American comics: I am full of martial virtues and I love to be kind to others.

“Then send two men to guard the back door and the fire escape,” Lynn said. “The rest of you go in from the front. Remember, this man is extremely dangerous and may have stored explosives in the apartment. Be extra careful.”

“Understood,” Marcus began assigning tasks. “Johnson, Rodriguez, you two go and guard the back. The rest of you, come in with me from the front.”

Two agents quietly slipped away, circling around to the back of the building. The rest checked their equipment—body armor, helmets, weapons, breaching tools. Lynn also put on a body armor, though his injuries made every movement painful.

“Lynn, are you sure you want to get involved personally?” Sarah asked worriedly. “Your condition—”

“I have to be there,” Lynn said, checking the ammunition in his pistol. “This is my case, and if Sanders is in there, I need to confirm it myself.”

Reynolds walked over: "Agent Hall is right. But you stay behind and let the tactical team go in and clear the area first."

“Acceptable,” Lynn nodded.

Marcus heard the rear team's voice through his headset: "Rear positions, good visibility, ready to engage."

“Very good,” Marcus said, then turned to the team, “Everyone, move out.”

Six figures silently emerged from the car and moved swiftly toward the target building. They moved close to the wall, their boots making almost no sound. The streets were deserted, save for the occasional distant rumble of car engines.

Arriving at the front door of the apartment building, Marcus checked it—the door was unlocked, which is common in these old buildings. He gently pushed the door open; it creaked slightly, but not too loudly.

The team entered the lobby. It was dark inside, with only a dim light bulb barely illuminating the staircase. The air was filled with a mixture of musty and smoky smells.

Marcus gave the instructions with hand gestures—two men stayed on the first floor to guard the main entrance, while the others followed upstairs.

Lynn followed behind the group, each step he took aggravating his injuries. But he gritted his teeth and persevered, his hand gripping his pistol tightly.

Upon reaching the second floor, the hallway was narrow, with three doors on each side. According to the apartment number, Sanders' apartment was 2B, and the door on the right side of the hallway was the second one.

A faint light shone through the crack in the door.

Marcus gestured for everyone to stop, then cautiously approached the door. He pressed his ear against the door, listening intently to any sounds inside.

A few seconds later, he stepped back and gestured: there was a sound, like a radio or television, but no human voices could be heard.

Lynn nodded. This could mean Sanders was home but quiet, or it could mean he left a radio at home to create the illusion that someone was there.

Marcus took out a small endoscope and tried to insert it under the door to observe the inside. But the gap was too small to fit.

"Prepare to break down the door," Marcus whispered the order.

Two agents pulled out portable breaching hammers and took their positions. The others raised their weapons and aimed at the doorway.

"Three, two, one—break down the door!"

A loud crash, the lock broke, and the door swung open violently inward.

"FBI! Don't move!" Agents stormed into the apartment, their weapons scanning every corner.

Lynn followed closely behind. The apartment was larger than expected, a one-bedroom, one-living room layout. But the sight before them stunned everyone.

The apartment had been converted into a kind of studio. The walls were covered with photos, maps, clippings, and handwritten notes. There were detailed maps of New York City, marked with various locations. There were photos of historical events—wars, disasters, terrorist attacks. There were also complex charts, connecting different events with lines, attempting to show some kind of pattern.

In the center of the room was a large table piled high with books, documents, and laptops. But the most striking item was a workbench in the corner, covered with various electronic components, tools, and chemical reagents—materials for making explosive devices.

"Clear the area! Check all the rooms!" Marcus ordered.

The agents moved swiftly, inspecting the bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, and closets. Lynn stood in the center of the living room, surveying the space. It was filled with traces of a madman's mind, but lacked the most crucial element—

“Nobody’s here!” an agent reported, emerging from the bedroom. “The apartment is empty; the target isn’t here.”

Lynn's heart sank. They were too late.

"Search the entire building," Reynolds ordered immediately. "He may be hiding somewhere else. Also, notify all patrol units to conduct a citywide search for Richard Sanders."

