Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 51: Deadly Fright

The next day, Eleanor circled around Trilliant County a few times and placed the stack of paper cranes into The Sylian River, as strongly recommended by Tilly.

Then, without looking back, she arranged meetings with four or five real estate agents.

She seemed very inclined to close a deal, yet there was always a hint of doubt, postponing matters to consider further.

After traversing the entire Trilliant County, as night fell, Eleanor boarded a coach heading for a small mountain town in the neighboring province, responding uniformly to the agents on her phone.

[I’m really sorry, I’ve found a more suitable place, thank you for showing me around today.]

The five agents quickly replied.

After reading them, Eleanor deleted each WeChat conversation.

She felt quite apologetic.

Considering Elaine White’s indication that she was being watched, and Damian Sinclair’s assistant being investigated domestically, Cillian Grant was unlikely to spare any effort in scrutinizing her workplace.

Back when she met Tilly, the situation wasn’t as dire, or perhaps she hadn’t realized the gravity then.

At the company, she hadn’t covered her tracks, but fortunately, after Tilly showed suspicion, she questioned everyone on the project team.

Even if Cillian Grant investigated, sorting through over a dozen cities would be quite an endeavor.

She left a trail of suspicious activity in the most likely Trilliant County, and eliminating each possibility would take even more effort.

The time these efforts consumed was enough for Eleanor to run a little further away.

............

Meanwhile, at Krugenport Airport in South Africa, a Gulf Stream G650 private jet landed on the runway.

Due to the time difference, it was just 1 PM locally.

Not only was the time different from back home, but the seasons were entirely opposite too, with December to February being summer and June to August being winter in South Africa.

It was early summer now, the sun’s rays were blistering, and the ground temperature hit thirty-six degrees.

Phoebe Grant stepped out of the plane, wearing sun protection clothing and a sun hat, which instantly felt like a stifling lid of a steamer.

She couldn’t bear those few steps down the gangway, longing to turn back and fly home.

But the steady footsteps behind her resembled the army oversight on ancient battlefields, where turning back meant certain death.

Not far away, Damian Sinclair squinted slightly under an umbrella held by his secretary, meeting the gaze of the man on the gangway through the rippling heat wave in the air.

Cillian Grant was rarely seen without a suit; clad in a dark blue polo shirt and plain white cotton pants, his movements were marked by subtle creases, casually simple, yet carrying an inherent sharpness.

In a scorching place like South Africa, his cutting edge seemed wholly out of place.

Phoebe Grant gave Damian Sinclair a perfunctory hug before ducking into the car behind him, the air conditioning alleviating her unruly temper, only for her to turn and find Cillian already at the car door.

Damian Sinclair extended his hand with a smile, "Welcome, Vice Director Grant, it’s rare for someone as busy as you to have time for a leisurely vacation."

Cillian moved past his hand, entering the car directly, closing the door with a thud.

The secretary beside Damian Sinclair, who hadn’t been in the country for years, frowned at this, "The Grant siblings are quite lofty, they’re really disrespecting you."

Damian Sinclair chuckled, "The higher their stance, the happier I am."

The secretary, unaware of the domestic affairs, showed confusion.

Damian Sinclair smiled without speaking, opening the car’s passenger door.

Inside the vehicle, a pin drop could be heard; even the covert sound of the air conditioning became an unbearable war drum in the tense atmosphere.

The driver, a burly veteran mercenary whose main duty was bodyguarding Damian Sinclair, keenly sensed something when Cillian Grant got in. As the tension escalated, his back straightened, muscles tensed, ready to spring.

Damian Sinclair, calm and composed, exhibited confidence. "No need to be nervous. Vice Director Grant is my brother-in-law and wouldn’t do anything to harm me."

The driver cast a glance at the rearview mirror; the man in the back seat appeared relaxed, eyes closed, but his broad, well-built frame was brimming with genuine explosive power, not the superficial finesse found in gyms.

Moreover, his hands were calloused—gun calluses, undoubtedly, and not the kind worn away by time.

This bore no resemblance to the domestic tycoon heir his boss had previously mentioned.

