"Mr. Michael, that's all the information."

"Thank you."

"Good luck."

After leaving the prison, Michael first went to the store to buy a razor and sorted out his image in a simple hotel.

Then he went to the street and walked around and did nothing.

The next day, Michael bought a ticket to New York and embarked on his last journey to take revenge.

Michael is a descendant of British immigrants. According to racial rhetoric, he is a truly ‘white man.’

He looked very manly. When he was in the car, several girls were hinting at him, and all they got was a faint smile.

This actually adds to his charm, but Michael doesn't care at all.

His only idea now is to take revenge, and he will never forget the scene of his wife falling on the street with a fire.

The demons wearing white robes and pointed triangle hats burned her to death. That scene was a nightmare that Michael would never forget.

So when those people found him and placed the photos of the people who participated that night and the addresses of Michael, he knew what he should do.

He had been waiting for this day for too long.

...

...

On June 11, New York, isolationism was recognized by more and more people.

The First Movement Committee, its main leaders gathered in Times Square in New York, calling out slogans such as "freedom, stay away from war, and independence of America."

Just as people shouted loudly with the slogans, several gunshots occurred in the square.

Four spokespersons in the middle of the rally died on the spot, and the shooter threw away his pistol and sat calmly on the ground waiting for the police to arrive.

The police were not far from him, but the chaotic crowds of people fleeing at the scene made it impossible for the police to get close to him.

It took them more than ten minutes before they finally squeezed into the crowd and pointed their guns at the 'dangerous' murderer in full arms.

Michael was arrested on charges of two counts of first-degree murder.

In court, Michael confessed to his crimes, and when the judge asked why he was doing this, a smile appeared on the corner of his mouth.

"Sir Judge, where is your wife from? England, France, Germany, the Netherlands, Ireland or Spain?" Michael's tone was full of sarcasm.

"Mr. Michael, does this question have anything to do with the question you are going to answer?" the judge asked in court.

"Yes... because my wife is from India, does anyone remember the murder of his wife in the street 8 years ago? My name is McCultan Rumba."

When McCor finished speaking, a brief silence appeared in the court, and then a sudden scream rang out: "Miccoltanrumba, arson case... Oh my God!"

McCeltan Rumba was sentenced to eight years in prison for manslaughter. The deceased was his wife because he put gasoline in the car, causing a fire.

His wife fled from the car to the street, crawled for dozens of meters before she died of charred and died, and at that time, her 6-month-old baby was still in her belly.

"Silent, quiet..." The judge beat the gavel hard, but it could not stop the hustle and bustle of people at all.

Because this incident involves white people, and is the largest anti-war organization in North America, it takes place in the highly anti-war square of Times, so the trial is open.

Not only were government officials, lawmakers, members of anti-war organizations present, but also ace teams of major newspapers and magazines.

"Mr. Tanrumba, is there any connection between these two things?"

"Mr. Tanrumba, are you saying that the judgment of that year was wrong?"

"Mr. Tanrumba, is there any hidden information here?"

"Mr. Tanrumba, are you avenging your wife and children?"

"Sir... are you saying that it was the white man who killed your wife?" As soon as this question came out, a gasp sounded in the scene.

Such a straightforward question is simply to provoke a new round of social conflicts. Which idiot is this? Does he want to provoke antagonism in the entire society?

When everyone turned their eyes to the questioner and saw the "Los Angeles Times" work permit hanging on his chest, the corners of his mouth twitched back.

The riots at the scene forced the judge to announce a "rest", but the name McCultan Rumba has appeared again in major newspapers and magazines.

The next day, Time magazine rarely used black and white photos as the cover.

On the cover is a black figure, full of flames, and the title is "Who is the Murderer".

In the courtroom, a man with a gloomy face sat in front of Michael. The other party said in a threatening tone: "I think you know your situation very well. If you kill someone, no one can save you, but your words and deeds are likely to cause other trouble."

Seeing Tanrumba not speaking, the other party leaned over and lowered his head and whispered, "Even if you don't think about yourself, you should think more about your family, they are already old."

Bang.

The door was suddenly pushed open with force, and a briefcase in his hand. Sallyev Gandorbar, smiling, stood at the door.

"I am a senior consultant at Mahathir Law Firm, Saliyev. From now on, we will provide Mr. Tanrumba with free legal services. If you have any questions, please inform me first."

Saliyev put his business card on the table and looked at the other person with a smile.

"This is not something you can interfere. You should figure out who you are against." The other party stood up while slapped the table.

"Who with? President?" Saliyev smiled indifferently, and the four assistants behind him also walked in, and the small room was filled with people.

"Tell me the words of this gentleman, 'Would we figure out who we are against,' that's what I said?" Saliyev asked at his assistant.

"That's right." The assistant smiled funnyly and shrugged his shoulders to record it.

"Damn it." Seeing his performance, the person who came was so angry that he wanted to jump off his feet, and reached out and grabbed Saliyev's collar.

"Wow..." Let him hold himself, Saliyev raised his hands and looked out the door, and a camera was facing inside the room.

"The shooting was clearer, especially on the face. By the way, I'll give him a close-up." Saliyev smiled slutty.

After waiting for a long time, I didn't take action. My face turned blue and white for a while, and I couldn't help but ask boredly, "Please hurry up, okay? My hands are almost sore."

"You will regret it." He released his collar viciously, pushed open the photography at the door with force, and quickly left with big strides.

"What a lucky... I thought I was going to see a dentist today!" Saliyev patted his wrinkled collar and sat calmly opposite Michael.

"Mr. Tanrumba, let's think about how we can make them pay the price." Saliyev smiled meaningfully.
Chapter completed!