The agents began their operation. Lynn walked to the wall covered with documents and examined it carefully.

The central banner bore a large title: "The Cycle of History—Humanity's Eternal Foolishness."

“He’s gathering evidence,” Lynn whispered, “to prove his theory—that humanity doesn’t learn from history and always repeats the same mistakes.”

Sarah walked over to him, looking at the files on the wall: "Is this guy really crazy, or just too smart?"

“Perhaps both,” Lynn said.

He walked to the workbench. There was a laptop on it, but it was turned off. There were several notebooks; Lynn put on gloves and opened one of them.

"Did you find anything?" Reynolds walked over.

“He has another major operation planned,” Lynn handed him the notebook, “and it may be implemented soon.”

Did they mention a specific time or location?

Lynn continued flipping through the notebook and found a page marked "Ultimate Goal":
"The location must be symbolic: representing the arrogance of power, a place where humanity repeats its mistakes. It must be a densely populated area, a landmark that cannot be ignored."

"Date: November 25th. Thanksgiving Eve. As people gather to celebrate and give thanks for the peace they don't deserve, I will remind them that the wheels of history never stop turning."

Lynn glanced at his watch. It was November 24th, and it was already 11 a.m.

In other words, there are less than 22 hours left until the "final event" planned by the murderer.

“Damn it,” Lynn cursed, “he’s planning to make his move today.”

“But where?” Reynolds asked. “New York has too many places that fit the description of ‘iconic building’—the Empire State Building, Times Square, the World Trade Center, Rockefeller Center—”

“Wait a minute,” Lynn said, his eyes scanning the notebook for more clues.

He turned to the last page, where there was a sketch. It depicted a building that looked like some kind of government building or museum, with distinctive colonnades and staircases.

Below the sketch was a line that read: "Where history should be remembered, I will create new history."

“A place where history should be remembered,” Sarah repeated, “a museum?” “Not just any museum,” Lynn said, staring at the sketch, “a history museum. And judging by the architectural style, this is—”

“The New York Historical Society Museum,” Reynolds realized, “is on the Upper West Side, west of Central Park.”

"Is there any special event there tomorrow—no, today?" Lynn asked.

Reynolds pulled out his phone and quickly searched: "Yes. The opening ceremony of a special Thanksgiving exhibition themed 'Momentous Moments in New York History.' The event starts at 2 p.m., and hundreds of visitors are expected, along with the mayor and other officials."

“That’s the goal,” Lynn said firmly. “An event discussing history, in a history museum, with a large crowd and high-ranking officials. For Sanders, it’s the perfect symbol—at a time when people are celebrating history, he’ll show how history repeats itself.”

“We need to cancel the event,” Reynolds said, taking out his phone.

“No,” Lynn stopped him. “If we cancel the event, Sanders will know we’ve discovered his plans. He’ll disappear, find another target, and we’ll have to start all over again.”

"So what do you suggest we do?"

“Let the event proceed as planned, but we’ll lay a trap,” Lynn said. “Evacuate most of the civilians and replace them with plainclothes agents. Deploy bomb-detecting dogs, X-ray scanners, and metal detectors. Turn the entire museum into a trap. When Sanders shows up, we’ll catch him.”

“That’s risky,” Reynolds said. “What if he sees through the trap—”

“He will,” Lynn said. “He’s intelligent. But he’s also arrogant. Look at these notes; he believes in his mission, believes he must complete this ‘ultimate proof.’ Even knowing it’s a trap, he’ll try. Because in his view, this is the final demonstration of his ideals.”

Reynolds pondered for a moment, then nodded. "Alright. I'll coordinate with the NYPD and Homeland Security. But Agent Holt, if the situation gets out of control, evacuate everyone immediately, understand?"

“Understood,” Lynn said.

“Also,” Reynolds added, “we need to find out where Sanders is right now. He’s obviously not here, so he lives somewhere else, or—”

“Or he’s not planning to sleep at all tonight,” Sarah said. “He might be preparing for tomorrow’s operation.”

