Invasion of the United States

The clock quietly pointed to ten thirty.

Maurice was still dazing in his room on the third floor of the motel.

It was still noisy outside the room, growing more intense as the night deepened.

He was still waiting for the agreed transaction call. But what actually came through was a cold and brief notice from an FBI agent, "Maurice, the operation is over, you can go home now."

"Over?" Maurice let out a sigh of relief, mixed with a vague sense of loss. He asked, "Did you catch the trader?"

The FBI agent did not answer directly, only leaving a sentence, "It's not something you need to worry about." The call was then cut off, leaving a cold busy tone.

Maurice held the phone, the tension and excitement receding from his mind, replaced by a sense of depression and powerlessness.

A few days ago, he received a mysterious call. The other party offered a million US dollars to buy sensitive technology from 'Apocalypse Creatures'. He was indeed tempted.

But on second thought, he backed down.

FBI's "sting" operations were no secret—for example, their agents often frequented illegal brothels, and after enjoying the service, not only would they not pay, but they would also arrest the people involved.

For sensitive positions, the FBI was even more tireless in setting traps, sometimes willingly creating traps for the sake of performance, even 'fishing' their own people.

Maurice wanted that money, but he knew he didn't have the guts to take the risk. To clear his suspicion, he had no choice but to report it immediately and proactively contact the FBI.

But now, with the operation suddenly over, he felt like an outsider, entirely in the dark. Even the room cost he had to pay himself, only to end up waiting in vain.

Maurice sighed, stood up, grabbed his bag, and slowly walked out of the room.

When he checked out, the motel owner had a bad attitude, forcibly charging him a bathroom usage fee, and mocked him for looking like a homeless person.

In the parking lot, Maurice got into his car, holding the steering wheel but not starting immediately. His mind was in a blur, feeling like a pawn being arbitrarily manipulated.

"I have to go to work tomorrow..." The dashboard's dim light reflected on his tired face. He murmured to himself sarcastically, just about to start the car and leave.

Suddenly, someone outside the car window stepped forward and knocked.

Maurice shivered all over, his heartbeat suddenly speeding up. He jerked his head around, seeing a young Asian man standing outside the car through the window.

He instinctively touched the gun hidden by his side, then carefully rolled down the window a small crack, his voice somewhat tense, "What is it?"

"Maurice, I am your trader for tonight." The young man smiled. Love+ this s.t.ory?- S!ho^w& s@up+p@or^t at MV2L+EMPY&R.

Maurice's heart jumped into his throat. He nervously glanced around, trying to spot any FBI agents.

The FBI had emphasized that the transaction must take place under monitoring and recording equipment to form a complete chain of evidence.

But now, everything was off-script, completely unprepared.

"Stop looking. The FBI has withdrawn, no one is watching you." The young man saw through Maurice's thoughts, "I'm waiting for you at a nearby 24-hour fast food restaurant.

Don't bring that bag, I'm not interested in what's inside, and I can't understand it. I just want to talk with you.

Perhaps, I can legally offer you a high-paying job, or provide some much-needed help.

After all, the law doesn't prohibit you from changing jobs or socializing, right?"

After saying this, the young man turned and left, his figure quickly disappearing into the night.

Maurice's heart pounded like a drum, his palm on the steering wheel tightening and loosening. He picked up the phone several times, wanting to call an FBI agent, but put it down each time.

His eyes involuntarily glancing at the back seat, where the bag full of 'confidential information' lay quietly, mocking his indecision.

'Gray Shark' chose Maurice as their target after careful selection.

Just spending a few hundred dollars to treat 'Apocalypse Creatures' Indian HR to a meal would easily get a list of all researchers with access to core secrets.

Maurice happened to be that 'perfect candidate'—with family difficulties and a weak personality.

He was on pins and needles, breathing heavily, sweat beads forming on his forehead, his body writhing in the seat as if that could relieve his inner anxiety.

He looked at the dark night outside the window, then at the bag on the back seat. He finally gritted his teeth and made up his mind, "Meeting isn't illegal, right..."

Maurice found an excuse for himself. He then started the engine and slowly drove out of the parking lot, heading towards the fast food restaurant.

-----------------

A few hundred meters from the motel, there was a 24-hour fast food restaurant.

After nightfall, the restaurant's counter was sealed off by a heavy security door, leaving only a small window with bars.

The interior of the restaurant was brightly lit, filled with the smell of fried food. A clerk behind the window was drowsily nodding off.

At the entrance of the restaurant sat a fifty-something-year-old black man, dressed neatly, slowly chewing on a burger. His gaze was lowered, occasionally sweeping towards the entrance, alert and composed.

By the window sat a white man, with fries and a drink on the table. He mechanically dipped the fries into ketchup, raising his head to scan the surroundings with sharp eyes.

These two people seemed like the 'Door Gods' of the restaurant, making every late-night customer who stepped in feel intimidated.

In 'White Beach' town, anyone brave enough to eat out at night was not someone to mess with. Scenes of drawing guns at the slightest disagreement were not uncommon here.

Maurice stood outside the restaurant, observing through the glass door for a while, unconsciously touching the twenty-dollar bill in his pocket, muttering to himself: