing that something had gone awry.
“Tell your men to bring Thomas to us. No games. If anything happens to him, you will suffer the same fate,” Colin warned Jonneth.
Jonneth turned his bruised and battered face to gaze at them. “My men informed me that Mr. Dean had picked Thomas up half an hour ago.”
“Mr. Dean?” Nathan repeated. “Who is Mr. Dean?”
Jonneth hesitated.
Nathan's eyes narrowed. “You seem to be keeping a lot of things from me.”
He then turned to Colin and ordered, “Make him talk, Colin.”
“Yes, General!”
Nathan exited the office and sat on a bench in a corridor while he savored another cigarette.
From within, Jonneth's pleas rose to screams before gradually becoming weaker and more inaudible.
Not long after that, Colin led the Elite Eight out.
“Mr. Cross.”
Nathan looked up. “What else have you discovered?”
“Someone set Thomas up,” Colin said simply.
With the help of satellite surveillance,
Thomas' location was soon determined.
Port Antwyne used to be one of the most popular ports in Marsingfill. In recent times, however, it had fallen into disrepair.
At that moment, Thomas was lying in a puddle of his own blood beneath a swaying yellow lamp in a derelict warehouse.
Derrick, clad in a crisp shirt, sat primly as he observed the man on the ground with five skilled fighters standing guard behind him.
Stationed around the warehouse were several dozen more well-trained mercenaries.
Derrick gazed with amusement down at Thomas who was gasping for air. “Even selling your wife and children won't be enough to free you from your debt, Thomas. Do you think Nathan will forgive you if he finds out that the billion he had loaned you to pay off your debts has been gambled away? He might even kill you himself after finding out that you've lied to him.”
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