Amid the blasted ruins, trucks rolled out one after another, moving in tight formation toward the dock, where the gold would be transferred onto a cargo ship and sent out to sea off Long Island, then blown straight to the ocean floor—every last bar destroyed.
The logic being that treasures dug from the earth should return to it instead of circulating in the market, and only in this way could the economies of Western countries be dealt a severe blow, rendering their currencies—supposedly backed by gold—worthless and stripped of credibility.
Of course, this wasn't Simon's idea at all; it came from his partner, the Hungarian explosives expert Mathias Targo, and Simon had merely used that grand vision as bait to pull him into the operation, because without Targo's expertise, none of this would've been possible.
Simon had always believed Targo was the real extremist here—not in it for money, but obsessed with grand-scale destruction, as if wiping out America's gold reserves would somehow bring peace to the world.
Simon, on the other hand, only wanted the money. If the West had stolen wealth from the world, then why shouldn't he steal it back? And more importantly—why the hell let all that gold sink to the bottom of the ocean?
Sitting in the passenger seat, Simon give Targo a sideways glance, already working through his next move. Once they reached the dock, what would actually be loaded onto the ship wouldn't be gold at all—but scrap metal, real and convincing. And under no circumstances could that lunatic Targo find out.
Rubbing his forehead, Simon popped an aspirin and swallowed it dry. "Targo, once we destroy all this gold, the dollar's credibility is going to take a massive hit, and the entire global order will shake. Have you thought about what that means for your country?"
"War!" Targo answered instantly, eyes blazing with fanatic excitement. "Without the gold, the dollar's dominance collapses. The Americans will absolutely launch wars of plunder to rebuild their wealth—just like they've done in the Middle East to secure oil and maintain dollar hegemony. Now that they've lost gold, what do you think they'll do next?"
Gold and oil—both pillars of the U.S. dollar. The United States holds the largest gold reserves in the world and backs it up with overwhelming military force, tying oil to the dollar and forcing countries like Saudi Arabia to settle exports in USD, cementing its global dominance. Those lightweight green bills carry absurd purchasing power and credibility.
Watching Targo practically tremble with excitement, Simon mentally labeled him exactly what he was—a complete madman.
Because in Simon's plan, the gold wouldn't disappear; it would circle back to the United States eventually, just through a different route—his route. But if Targo actually blew it all to the bottom of the ocean…
Simon took another aspirin.
Targo burst out laughing. "Ha! Simon, we'll be heroes!"
Simon: "..."
By then, the truck had already merged onto Roosevelt Avenue. Simon pulled out his phone and called one of his men. "Have John McClane and the others reached the department store yet?"
"They're still en route. You set up a pretty complicated route—they're basically running in circles."
"Perfect." Simon smirked, everything unfolding exactly as planned. "Simon Says" was a beautiful game—a single lie could send all of New York dancing, and now it was time to pour gasoline on the fire.
He dialed into a New York radio hotline. "Right now, the police are scrambling all over the city. Want to know why? Someone planted a bomb in a school—but they don't know which one, so they're searching every school in New York."
In an instant, parents across the city listening to the broadcast were thrown into panic, and the entire city tipped into chaos.
At Spencer School, Mathilda sat in the back row, quietly sketching with colored pencils, drawing a tall man in black with a dove perched on his head, walking hand in hand with a little girl down the street.
A chubby girl in front turned around and whispered, "Boss, is that your dad?"
Mathilda: "..."
She rolled her eyes. "That's my brother."
Just then, another girl rushed over. "Hey, did you hear? The radio says there's a bomb in a school somewhere in New York! The police are searching everywhere!"
Mathilda: "???"
Moments later, the hallway erupted—students running, shouting, desks scraping—as panic spread like wildfire. Teachers tried to keep order, but fear had already taken over.
"Run! There's a bomb!"
"Yes! No class!"
"Blow this place up so we never have to come back!"
Within minutes, the entire school descended into chaos, the corridors jammed as students shoved toward the exits.
Mathilda pulled out her phone and called Luca. "Luca, is it true there's a bomb?"
"It's real—but not at your school," Luca replied calmly. "So don't panic."
Mathilda nodded; if the Dove of Peace said it wasn't there, then it wasn't there—end of story.