“Then we must find him,” Lynn said. “Search every corner of this apartment. Check his computer, his files, his trash. Find any clues that might tell us where he is.”

Over the next few hours, Lynn and her team thoroughly searched the apartment. Technicians took away laptops and all electronic devices for analysis. Forensic investigators collected every document, every photograph, and every note.

Under the bed in the bedroom, they found a large backpack containing a complete homeless disguise—a dirty old military jacket, a tattered beanie, a fake beard, and several sets of shabby clothes.

“This confirms that he is the homeless man we saw in the surveillance footage,” Sarah said.

In the bathroom cabinet, they found hair dye, cosmetics, and fake beard glue—Sanders was clearly good at disguising himself.

What's unsettling is that, apart from a few bottles of water, there's almost no food in the kitchen refrigerator.

“He doesn’t eat here,” Lynn said. “This is just his studio, not where he actually lives.”

"Where does he live?"

“I don’t know. Maybe he has another place to live, maybe he lives in his car, maybe—” Lynn suddenly stopped.

He walked to the wall in the living room, where a map of New York City was displayed. Various locations were marked on the map with different colored pins—the previous explosion sites were in red, and some other locations were in blue and green.

Lynn noticed a green pin stuck somewhere in the Lower East Side. That spot was different from the other markings; next to it was a small letter "H".

“What does H stand for?” Sarah walked over.

“Home?” Lynn guessed. “Perhaps this is his real hiding place.”

He took a picture of the map and zoomed in on the location. It was a street in the Lower East Side, and it looked like an old industrial area.

“Send someone to that address,” Lynn said to Reynolds, “but be careful. If he’s there, don’t alert him. We need to know his location, but we can’t let him know we’ve found out.”

“Understood,” Reynolds began making arrangements.

The sky was beginning to lighten; dawn was approaching. Lynn felt utterly exhausted; the pain from his injuries was almost overwhelming him. But he couldn't rest; he couldn't stop when he was so close to the truth.

He walked to the window and watched the increasing number of vehicles and pedestrians on the street. New York was starting another day, completely unaware that a potential disaster was approaching.

“We’ll stop him,” Sarah said softly as she walked up to him. “We’ll catch him before he can do anything.”

“I hope so,” Lynn said, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon, “but I have a feeling things won’t be that simple. Sanders has planned all this for so long; he won’t give in easily. Today is going to be a tough fight.”

“Then we’ll get ready,” Sarah said firmly.

Lynn nodded.

At six o'clock in the morning, Lynn received a call from the squad that was to be sent to the Lower East Side.

“Agent Holt, we’ve found the address,” the agent’s voice came through. “It’s an abandoned warehouse, converted into some kind of living space. But…Sanders isn’t here. It looks like he left last night, and took a lot of stuff with him.”

Lynn closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He knew what that meant.

Sanders has begun his final operation.

And they must find him and stop him before 2 p.m. today.

There are only eight hours left.

At 7:00 AM, the FBI's New York command center had been transformed into a wartime operations room. Large screens on the walls displayed various angles of the New York Historical Society Museum, with real-time surveillance footage, building floor plans, and surrounding street maps densely packed together.

Lynn stood in the center, facing a long table piled high with documents, photos, and coffee cups. Though his body protested—each breath aggravated his rib pain, and the cast on his right arm made him move clumsily—his mind had never been so clear.

“Status report,” Lynn said, glancing around the room at the more than twenty agents, technicians, and NYPD officers.

Captain Reynolds stepped forward: “According to our intelligence, Richard Sanders plans to carry out a massive bombing at the New York Historical Society Museum at 2 p.m. today. The targeted event is the opening of a Thanksgiving special exhibition, which was originally expected to have 500 to 700 visitors, including the mayor, several city council members, and cultural figures.”

"The proposal to cancel the event was rejected?" Lynn asked.

“Yes,” Reynolds said, a hint of helplessness in his expression. “The mayor’s office believes that cancellation would cause public panic, and as you said, it might alert Sanders and make him change his plans. So the event will proceed as scheduled, but on a significantly scaled-down basis.” (End of Chapter)