Chapter 37-38

Chapter 37 Hello, Mrs. Sally

Washington D.C., the capital of the United States.

As the political center of the country, the White House, Congress, the Supreme Court, and the vast majority of government agencies are all located here.

Walking east from Capitol Hill, in Georgetown, stand rows of beautiful small houses. These houses, built at the turn of the 19th to the 20th century, are mostly row houses, though you can occasionally find a detached house.

The houses aren't very large, especially compared to the recently constructed mansions, living rooms, and bathrooms in the suburbs, which are much more spacious. However, a significant number of Congress members live here.

Yes, being a Congress member seems glamorous, but not everyone is wealthy.

Moreover, the expenses of a member are higher than those of an average person. The most important of these is the need to maintain a residence in their district and another in Washington. Except for those representing districts near Washington, most need to secure an additional residence in the city because Congress meets for at least four days a week, requiring them to stay in Washington for at least three nights.

Some frugal members choose to live in their offices, as the rent for a three-bedroom house here exceeds four thousand dollars a month, which is unaffordable for those not well-off.

Of course, this does not include the current House Majority Whip of the Republican Party, Representative Jocelyn Mccuskey.

Thanks to her attention to maintenance, Jocelyn, at forty-five, still has an excellent figure. Voluptuous yet not bloated, with a slender waist and skin that remains tender and lustrous, especially her captivating light blue eyes. When you look into them, it's hard not to be deeply mesmerized, irresistibly so.

And now, Tuesday morning. The boy beside her was already letting out a steady stream of entranced whimpers, burying his head deep in her breasts.

Jocelyn's wonderful body twitched violently, her hands showing clear veins from the exertion, her fingertips digging into the boy's brown, slightly curly hair for a long time before she let out a low sigh from the back of her throat, a little bit of hysterical agony, but also a feeling of endless fulfillment, not wanting to move any more.

After tens of seconds, she only after a flutter of eyelashes. Barely opening her eyes, she dotingly stroked the forehead of the heavily panting boy lying in her arms.

"Syneil, time to wake Mrs. Sally."

Mrs. Sally was their intimate secret code, a small cloth doll that accompanied Syneil through his childhood. After it became utterly worn out, Jocelyn took over the role of Mrs. Sally, continuing to be Syneil's emotional solace.

Upon hearing this, the seventeen-year-old boy with short curly hair lifted his head timidly and shook it, his beautiful sapphire eyes looking at her, clearly unwilling to do so, reluctant to leave this bliss.

"Be good, baby. It's getting late; I need to wash up and go to work, I'll prepare breakfast for you."

Jocelyn struggled to rise, kissing him on the forehead, finally coaxing Syneil up. She wrapped her exquisite body in a sheet, unconcerned about exposing a vast expanse of startling skin, and walked out of the boy's bedroom, across the hallway to her room.

Since her husband's death in a car accident, Jocelyn began living alone with Syneil. For this high-ranking official, besides the intoxicating power, the only thing that mattered to her was her son, who had autism.

Unable to communicate normally with others, Syneil had always been extremely dependent on Jocelyn, and she enjoyed this feeling. Over the years, an ethical-boundary-crossing love and attachment developed between them unconsciously.

Of course, in the hearts of both Jocelyn and Syneil, this was merely deep affection from living together, without any sense of guilt or discomfort. Unlike her son, who didn't need to interact with others, Jocelyn had to ensure this secret remained unknown to anyone else. So, she would carefully close the doors and windows at night, go to Syneil's room, and return to her own before dawn.

This secret was well kept, even Fiona, the bodyguard who drove them daily, was unaware. Clearly, the strict security measures and bodyguards provided enough of a barrier, while occasional affectionate gestures were seen as natural mother-son affection.

What Jocelyn didn't expect was — nothing is absolute. Sometimes, something beyond imagination could bypass those tight securities and learn everything about her.

Like now, a small, gray-white spider quietly lying in a corner of the wall, its body thinner than a fingernail, unabashedly observing everything. It was nearly impossible to detect its presence without close observation.

This creature, undetectable by any instrument, had stumbled upon what it needed, penetrating Jocelyn's strong defenses and seizing her deepest, most vital secret.

A few hundred meters away from the beautiful house lay the scenic banks of the Potomac River, where the morning fog had not yet lifted, the air fresh and slightly damp, invigorating with every breath.

The spider demon Clyde sat quietly on a bench by the river, gently caressing a pigeon. The cute bird didn't dare move, only shivering as if sensing the terrifying aura of this unknown creature before it.

Clyde had been in Georgetown for a whole week, dispersing all his offspring. Clearly, he had obtained quite a lot of tangible things, but none as significant as today's haul.

If there were a hierarchy, Jocelyn Mccuskey would definitely be at the top, one of the most important people. She alone was worth as many Republican Party members as a whole infantry squad. It seems the Boss would be very pleased with this.

Clyde grinned, showing some odd teeth, put on his sunglasses again, gently placed the pigeon on the bench, scratched the little guy's forehead, and walked away leisurely.