Looking at the dangerously overcrowded hallway, she clicked her tongue, then—under the stunned gaze of nearby girls—pulled a silver pistol from her desk.
"Time to protect the peace on school."
She flicked off the safety and gestured. "Come on, we're restoring order."
The chubby girl's eyes sparkled. "Holy crab cakes—She's so cool!"
Out in the hallway, Mathilda fired a shot into the ceiling.
Bang!
The deafening crack froze everyone in place.
She stepped forward, voice steady and commanding. "Calm down! I know you're scared, but running like this is only going to get people hurt!"
Panic still rippled through the crowd.
Mathilda kicked aside a backpack blocking her path. "If you don't want to die, listen carefully! Everyone keep left—no pushing at the stairs! If someone falls, shout 'Stop!' and the person behind you stops immediately! You—red dress—help the person in front of you! Everyone else, stay in line and move out in order!"
Bang!
Another shot rang out.
"Class by class—lower grades first, upper grades bring up the rear! Anyone who pushes is basically trying to kill their classmates!"
The entire hallway fell silent, even the teachers staring wide-eyed at the gun in her hand.
What the hell—did security even check bags?!
But given the situation… several teachers exchanged awkward looks, then quickly fell in line, helping organize the evacuation. Some girls looked at Mathilda like she'd just descended from the heavens.
As expected of a Boss. As expected of someone raised in a Mafia family—cool doesn't even begin to cover it.
---
On the way to Times Square—
"What the hell does '21 in 42' even mean?" McClane muttered, equal parts confused and stressed, because the answer pointed directly to which school had the bomb.
"I've got nothing!" Ma Hon Keung shot back, gripping the wheel as he weaved through traffic like a man possessed, blowing through lights and squeezing through impossible gaps. "The only school I even know is NYU!"
After wracking his brain to no avail, McClane called David. "David, what's 21 in 42?"
"...What?"
"It's a riddle! Solve it and we find the bomb!"
"???"
Standing beside a patrol car, David looked like he was about to lose his mind. He asked around—no one had a clue—so he finally called Luca.
Luca answered calmly, "Isn't that referring to the 42nd U.S. president? Go check who the 21st president was."
David froze. "You cracked that just like that?"
"It's not complicated."
"The 21st president—Chester! Wait—there's a school named after him!"
"Bingo."
"Dove! You're a genius—I could kiss you! You really are a peacekeeper!"
"Go defuse the bomb."
__________________________________________________________________________
[Ding! Subtly influenced by you, Mathilda stepped forward to organize the evacuation and upheld peace on school.]
[Skill Points +5]
[Skill Fragments +2]
__________________________________________________________________________
Seeing the notification, Luca smiled faintly. Weren't we clear there was no bomb at Spencer? And yet here she is… conveniently skipping class with a perfectly legitimate excuse.
Yeah—she definitely did that on purpose.
At the dock, Luca stepped out of the car and looked at the cargo ship moored at the pier—the real 2,400-pound bomb was on board.
Jordan followed, glancing around. "Dove, what are we doing here? Is there actually money in this?"
"Someone's bringing it to us."
"???"
Meanwhile, deep in a New York sewer system—
Truck after truck loaded with gold rumbled into the tunnel, part of a massive 60-mile network, wide enough for vehicles to pass through like a mountain highway. The area was still under construction, and to avoid detection from helicopters, Simon had carefully chosen this route.
That level of precision was exactly what Targo admired most about him—everything calculated, everything under control.
"Everything ready at the dock?" Targo asked.
Simon nodded. "Ship's in position. All we have to do is deliver the gold."
Then suddenly—
Gunfire erupted ahead.
Both men stiffened instantly.
"What the hell is going on?"
A frantic voice crackled through the headset. "We're under attack! Highway robbers! Damn it—these 'homeless' guys are fully armed! Their firepower's insane!"
Homeless people?
Simon frowned, completely thrown. Since when did homeless people in a sewer carry enough firepower to start a war?
Then, faintly, over the radio, a passionate voice roared:
"Within the territory of the great King of Bowery Street, no one passes without permission!"
Simon went dead silent.
What the hell… King of the sewers?
Where did this lunatic come from?
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And as always, each 100 Stones = 2 Bonus Chapters.