Chapter 38: No More Pretending, I'm Laying My Cards on the Table
"Boss, I want to report a traitor."
Allen immediately sought out Karpov to report Wilson's defection to S.H.I.E.L.D.
Karpov held multiple positions and spent two days a week at the Weapons Development Bureau.
"Who?"
Karpov frowned.
Treason was a grave offense, especially in the current tense international climate. Internal betrayal was the worst possible scenario—if discovered, it had to be dealt with swiftly.
"It's Wilson! I overheard him arranging to leave with S.H.I.E.L.D. agents tomorrow night at nine." Allen declared indignantly. "I never expected him to be that kind of person. Our country has given him so much, yet he still craves wealth and luxury. Not like me—I'm perfectly content sweeping floors!"
"…"
Karpov didn't believe a word of it.
Wilson had just been promoted, his future bright. Was his brain boiling in a hotpot to come up with the idea of defecting?
"I'll have someone interrogate him immediately." Karpov gave a perfunctory response.
He was even considering firing Allen. A lunatic like him playing the game of false accusations could lead to unpredictable consequences.
As for Wilson, he trusted him completely.
"You can't act rashly."
Allen shut the door, closed the windows, and lowered his voice. "This is my chance to serve my country."
"You? Serve the country?"
Karpov's expression stiffened. He sighed and said earnestly, "It's good to have such patriotic enthusiasm, but you must act within your means."
"Thank you for your recognition, Boss! Let me explain my plan."
Allen didn't pick up on Karpov's tone and eagerly laid out his scheme. "Tomorrow night, when Wilson tries to escape, I'll go with him. Then, I'll infiltrate S.H.I.E.L.D. and send intelligence back to our country!"
You little brat, can you not? Spying is a real profession—don't bring down the industry's standards.
"Very well. What support do you need?"
Karpov humored him while internally plotting how to get rid of him.
Allen clenched his fist and declared confidently, "Everything is under control! I finally have a purpose—like a piece of toilet paper finally being put to good use!"
"…"
---
The Next Night, 9 PM
A speedboat docked by the river on the outskirts.
Shivering in the cold, Wilson hid in the woods, clutching two suitcases.
The Soviet Union, known as the Land of Winter, had long and early winters. Some regions dropped to minus 30 degrees Celsius, and every year, drunkards who failed to return home were found frozen solid the next morning.
"Dr. Duke, we're ready to go."
A middle-aged man gestured toward the speedboat.
"Let's go, then."
Wilson took one last glance at the capital, feeling a twinge of guilt.
Under the cover of night, the two men moved toward the riverbank, preparing to board the boat and leave Soviet territory.
"Whooo… whooo… whooo…"
A strange sound made the boat's crew raise their weapons.
From the other side of the woods, Allen came running, shouting, "You're under arrest! Drop your pants and lick your own asses!"
Click!
Weapons were cocked, and the extraction team prepared to eliminate Allen.
"Don't shoot!"
Wilson recognized Allen immediately. The man had once saved his life—he couldn't let him die here.
"Allen, stop fooling around! It's dangerous here, leave now!" Wilson warned.
"A real Soviet citizen isn't afraid to die!"
Allen made a finger-gun gesture, blew on his fingertips, and proudly added, "But I am afraid to die."
"…"
Since when was being afraid to die something to be proud of?
"Arson, precisely because I'm afraid to die, I want to go with you."
Allen draped an arm around Wilson's shoulder and said, "Everyone in the bureau knows we have a 'complicated relationship.' If you leave, I'll be the first to suffer."
"You're just a janitor. They won't bother with you."
More than just a janitor—he was a lunatic. No one would bother targeting him.
"You heartless bastard! Off to enjoy luxury while abandoning me?"
Allen tried to squeeze out tears, attempting to act like a scorned lover. "I was a fool to trust you!"
"What do you want?"
Wilson ran his hand through his hair, frustrated. He had no idea what Allen was playing at.
Allen's expression turned serious. "Let's roam the world together as a pair of lunatic lovers!"
"You want to come with me? I'll have to ask them first."
Time was tight—every second increased the risk of exposure. Wilson turned to consult the extraction team.
They agreed—it wasn't an issue.
When planning the mission, they had accounted for the possibility of Wilson bringing family, so preparations had been made for three people.
Allen happily boarded the speedboat, which headed for a cargo ship stationed at sea.
As he gazed at the vast, dark ocean, he stood at the bow, arms outstretched, and bellowed:
"I am the first generation of the Caribbean Pirates! The man who will become the Pirate King!"
"Ahhh-lalala…"
The sea breeze poured into his mouth, inflating his cheeks.
After a long moment, he nodded in satisfaction. "Drinking northwest wind really fills you up! A bit salty, though—new addition to Allen's Gourmet Specialties."
After three hours at sea, they finally reached the cargo ship.
The Soviet Union and America were allies with ongoing trade, and most cargo ships could freely enter each other's territorial waters.
Of course, both sides were well aware of the espionage happening beneath the surface. It was just an unspoken reality.
On the surface, it was just a supply ship—but inside, it was another story.
The lower deck had been converted into an office area, where numerous S.H.I.E.L.D. agents received intelligence reports.
This was a supply vessel dedicated to delivering materials to agents on foreign assignments, as well as handling extractions.
"Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D., Dr. Duke."
"No need to welcome me."
Peggy Carter looked curiously at the overly familiar Allen.
"Ignore him," Wilson said awkwardly. "There was… an incident."
"It doesn't matter, as long as you're safe." Carter smiled.
Meanwhile, Allen noticed a stack of blank paper on a nearby desk and started drawing.
Causing trouble—he had to cause trouble.
If he went a minute without stirring up chaos, he'd feel physically unwell.
Wilson and Carter chatted about his new life in America, particularly the lucrative benefits offered to defecting experts.
Money was always the best way to recruit talent.
Allen suddenly shouted, "I'm done pretending!"
He pointed at Wilson and declared, "He's a fraud! The AK rifle was designed by me!"
Instantly, every agent in the room turned to stare.
"Allen, what nonsense are you spouting?!"
Wilson panicked for a moment but quickly regained composure. Who would believe that a lunatic had designed a rifle?
"Arson, to be honest, I've been setting you up all along."
Allen grinned slyly and spilled the truth. "I drew that blueprint and gave it to you on purpose—just to make S.H.I.E.L.D. notice you and steer events in this direction. Since you didn't actually design it, deep down, you must feel uneasy. So when I tricked you just a little, you walked right into it!"
"How do you prove it was you?" Wilson challenged.
Allen placed a newly drawn blueprint on the table.
A completely different firearm design—nothing like the AK.
"You could've joined S.H.I.E.L.D. yourself! Why frame me?"
Wilson shouted, humiliated by the fact that he had been outwitted by a madman.
"That's different. The Soviets were after you—the 'AK designer.' I'm just a janitor."
"…"
This… was a plan only a lunatic could come up with.
Framing someone, faking his own death, and making a flawless escape—Allen had played everyone like a fiddle.
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