Chapter Twenty: The Gradually Crumbling Smile

The subsequent criminal interrogation lasted for more than half an hour.

Old Gun took turns with clubs, bats, fists, and whips, exhausting himself to a sweat, but not a single word escaped his captive’s lips.

He tossed the baseball bat onto the floor with a clang.

“As we suspected,” he said, “the tuxedo must be the most advanced agent gear—its significance is immense. There’s no way it could be easily exposed.”

Haruko fixed her gaze on Du Fulin.

His battered and bloodied appearance seemed to fascinate her.

She feigned seriousness, behaving as usual.

But Old Gun had long since noticed the suppressed emotions in this deranged woman were nearing a critical point.

The murderous intent radiated from her eyes, as though a hand reached out from hell itself, sending chills down his spine.

“Wasn’t this result within our expectations?” he said. “After all, he’s a senior CIA agent—not some street thug who’ll spill everything just from a broken arm. If you want answers, you need to prepare for fifteen to twenty days at least. According to my research, even those with rigorous training have over a fifty percent chance of talking under standard interrogation procedures.”

Haruko licked her lips, barely able to contain herself. “How about you leave him to me?”

Old Gun couldn’t be bothered. He slung his jacket over his shoulder and turned to go.

“Just don’t eat him,” he said as he left.

At the basement door, Old Gun suddenly paused and turned back. “Don’t forget, the signal jammer only works until morning. If someone passes by after sunrise, the police could be alerted. Also, I’ll take care of Big Nose upstairs in a bit. After that, you can move him to the safe house.”

Haruko wrinkled her nose and gave a coquettish snort. “Such a ruthless man—Jackie Chan is your idol, isn’t he?”

Old Gun didn’t reply. He pushed the door open and left the basement.

With the door closed, Haruko’s pretty face twisted, the blend of murderous intent and affection in her eyes nearly overflowing. She murmured, “What a cold man.”

With a flourish—

She lifted her red dress, revealing two specially crafted kukri knives strapped to her long, pale thighs.

From the angle, the depth of the blade, to the proportion of blade and hilt, every detail bespoke custom design.

Haruko’s delicate hand wrapped around the hilt, fitting perfectly.

She turned to Du Fulin, laughter tinkling like silver bells. “Dear brother, let’s play a game!”

She tapped her phone, and a resounding waltz thundered from the speakers.

Amid the deafening music, Haruko danced gracefully with blades in hand.

Beneath the music, faint screams could be heard.

Outside, Old Gun closed the outer basement door with a stony expression, sealing the sound within.

When he’d bought the safe house, he’d ordered this special soundproof wooden door. It worked well.

With the basement isolated, the villa returned to the semblance of an ordinary home.

From staging the car accident to now, only two hours had passed—every relevant party should have received the news.

Now, he had to disguise himself as Du Fulin, return to the villa, and bring back Jackie Chan’s corpse.

He deliberately left the blood on his clothes and went straight to the bedroom, glancing at the surveillance feed where Jackie Chan sat dumbly on the floor. Without a word, Old Gun pressed the red button.

A burst of anesthetic gas startled Jackie Chan, who quickly became infuriated.

He howled and raged, bloodshot eyes wild with terror and madness.

Old Gun hadn’t activated the audio, so none of Jackie Chan’s words came through.

He simply stood before the monitor, silently watching as Jackie Chan raged, then collapsed and gradually lost consciousness.

After waiting another minute, Old Gun pressed the ventilation button. Watching the white mist dissipate on the screen, he drew a throat-cutting blade from his pocket, gripping it in reverse.

He was about to open the alloy door and dispose of the “protagonist” when the side wall exploded.

Several American soldiers in varying uniforms, rifles ready and moving in textbook formation, burst into the room.

The explosion was so sudden that even Old Gun, with all his experience, was startled. Instinctively, he dove behind the bed, arms shielding his head.

But as the soldiers rushed in, Old Gun realized the danger. He lunged in a forward roll, aiming to crash through the window and escape.

But a booted foot was already waiting—he was kicked back inside.

Old Gun arched through the air like a shrimp, landing on the mattress, bouncing off, and landing with a thud on the floor.

He barely tried to rise before several rifle muzzles pressed against his head.

He dared not move.

Inwardly, he gave a bitter laugh.

He’d been too reckless after all—he should never have gone directly against a CIA agent.

Gao Ning stepped out from the group. At the sight of Old Gun, a strange look flickered in his eyes.

For the first time, the Red Alert interface in his mind showed a red dot—an enemy marker.

Suppressing the urge to question him immediately, Gao Ning gestured. Two soldiers rushed forward, quickly frisking Old Gun and tossing aside all the odds and ends they found.

They bound his hands and feet together with rope, tying him to the bedpost.

Old Gun remained silent, his gaze deep as he studied Gao Ning.

Gao Ning glanced at the surveillance feed and fell speechless.

Damn, the real protagonist had already been tied up by them.

The American soldiers quickly searched the room. As they approached the basement door, Gao Ning’s expression changed. On his Red Alert interface, a gray dot suddenly leapt to the garage.

Moments later, the roar of an engine sounded—a black government car smashed through the garage door and sped away into the street, vanishing from sight.

The soldiers battered down the basement door. A minute later, they emerged with Mr. Du Fulin—a bloody, broken shell of a man.

“Sir, he’s the only one we found.”

Gao Ning waved them aside after a single glance.

As the car left the garage, the harmless gray dot on his interface turned red, marked with the name Haruko.

With this change, Gao Ning was no longer concerned about the one who escaped.

So conspicuous—sooner or later, they would catch her again.

Old Gun noticed Gao Ning’s attitude toward Du Fulin and suddenly spoke. “Are you with Angel Squad?”

“Hmm?” Gao Ning was taken aback.

“Oh, sorry, that’s a name I made up.”

Seeing Gao Ning’s reaction, Old Gun understood enough. He took a deep breath and said calmly, “I don’t know how you found me, but a loss is a loss. If you have questions, ask them directly.”