Chapter 383: Schiller Is Sick (1)

Chapter 383: Schiller Is Sick (1)

On the dimly lit balcony on the second floor of the hotel, a tall man in a suit took out a cigarette from his pocket. He leaned against the railing in a relaxed posture, but held the cigarette very tightly. He then turned his head slightly to look at the window of the hotel flashing with light.

One of the scenes in the window attracted his attention. He finished the cigarette in his hand without throwing the cigarette butt on the ground. He stuck his thumbnail in the middle of the cigarette butt, tore off the unfinished part and lit it with a lighter.

When the flame was about to burn his fingertips, he threw the cigarette butt with flames to the ground and then stepped on it with his toes to ensure that no fingerprints were left.

He walked steadily into the hotel, greeted the attendant who came up, then took the elevator and tidied up his suit.

With a "ding", the elevator doors opened. He walked out, his shoes stepping on the carpet of the guest room floor, making a muffled sound. He walked through the dimly lit hotel corridor and came to room 3103.

He knocked on the door a few times. There was no response in the room. The man took out a note from the pocket of his suit and slipped it under the door. After a while, the door lock clicked softly. He went in and saw a stern old man.

"Are you the contact person sent by the doctor?" The old man looked up and down at him and said, "It looks like the kind of person Pierce would find... Come in."

He turned to walk into the room, but after only two steps, he felt his back being pressed against something. The old man, who had been rampant in the spy world for half his life, immediately realized that it was a silencer pistol.

He slowly raised his hands and said calmly, "Who are you? Who do you work for? S.H.I.E.L.D. or the KGB?"

"I work for the doctor."

"Bang!"

Watching the old man slowly fall down, Grant dismantled the magazine of the pistol. He put the gun away, put on gloves and searched the old man, taking back the note he had passed through the door crack earlier. Then he turned and left casually.

Coming out of the hotel door, the night in New York was thick. He went to a phone booth next to a park, dialed a number and said to the other end of the phone, "How have you been recently? Let's meet at that cafe on the west side of Hell's Kitchen. "

A slightly cold murmur came from the other end, "Tomorrow afternoon at 3 o'clock..."

The next morning, in the cafeteria of the S.H.I.E.L.D. League, Schiller and Stark sat face to face eating breakfast. Stark cut the sausages in the plate while complaining, "I don't know what's going on recently. Many senators have been assassinated. Even if you want to avenge at this time, you have to consider the overall situation!"

Schiller said nothing, just concentrating on dealing with the food in his plate with knife and fork. Stark glanced at his actions and said, "What's wrong with you recently?"

"What's wrong?" Schiller asked without looking up.

"I think you've become a little strange," Stark said, pulling the corner of his mouth down. "Like a different person."

Schiller put half a cherry tomato in his mouth, then looked up at Stark and asked, "How did you find out?"

Stark opened his mouth as if there were too many things to say and didn't know where to start. He lowered his head, cut a piece of beef and said while eating, "Let's talk about clothes first. Except for liking to wear doctor's uniforms or sweaters, I rarely see you wear suits."

Stark looked up at Schiller again. Schiller, sitting opposite him, was wearing a dark suit and a checkered tie. He continued, "Although many people in Manhattan, especially near Wall Street, like to wear suits all year round, how did your dressing style suddenly change so much?"

"What else?" Schiller asked while eating.

Stark stared at his plate and said, "I just wanted to ask why you moved the fried eggs from the left to the right and from the right to the left. Is this some kind of ritual?"

Grant made a low, deep chuckle through his nose and said, "So what? I still ended up in your hands."

"Don't worry, I haven't finished the second half of the sentence yet. Your current vigilance and your past naivety form a very obvious contrast. How could you think that you can get out of this line of work one day?"

Grant pursed his lips and laughed self-deprecatingly, "Indeed, how could I expect a despicable and cunning Hydra to keep its promise?"

Schiller took a sip of coffee and said, "Do you think I really want to choose you? If there were other available people, I wouldn't like forcing an ordinary person to become a killer."

Ordinary person? Grant felt almost absurd. This was the first time he had heard someone call him an ordinary person, even Garrett often praised him for his talent in this regard.

In the careers of agents and assassins, Grant's resume could be described as excellent. He started very early. Since being adopted by Garrett, he has been receiving professional agent training day after day. In addition, Garrett taught him many killing skills. The teaching of a senior agent allowed him to surpass the end point of many people at the starting point of this industry.

If the situation of S.H.I.E.L.D. continued to develop as before, he would likely take over the position of the Hydra leader in S.H.I.E.L.D. at Pierce's age.

Mentioning this topic seemed to arouse Schiller's interest. He continued, "It may sound absurd to you, but many murderers are born, or rather, some born murderers have talents that ordinary people can hardly reach in this regard."

"For example?" Grant asked, looking at him.

"Among the cases of antisocial personality disorder and psychotic mental disorders, there is a very small possibility of the appearance of born killers. They are cold-blooded, irritable, and good at controlling others. A case I recently encountered was a teenager much younger than you."

"Who is that?"

"You don't know him, but I'm quite familiar with him. His name is Oswald Copperpot."

"A little penguin with a sharp beak."

Grant looked at Schiller with some doubts. He had never heard of this "Oswald Copperpot" before. But Schiller seemed confident in what he said, and his tone revealed a sinister meaning that was difficult to detect.

Schiller put down the coffee cup and leaned back slightly, "I just want to explain to you that your professional skills are indeed very good, but they are still far from the level of those natural born killers, so I hope you don't feel too confident about yourself."

"Since I'm not that capable, why did you choose me?" Grant asked.

"Because you are easy to control and have certain uses." Schiller's eyes flashed with darkness that was hard to understand. "My little penguin is too unrestrained and difficult to command at will. You are more obedient and willing to compromise to accomplish the goal."

Grant felt chilled, but he didn't show it. He asked faintly, "What are your goals?"

Schiller slowly got up from the chair, buttoned his suit and said lightly, "For now, let's continue our interrupted conversation, Agent Grant. You seem to have a few questions you want to ask me, right?"

Grant looked up at him, a trace of alertness and doubt flashed through his eyes. Schiller nodded gently at him, as if giving him permission, and then walked towards the door of the cafe.

Grant hesitated for a moment, then got up and hurriedly followed him out. In the cafe, only the table they had sat at was left, with two cups of coffee that had not been drunk, the whipped cream on the surface slowly melting.

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