I'm Not Like Them

Chapter 30

Agent Lomax shifted beside Hermann, his instincts screaming for caution. The last thing he wanted was his superior dragged into a trap wrapped in the promise of truth. Wesley set his cigarette down in the ashtray, the ember dying with a faint hiss. “You think you know what’s happening here,” he said slowly. “But you’ve only seen the surface. There are things beneath this city that even the FBI refuses to look at. And I can prove that — if you’re willing to work with me, not against me.”

Hermann’s fingers tightened on the armrest. He could feel Lomax’s stare from the corner of his eye — waiting, warning, asking him silently not to take the bait. But the detective knew this was his only path forward. He looked at Wesley Dalton — the man who sat like a king among criminals — and said nothing, only meeting his gaze in tense, deliberate silence.

In that quiet moment, something unspoken passed between the detective and the crime lord — a mutual understanding that whatever happened next would decide everything.

***

The next morning, the entire University of Nevada buzzed with an unusual energy. Students poured into the central grounds — a sprawling open area often used for university-wide gatherings. Today, wide white tents had been erected, a small stage raised at the front, rows of folding chairs stretching across the lawn.

The administration staff stood at the corners, guiding the crowd, while professors filled the front section, murmuring among themselves. It wasn’t a mandatory program, yet almost everyone had shown up. Curiosity always had a way of pulling people together — and the name headlining the event was more than enough.

Mr. Wesley Dalton.

A man whose influence reached far beyond the city. A philanthropist, businessman, and — to the world — a generous sponsor of several youth programs and educational initiatives. Today, he was speaking as the “main figure” of a campus-wide campaign promoting community leadership and youth empowerment — a public project his company often used as a face for something far more complicated beneath.

Students whispered, some excited, others skeptical.

“Why is he here?”

“Isn’t he some big corporate guy?”

“I heard he funds half the university’s events.”

When the announcer introduced him, the loudspeakers crackled — and then Wesley Dalton stepped into view. Calm, polished, charismatic. Exactly how a man with a hundred hidden truths would look under the sun.

“Good morning, students of the University of Nevada,” his voice boomed, warm and controlled. “I stand before you today to speak about the future—your future. About the responsibility each of us carries to build something meaningful, something that moves our society forward…”

His speech flowed effortlessly, a blend of inspiration and carefully crafted persuasion. He spoke of opportunity, of resilience, of the power young people held in shaping the world. The crowd listened — some inspired, others mesmerized, others suspicious. Only a few could hear the quiet steel beneath his words.

Behind the stage, Ralph Dalton stood in the shadows. He didn’t need to watch the speech; he had heard his father rehearse variations of it many times before. Instead, his sharp gaze swept across the sea of students. His posture was alert, his expression unreadable. He was searching. For whom, even he wasn’t entirely sure.

Maybe for possible threats. Maybe for hidden agents. Maybe for someone familiar — someone whose face lingered stubbornly in his mind.

Meanwhile, at the far edge of the crowd, Mr. Hermann arrived quietly and blended in among the students. He stood with his hands behind his back, eyes fixed on Wesley Dalton as he delivered his polished message.