As the vehicle traveled a stretch of prairie road, the driver noticed the man’s eyes open, with a trace of a smile playing at his lips.

He instinctively adopted a defensive posture as a cloud of dust rose suddenly on both sides, with four convertible Jeeps converging from near and far, positioning themselves in a corner envelopment like hunting leopards, locking onto them.

The two Jeeps ahead even displayed two submachine guns and shotguns.

The driver was compelled to hit the brakes, while Phoebe Grant screamed sharply from the back seat, and Damian Sinclair’s expression turned serious, "Tell them we are Therasian."

The driver was about to press the car’s loudspeaker when the man in the back suddenly let out a cold laugh, carrying an air of disdain.

He promptly pushed the door open and stepped out.

Phoebe Grant was petrified, her scream temporarily halting.

At this moment, the people in the Jeeps dismounted with guns.

Damian Sinclair clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white.

The Grant Group’s move into overseas markets only began last Summer, and Cillian Grant had never been to South Africa.

He didn’t understand the local situation of warlords, the tug of war between various forces, indigenous tribal conflicts, where a single bullet could easily take a life.

"Get out and save—"

He had just opened the car door when he froze.

The armed personnel from the Jeeps collectively lowered their muzzles as a black man in his forties warmly embraced Cillian Grant.

The man was indifferent, seemingly averse to physical contact, pushing away briefly before directing his gaze to Damian Sinclair, "You’ve been here a week, have you handled a gun?"

The middle-aged black man seemed to understand Therasian language, eagerly pulling back the slide of the submachine gun in his hand and placing it in Damian Sinclair’s hands.

On the other side, the bodyguard immediately paled, stepping instinctively, promptly subdued by people from the two cars behind.

Phoebe Grant’s center of reaction for handling matters had utterly collapsed, remaining dazed in the back seat.

Even as the car door was opened by a burly man, signaled with the muzzle to get out, she was nonresponsive.

Cillian Grant barely concerned with her safety, his focus solely on Damian Sinclair, his smile profound, "In your hands is a German-produced MP7 submachine gun, with an overall length of 380 millimeters, weighing 1.8 kilograms, including a 40-round magazine, utilizing 4.6×30 millimeter ammunition, featuring a low trajectory and strong penetration. Within a range of 100 meters, it could kill the fiercest animal on this grassland."

Damian Sinclair’s face was filled with uncertain astonishment; with the slide open, the slightest mishap would lead to a discharge, he kept the muzzle lowered.

"You know them? What exactly is going on?"

Cillian Grant did not address this question.

With a gesture, a person got off the left rear vehicle, running over with a long-range sniper rifle cradled from the back seat.

Damian Sinclair had never seen Cillian Grant display such formidable, wild charisma.

The iron-black, icy deadly weapon seemed to tear away the civilized facade encasing him, revealing his truest savage, cold-blooded, and ruthless nature.

Inspecting the rifle, the man said, "Nine kilometers away, I have a legitimate hunting ground. Considering you’ve never played with firearms, I’ll directly snipe all the large, threatening prey, while the smaller antelope, wild rabbits, and foxes will be released within a 150-meter range for you to try shooting."

Damian Sinclair was stunned.

The African grassland was vast; the World Animal Protection Association and countries established protection stations and patrol points in Africa.

Firearms were accessible on this land, but obtaining legal hunting rights was tough.

He wracked his brain but couldn’t fathom where Cillian Grant got his hunting ground.

Yet, Cillian Grant’s arrogance, disdain, and familiarity with the chaotic, violent, burgeoning land beneath his feet left no room to doubt the truth in his words.

"I refuse." Damian Sinclair took a deep breath, suppressing his chaos of thoughts within.

He squatted, placing the gun flat on the ground, "Every life deserves respect, I won’t hunt any animals."

His words barely out when those who got off the Jeeps burst into laughter.

Back in the country, thousands of miles away, Eleanor couldn’t laugh.

She had just alighted the coach when she saw two unexpected people standing behind the barricades at the car station’s exit.

Very familiar.

Although she had only seen them a few times, Eleanor remembered them clearly.

During her first two years at university, her most successful escapes both ended with these two individuals.