"It looks like we can skip a lot of trouble."
The newcomer was none other than Matthew. The woman's words put him in a fairly good mood, while Clement reacted in the complete opposite way. His face twisted with fear and anger as he shouted, "Who the hell are you people? Do you even know what you're doing?"
"And what do you think we're doing?" Matthew asked in return.
He casually placed the coffee cup on the desk, then raised one finger. At its tip, a brilliant golden cross-shaped light began to bloom. Standing this close, Clement could clearly feel the unimaginable surge of energy contained within it.
Instinct told him that the moment that power was released, he would die—utterly and completely erased.
The fear of death nearly overwhelmed his sanity. His body trembled uncontrollably, cold sweat pouring down his face, and his lips turned pale purple as they shook. "P-please… spare me. You've already gotten what you wanted."
"No. Not everything," Matthew replied coldly. "Where are the girls you've been holding?"
"I—I can't say." Even under extreme fear, Clement still gritted his teeth, trying to hold out.
At that moment, the woman who had been checking the computer spoke flatly, "You have a warm family. A devoted wife, a son with good grades, and a young daughter. If you think the people behind you would destroy your family, why do you think we won't, Clement?"
"NO—! You can't do that! They're innocent!" Clement broke down. The only reason he had intended to stay silent was to protect his family—but now, the woman had exposed that weakness and turned it against him.
"Do you even know how long you've held this position?" she continued coldly. "How many auctions you've participated in? How many girls? How many families were destroyed because of it? Why would the people who benefited from blood money like yours be innocent?"
"As long as you've enjoyed wealth soaked in blood, you should have known this day would come. Finding that place would only take a bit of effort. But I guarantee your family will go to hell with you."
Matthew's voice carried a chilling killing intent as he spoke. The golden light at his fingertip grew brighter and more violent.
The glow reflected across Clement's face, leaving him frozen in place.
After a long silence, Clement finally broke.
"…Saint Gran. That place is a private club we established. There's a basement underneath, specifically used to detain the girls brought in for auction."
His voice was hollow now, completely defeated. "Whatever else you want, I'll tell you everything. I only have one request—give my family time to leave France."
"You made a smart choice."
Paris night—more like a night soaked in blood.
On this night, some people were destined to die.
And those people were not ordinary; they were billionaires from various countries who had come to Paris full of anticipation, hoping to attend the auction and purchase the girl who caught their desire.
Instead, they encountered a reaper.
A silent, unseen death in the darkness, taking their lives and stripping away their wealth without mercy.
They would all go to hell with nothing but confusion and despair.
Meanwhile, the one who orchestrated it all—Matthew—was currently on a wealthy man's yacht, enjoying the luxury while listening to a report from Frances Neagley.
Frances Neagley was one of Reacher's partners. They had served together in the U.S. Army's 101st Special Investigations Unit and were among the most trusted comrades. After discharge, this highly independent woman went into security consulting.
She was extremely skilled and highly professional in her field, with extensive connections built over years in the industry.
For example, this operation had already resulted in nearly one billion dollars in asset transfers and subsequent money laundering from those billionaires through coercive means.
In 2006, that amount was astronomical.
And this was all liquid cash flow. As for the real estate and other fixed assets owned by those wealthy individuals, Matthew had not touched them.
Those assets were too troublesome to handle and far too easy to trace.
"The funds have been transferred into over thirty concealed offshore accounts," Neagley reported. "They'll be further distributed and cycled through multiple channels. The full laundering process will likely take over a year."
"If you need it urgently, I can help you clean up one hundred million within two months."
"The girls have also been moved out through other channels by our people."
During the conversation, Matthew stood up from the luxurious sofa, took an expensive bottle of whiskey from the cabinet, and poured two thick-bottomed glasses. He handed one to Neagley. After clinking glasses and taking a sip, he clicked his tongue slightly, finding it rather average.
"Go on," he said.
Neagley took a sip of whiskey, nodded, and continued with a faint smile.
"These girls come from multiple channels—some local, some external. The group at the lowest level is a small gang."
"I looked into them. They speak Albanian and come from Tropojë. That place is basically a nest of scum—even the Russian mob keeps its distance. Their boss is Marco Hoxha. They specialize in trafficking women."
"Their usual method is to lure women from emerging Eastern European countries, offering domestic work like maids or nannies in places like Yugoslavia, Romania, and Bulgaria. Once they're smuggled over, if they're virgins, they're sold at high prices. If not, they force them onto drugs and turn them into prostitutes. Later, they realized it was even more efficient to directly kidnap tourists instead."
"It looks like the night's not over yet," Matthew said, his voice carrying a trace of icy coldness.
Neagley shrugged. She had expected as much, and at the same time, her appreciation for the boy in front of her grew. She liked his temperament.
"Yeah~ So, Boss, when do we move?"
"Now."
In the slum district of Paris, the streets were dim, with very few streetlights casting a weak yellow glow that barely illuminated the ground. Many areas had no lighting at all, forcing people to rely on faint distant light to find their way.
The streets were narrow and winding, lined with old, dilapidated buildings. Their walls were covered in cracks and graffiti, the marks of time clearly visible everywhere.
Sounds drifted through the alleys—children playing, adults arguing, the murmurs of the homeless, and the distant wail of police sirens.
Inside one of the old buildings, Marco Hoxha sat in a second-floor living room, looking at more than a dozen girls huddled together in fear. A cruel smile appeared on his face.
He snapped his fingers, signaling his men to take the girls into another room and prepare to inject them with drugs, using their usual method of control.
Just as the girls' terrified cries and struggles filled the room—
A blinding golden light suddenly erupted in the living room.
Everyone instinctively shut their eyes and raised their hands to shield their vision.
And in the next instant, a strange whooshing sound tore through the air.
Whoosh!!