In the house, a middle-aged man, around forty and slightly chubby, sat on a sofa. He wore a vest and sported a Green Dragon tattoo on his arm. He idly manipulated two walnuts.

"Move," the mercenaries barked, pressing their firearms against the trio.

They walked forward.

"Sit."

The middle-aged man, still fiddling with a walnut, pointed at the sofa. James glanced at him and sat down. Henry and Scarlett sat on either side. The mercenaries remained, firearms still trained on them.

James calmly asked, "Are you Jake Graham, the boss everyone's talking about?"

The man remained silent, glancing at a hooded man behind him. The hooded man retrieved a laptop.

The man in the black vest pointed at the laptop. "Swiss Bank. Make your transfer. Information follows immediately."

James laughed. "Boss, why would I transfer money while you're pointing guns at me? If you renege after the transfer, I'd be a fool."

The middle-aged man gestured dismissively. "Worry not. I've never reneged on a promise. My credibility built my empire."

James looked behind him, counting the mercenaries. He then leaned back on the sofa, crossing his legs.

Henry immediately understood. As James relaxed, he said, "I've heard of your credibility. However, I'm still concerned. How about this? You give me the information; I'll pay after confirming its authenticity."

Smack! Jake Graham slammed his fist on the table. The mercenaries behind James lunged forward, pressing their firearms against the trio's heads.

"How many times must I say this? Payment comes first. We don't work the other way around."

James laughed calmly. "It's natural to bargain. Just because it hasn't been done before doesn't mean it can't be done now."

Henry and James remained calm. Scarlett, however, was different. With a gun pressed to her head, she was frozen, sweat beading on her forehead.

Meanwhile, in another room, a sixty-year-old man smoked, watching surveillance footage of James's room.

He snapped his fingers. A man approached respectfully. "Boss."

"Anything on them?"

"Yes, boss. The man in the middle is James Caden. Recently decommissioned from the Southern Plains military; low rank, a foot soldier. He's the son-in-law of the Callahans. The man beside him is Henry, who runs a clinic in Cansington. We haven't identified the woman; she may be an illegal immigrant."

The old man frowned. "A decommissioned soldier and a clinic owner interested in information about the Cadens' destruction ten years ago? They're not ordinary. They didn't flinch with guns pointed at them; they were laughing and joking. They've been through the wringer."

"Brooks recommended them?"

"Yes, boss."

"Call him. Get information on these three."

"Yes, boss."