By the time the main police force arrived at the safe house, White Ghost had already slipped away along the rooftop.
All that remained was a scene of carnage—corpses scattered everywhere, not a single survivor in sight.
The sheer brutality caused several officers to gag and vomit on the spot.
Suddenly, a panicked voice cried out, "Doctor! Where's the doctor?! My God, this one's still alive!"
The call drew everyone's attention. As they rushed over, they were met with a grisly sight: a black man, unconscious and covered in blood, with a throwing knife embedded in his forehead.
But what shocked them most was that, despite the fatal-looking injury, he was still alive—and his closed eyes were twitching continuously.
Gasps of "Oh God" rippled through the crowd.
Even the young EMT who arrived on the scene was stunned. He didn't even dare move the man's hair to examine the wound, afraid the slightest touch might end his life—or damage his brain irreparably.
Luckily, while the EMT was hesitant, he still remembered his training. He quickly turned to his fellow doctors and nurses and shouted, "Portable brain scan—now! Get a blood sample.
We can't move the patient until we've completed essential scans and ensured the OR is fully prepped. Otherwise, we risk making things worse. We keep him stable first!"
The two other doctors exchanged grim looks, then nodded in agreement.
"Contact Dr. Cliff, he's in Cape Town for the neurosurgery conference. Tell him no one in all of Johannesburg dares touch this case except him."
"Understood!" A quick-thinking nurse nodded and sprinted off to make the call.
Less than a minute later, Dr. Cliff—Johannesburg's top neurosurgeon—was briefed on the emergency.
But as soon as he heard the injury report, even he felt the pressure mounting.
Then he thought about the patient's nationality. With a flash of insight, he turned to two American doctors attending the same conference and asked for help.
Despite any personal misgivings, once they heard it was one of their own, the Americans couldn't refuse and began discussing the case.
But no matter how they analyzed it, the conclusion was the same: the risk was astronomical. If the patient were conscious, that would be one thing.
But he was completely unconscious. The throwing knife had likely penetrated the skull. In this condition, even moving him onto a stretcher could cause irreversible brain damage.
Just as hesitation filled the air, two men in black suits briskly entered the conference hall.
They scanned the room and walked straight toward Dr. Cliff and his two colleagues.
"Dr. Cliff, Dr. Ward," said one of them, a middle-aged man, before turning to the third. "Dr. Strange, may I speak with you privately?"
Dr. Stephen Strange looked at him in surprise but nodded. Once they were out of earshot, the man showed his credentials. "My name is David. I'm a CIA section chief."
Strange blinked. "You... you're with the CIA?"
It wasn't fear he felt—just the realization that this was about to get very, very complicated. "So that guy with a knife in his head… is one of yours?"
David shook his head. "No. But he's more important than me, I can assure you."
Seeing Strange's sharp gaze, David decided not to dance around it. "You seem like a man who's already figured some of this out, so I'll be blunt.
The patient is a defector we've been hunting for nearly twenty years. His actions have led to the deaths of six CIA operatives and eighteen elite U.S. military personnel.
Even if I didn't tell you how sensitive this case is, you'd understand it yourself."
Strange frowned. "I'm a neurosurgeon, yes—but I specialize in internal cranial disorders, not trauma-related injuries."
Though he still had some patriotic instinct, Strange wasn't about to gamble his reputation on a surgery with such low odds of success.
Part of what made him successful was knowing when to say no. He never took on cases he didn't believe he could handle.
David wasn't surprised by the refusal. After a pause, he said, "But you're also the best neurosurgeon we can reach on short notice.
If you turn this down, the local doctors estimate the patient will likely end up in a vegetative state.
And that's not acceptable. Both the CIA and the U.S. military want what's inside this man's head, Dr. Strange.
We can't order you to operate—we don't have that authority. But I need you to understand: this request comes from both the CIA... and a U.S. general."
Strange inwardly cursed. David's gaze didn't waver. "Or should I just have General Ross—who lost 18 of his best soldiers—come and ask you himself?
If it gets to that point, it's no longer about whether you agree or not. And if you try to sue afterward, I guarantee it'll lead nowhere."
With the message loud and clear, Strange sighed. After a moment of thought, he said, "Fine. I'll do it.
But I want a full waiver of liability. Anything beyond the surgery is none of my business after today."
Hearing that the surgeon wasn't concerned about the surgery itself, David immediately relaxed—it meant Strange was confident he'd succeed.
"No problem, Dr. Strange. You'll have full control over the operating room. We'll handle everything else."
With the deal struck, David, Strange, and the two other doctors boarded a helicopter and flew directly to Johannesburg.
Half an Hour Earlier
Inside the safe house's interrogation room, Colin and Tobin were well aware that something had gone wrong.
There was no gunfire audible, no updates from the CIA squad. That could only mean one thing: the safe house had been compromised.
Colin stood with his gun drawn, talking to his superior, David, on the phone while keeping a watchful eye on Tobin.
When he heard the order to ensure Tobin's survival at all costs, Colin agreed—though his mind was already racing with thoughts of escape.
He always had a way out. Worst case, he'd return to the Assassin Brotherhood. He had no plans to die for America.
And Tobin, always perceptive, noticed the shift in Colin's demeanor.
"Hey, buddy," Tobin said casually. "Since neither of us wants to die, how about you get these cuffs off me?"
He moved his bound hands and feet, smiling. "If you knew who's been chasing me, you'd realize: unless we work together, neither of us makes it out of here alive."
"No need," Colin snorted. "Reinforcements will be here in under ten minutes. And this interrogation room's door is made of reinforced alloy—no one's blowing through it that fast."
Seeing Colin was at least talking, Tobin smiled slyly and dropped his voice. "You ever hear of Transformers?"
Colin froze. As a member of the Assassin Brotherhood, he had access to secret intel. Of course he'd heard of the alien lifeforms that caused so much chaos in the U.S.
"You want to make a few hundred million? In U.S. dollars?"
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