After he left, it took more than a minute before the pigeon flapped its wings, clumsily flew away, and disappeared into the distant sky.

Chapter 38: Suspicion

London, the Victoria area, along the Thames River, Vauxhall Bridge.

The Thames River, stretching only 48 kilometers, is indeed England's lifeline. The rise and fall of England have been closely tied to this river.

Where there's a prosperous river, there must be bridges, especially in London. The Thames runs through the city, making bridges indispensable to London's livelihood and development. Vauxhall Bridge, while not the most famous or the oldest, is notable for the special building at its end—the MI6 Headquarters.

Designed by the renowned architect Terry Farrell, this distinctive building has become a major landmark in London and perhaps the most well-known intelligence agency headquarters worldwide.

As expected, the building was constructed like a fortress, incredibly robust, capable of withstanding a severe terrorist attack. It is equipped with security cameras inside and out, as well as special bullet-proof walls. Its unique triple-glazed glass structure is designed to prevent eavesdropping and electronic interference.

In a meeting room three floors below ground, including Colin Federer and Gloria Hill, four people are seated. In front of them, a large photo of Bruce smiling during an interview is projected on the screen.

"Words of this Bruce Lee aren't very reliable. I still suggest we bring him in for questioning," said Colin Federer. The elite agent's face bore none of his usual gentlemanly smile. Instead, he looked serious and his gaze was sharp and piercing.

"The attackers were first-rate, well-armed, but most of them died from non-gunshot injuries. And our investigators found blood samples and DNA from more than three people on that bullet-proof door alone. Who could use a door weighing over a hundred kilograms as a weapon?

"And about that mercenary with the exoskeleton, clearly, he was dismembered before being shot dead. Hand-to-hand combat overcoming a powered exoskeleton? Also, that burnt-out helicopter is obviously connected to them. Based on the explosives and residues, the explosion occurred from within before it crashed."

Gloria Hill continued to add information collected while fiddling with the controller in her hand. They first surveyed the ambush site for nearly five hours yesterday, almost turning over every stone to ensure no clue was missed, before rushing back to London overnight to speak with Bruce and others.

"We all know there's something fishy here—why did the ambush happen, and how did they annihilate the ambushing party? There's a lot of twists and turns. Unfortunately, this is what the higher-ups want. The U.S. Department of State, the Department of Defense, and some other big shots are negotiating with us.

"It's clear. In the end, the decision was to cover this up. I've confirmed that since this attack wasn't aimed at us and didn't cause any casualties among the British citizens, the investigation into this case will be put on hold for now."

The man sitting in the center, an elderly gentleman with white hair, appeared as ordinary as any well-dressed senior you might find on the streets of London. However, his unique tone and rhythm of speech were hard to ignore. The respectful demeanor of Gloria and others towards him also spoke volumes about his status and identity.

It was obvious that the relationships Bruce had cultivated through spending countless amounts of money and energy had come into play, as well as the efforts of Black Nest. As the initiators of the attack, they were equally uninterested in escalating the situation. Otherwise, even with Bruce being a well-known billionaire, MI6 would have every reason to bring him in for questioning, rather than letting him off as a matter of routine.

"Bruce definitely carries significant value. The attack deliberately avoided the car he was hiding in; it wasn't just about making him disappear," Colin remarked to everyone, emphasizing his point on the documents in hand.

"Since the decision has been made above, we must follow through. Let's leave it at that for now. Avoid contact with the other party and keep an eye on them to see if there might be any unexpected surprises," the elderly man said casually before standing up and smoothing his suit as he left.

Colin and Gloria exchanged glances, clearly understanding his insinuation. They hadn't truly let Bruce Lee go; they had simply switched to covert surveillance, something they excelled at. As they began to gather their belongings to leave, Gloria's communicator beeped. After a brief conversation, she turned it off, her expression curious.

Colin, noticing her unusual demeanor, paused with a hint of confusion: "What's up? Any news?"

"Just got a tip. Bruce Lee has declined police protection. He's going to a concert tonight," Gloria said, massaging her temples. She had been awake for nearly 30 hours, and despite being used to such demands, fatigue was inevitable.

"A concert?! What in the world, is he a guest? There's nothing about this in the file," Colin was clearly baffled, just as puzzled.

"No, he's attending

a concert. Taylor Swyfft, the American singer's world tour, tonight at the O2. Didn't you know?" Gloria was equally surprised but obviously more familiar with the matter than her colleague.

"You know I never pay attention to these things. Humph, seems like the guy really is a playboy..." Colin's expression conveyed disdain, presumably recalling the myriad of gossip surrounding Bruce.

"I think it's more like he's fearless, not afraid of another attack," Gloria shook her head, showing a hint of perplexion. The situation couldn't be that simple. She didn't believe Bruce was foolish enough to casually attend a concert after just surviving a terrorist attack. Just to pick up women? There had to be a reason they hadn't uncovered yet.

As they discussed and left the meeting room, the projection screen still displayed Bruce with his ear inclined, listening intently.