Chapter 407

Paxton wasted no time and had Jonah send someone to dig into the leaders behind the illegal emigration racket. He couldn't wrap his head around the idea that a killer could just waltz into the country pretending to be a regular Joe.

Jonah and his crew hit the streets right away, and let's just say their investigation methods were a bit more... unconventional than the cops'.

Meanwhile, other families were getting wind of the same news.

Mason squinted at Charles and asked, "You sure it's this guy, Marshall Banks?"

"Yeah, we uncovered some news from Avalonia, and the victims' stories line up with Pearl's. We even consulted some forensic experts, and the wounds the cops released look like they're all from the same guy," Charles said, his tone dead serious.

Mason got up from the couch, leaning on his cane. "How does a guy locked up in prison end up here? Who's got the pull for that?"

Charles had a hunch but didn't dare voice it.

Avalonia was Michael's turf. With his clout, springing someone from prison wouldn't be a big deal.

"I know what you're thinking. I suspect Michael too," Mason said, like he'd just put the pieces together.

After a pause, Charles asked, "Should we bring Mr. Williams in for a chat?"

Mason shook his head. "No need. He's probably already got the message and knows what to do."

Mason then cracked a smile. "If this is his doing, he played us all. Shifting the blame to the big four families is a slick move."

Mason kept quiet, figuring Michael had already gotten the police's message.

"Mr. Williams, the info about the murderer you found is out. What's our next move?" Jerry asked, all business.

Michael stayed cool. He wasn't rattled; he hadn't used illegal emigration to get the killer in, but another way.

"Get in touch with Estella and have her reach out to Zoey. Tell them I'm interested in teaming up," Michael said, a sly smile playing on his lips.

Jerry got the drift right away. "Got it, Mr. Williams. I'll handle it," he said, hanging up and getting to work.

Michael pocketed his phone and stepped out onto the balcony. The weather was grim, with strong winds whipping around.

Standing there, he listened to the wind howl when a snowflake landed on his forehead.

Michael reached out, catching the swirling snowflakes. "The weather's getting colder, and the Brown Family should be going under about now. Consider this my anniversary gift to my wife."

A smile crept across Michael's face, but his eyes were as cold as the ice and snow.

On a freezing winter night, a nasty storm was brewing.

Francis Vasquez was sprinting through the snow, blood dripping from his wounds and staining the white ground a vivid red.

A group of gunmen was hot on his heels, aiming for his legs and arms. They didn't want him dead-just captured.

That was the only reason Francis was still alive.

But then he slipped and hit the ground hard. The gunmen pounced, pinning him down and tying up his hands and feet.

"You psychos, I swear I don't know the guy you're after! He didn't use my channels!" Francis yelled, but the gunmen weren't buying it.

"We don't believe you. We'll make you talk," one of them sneered, dragging him into a van.

The van sped off and stopped at a warehouse.

Inside, the place was divided into sections, and you could hear screams of pain echoing from behind the doors.

"I swear, I don't know who this guy is, please don't hurt me."

"Paxton, you bastard, if I get out of this, I'll take you and your whole family down!"

"You maniacs, you won't get away with this!"

The gunmen hauled Francis out of the van and into the warehouse.

The air was thick with the smell of blood. Francis was shaking, his face ghostly pale.

A man, looking half-dead and covered in blood, was dragged out of one of the compartments. His body was a mess of whip marks and branding burns.

"Royce, did he spill?" one of the gunmen asked the guy dragging the body.

Royce Castillo, with his spiky hair, spat on the ground. "This guy's clean. I whipped him for three minutes, doused him with pepper water, and he still didn't crack. He's telling the truth."

Francis shivered even more.

"You lunatics! Is this the only way you know to get the truth?" he screamed.

One of the gunmen slapped him hard. "You illegal emigration folks aren't saints, and we're not the cops. We don't need to play by the rules."

They dragged Francis into a compartment.

He glanced at the torture devices, his legs almost giving out from fear.

Sharp iron hooks, still bloody, looked like they were meant for hanging meat. He didn't want to think about their last use.

There were whips with barbs, red-hot branding irons, and even an electric chair.

"Let's see which one to use on you," the gunman said, eyeing the tools before settling on the electric chair.

They strapped Francis into the chair, binding his hands and feet.

"Trust me, this'll be a real shocker," the gunman grinned wickedly.

"Wait! I'll tell you everything! I know who this guy is!" Francis screamed, terrified.