Ferguson's Man is Such a Racist!

A classic Rolls-Royce pulls up in front of a towering 40-floor building. Almost immediately, a group of muscular men in formal suits emerges from the entrance, making their way to the car's right-rear door. One of them opens it.

A man steps out. I barely catch a glimpse of him before he is completely engulfed by the bodyguards, disappearing within their formation.

The men aren't particularly tall, but their presence is enough to conceal him. He's only a short inch below their shoulders, and by simply surrounding him, they create an impenetrable barrier. Together, they move toward the building's entrance.

I remove my surveillance lenses and glance at my watch. 7:44 AM.

After five days of careful observation, I've confirmed that Adam Ferguson arrives at his office between 7 and 8 AMevery morning. He has six bodyguards—at least, those are the ones escorting him in and out of the building.

His house doesn't interest me. I don't need to observe it because I've already found the perfect spot for the job.

From the 10th floor of an apartment building, positioned at a 60-degree angle from Ferguson's office, I have a clear and unobstructed view. This room, which I broke into with ease—thanks to Thief—is ideal.

Posing as a potential tenant gave me plenty of time to scout for the best vantage point. And this room has it.

Everything is in place. The only issue left is visibility.

I need Ferguson in my line of sight.

One of his bodyguards consistently blocks him from view. That's the problem. I just haven't decided yet how to solve it.

The sun blazes overhead.

A muscular bald man crosses the street in front of a coffee shop, stepping off the curb as the pedestrian light turns green. He moves with an air of confidence, shoulders squared, head high.

Inside the shop, he heads straight to the counter and orders his usual coffee. After paying, he takes a seat across from the pick-up counter, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the table while scanning the room. A habit, it seems.

His gaze lands on me.

"Why the hell are you looking at me?!" he barks, locking eyes with me.

"Me??" I ask, feigning surprise, my index finger pointing at my own nose.

"Yeah, you!! Dirty damn no-eyes Eastern!!" he shouts, his voice dripping with disdain.

The barista calls his name, temporarily pulling his attention away. He stands, grabs his order, and then, instead of leaving, makes his way toward me.

"You better leave this country before I blow your opportunist ass out," he hisses, leaning in close, voice low and threatening.

I arch an eyebrow, keeping my face blank, my jaw slightly slack. Stupid. That's the expression I give him—stupid and harmless.

He laughs at my supposed cluelessness before walking out of the shop, smug satisfaction radiating from every step.

I let my lips curl slightly at the corner.

That incident just solved my problem.

7:52 AM.

The classic Rolls-Royce arrives. Right on schedule.

As expected, Ferguson's bodyguards move into position, opening the rear door as he steps out.

But today, something is different.

They're one man short.

The very man who normally shields Ferguson from my view isn't here.

For the first time, I have a clear shot.

My finger tightens on the trigger.

The bullet tears through the air, finding its target instantly.

Adam Ferguson drops lifelessly to the pavement.

His bodyguards descend into chaos, their frantic shouting filling the street. But I don't stay to watch.

I dismantle my setup efficiently but not thoroughly. Unlike my usual methodical cleanups, I leave behind gunpowder residue and fingerprints on the window surface.

This time, I want a trail.

I leave the apartment building and make my way to a motel. Room 103.

Inside, sprawled across the bed, is a muscular bald man.

Ferguson's missing bodyguard.

He's out cold, heavily sedated with sleeping pills.

I move swiftly, dusting gunpowder residue on his coat, his right cheek, and around his ear. Then, heading into the bathroom, I strip the faux fingerprint skins off my fingers, discard them into the toilet, and flush.

The fingerprints on those faux skins? His.

I step out, leaving him behind.

In a few hours, he'll wake up. And when he does, the police will be coming straight for him.

Yesterday, I orchestrated this setup perfectly.

Like always, he had gone to the coffee shop for his daily caffeine fix. I staged a collision, deliberately spilling his coffee all over him.

He had been furious.

I played my part—apologizing profusely, stammering, looking pale and terrified. Then, as a gesture of goodwill, I bought him another coffee.

One that contained a little something extra.

The drug didn't knock him out immediately. Instead, it sped up his heart rate, making him feel unwell enough to request an early leave from work.

By the time he reached his apartment, I was already waiting. That's when I administered the final dose, knocking him out completely before moving him to the motel.

Now, the stage is set.

I sigh as I rev my motorbike and speed away.

If only the bastard hadn't been so damn racist, I wouldn't have had to go through all this extra effort.

This wasn't just an assassination anymore. It was a lesson.

And to pull it off, I had to rely on Thief to manipulate the surveillance footage, ensuring his image replaced an empty view.

Andy, too, had played his part—providing faux fingerprints and camouflage skills to deceive both hotel receptionists and law enforcement.

They earned their pay this time. And I'll make sure to compensate them well.