The real life of an American police officer: Winning over others with virtue

Chapter 306 Transfer Station

A black Audi A6 Avant arrived on a quiet, cobblestone street adjacent to a tributary of the Seine.

Eric slowly pulled the car over to the side of the street, looking at the hotel in front of him with a hint of hesitation in his eyes.

"This is the safe house?"

He arrived at the address of the safe house, but what he saw was a typical Ottoman-style building, five stories high, with off-white stone walls and a dark green awning.

A bronze sign hung under the awning, bearing the words "Terminal Hotel" in elegant cursive script, looking no different from the other private hotels in the area that offered long-term accommodation.

He had thought the safe house would be a more private place, but it turned out to be a popular hotel.

“Since Bill gave us this address, there shouldn’t be any problem.” Eric glanced at the rearview mirror to confirm that Alexander was still unconscious, then got out of the car.

He went around to the back of the car, opened the back door, pulled out the still unconscious Alexander, and carried him towards the hotel.

Pushing open the wooden door, the brass bell on the door rang out with a pleasant, crisp sound.

Behind the front desk, a middle-aged or elderly man dressed in casual clothes, with his silver hair neatly combed, looked up in response.

Eric narrowed his eyes slightly; if there was a problem, he would leave.

Fortunately, the middle-aged man's gaze merely swept past him, finally lingering briefly on Alexander without showing any surprise, only nodding slightly.

It seems they already knew they would come.

Eric helped Alexander to the front desk and said in a low voice, "I need a quiet room where I won't be disturbed."

Upon hearing this, the middle-aged and elderly people remained expressionless, simply nodding slightly.

Instead of getting the key, he walked around from behind the counter, gestured for Eric to follow him, and then silently walked deeper into the hotel lobby.

Is this some kind of hidden world? Eric raised an eyebrow, supporting Alexander as they followed closely behind.

But looking at the middle-aged and elderly people leading the way, Eric felt that this should be a safe house for Bill's private relationships, not some legendary CIA safe house.

Eric followed the middle-aged and elderly people through a dimly lit, short corridor, at the end of which was a door that blended into the color of the walls.

The middle-aged and elderly people took out a door card from their pocket, swiped it lightly on the sensor, and pushed the door open to enter.

Eric followed behind and discovered that behind the door was not a room, but a small courtyard.

The courtyard also connects to another relatively low, detached brick and stone house that looks like a later addition. Its exterior is simple and unadorned, consistent with the surrounding architectural style, and goes unnoticed.

"interesting."

Eric followed the middle-aged and elderly man to the front of the detached house and watched him take out a physical key and open the door.

“It’s absolutely quiet here, there won’t be any disturbances,” the middle-aged man said, leading Eric inside.

There was no hotel decoration inside; the style was extremely simple. Eric could hear faint sounds of electronic devices running and the low hum of the ventilation system.

The entrance is a small buffer zone, inside which is a spacious area divided into living, working and rest areas.

Meanwhile, the walls were clearly thickened and soundproofed, and the windows were one-way bulletproof glass with heavy blackout curtains hanging on the inside.

There are professional communication equipment and a first-aid kit in the corner.

"It's starting to feel like a safe house." Eric tossed Alexander to the ground and looked around.

“We have a good supply of daily necessities. If you need anything, you can press the red button on the wall.” The middle-aged and elderly man pointed to an inconspicuous device by the door.

“That’s enough, thank you,” Eric said with a smile.

The middle-aged and elderly people nodded slightly, said nothing more, and quietly left, closing the door behind them.

Eric didn't delay any longer. He dragged the still unconscious Alexander to the center of the room and strapped him to a metal-framed chair.
Then, as was his habit, he quickly checked the facilities of the entire safe house. After confirming that everything was safe, he finally pulled up a chair and sat down directly opposite Alexander.

But Eric did not interrogate him. Instead, he informed Bill first and brought Alexander to the safe house he had indicated.

Only then did he begin to look at Alexander, thinking about how to interrogate him.

To be honest, his interrogation skills are only at level 1 (beginner), and he really doesn't know where to start or where to begin the interrogation.

But if you mindlessly inflict pain on a scout like Alexander, he'll probably confess.

"It should be possible?" Eric wasn't quite sure either. He hadn't interrogated many people, except for one live demonstration by McCall.

Unexpectedly, Bill, who seemed to have been waiting for his message, sent him a message as if he knew what he was thinking.

“His name is Victor. I told him that I asked him to talk to the guest, and he knows what to do.”

Eric stared at the message for a moment, then understood.

Indeed, torture is not his specialty, and it is very likely to be inefficient, waste time, or even lead to false information.

Eric got up, walked to the door, and pressed the red button.

In less than ten seconds, the door opened, and the middle-aged man whom Bill called Victor walked in, his face still expressionless.

“Bill wants you to speak with our guest.” Eric handed over his phone, the screen displaying Bill’s message.

He said you know what to do.

Victor glanced at the screen, nodded slightly, and handed the phone back to Eric.

He didn't ask a single question, nor did he even glance at Eric. He simply walked straight to Alexander, who was tied to a chair, picked up the stool, and dragged him into an inner room.

Eric followed curiously, thinking to himself, "Wow, the room is quite well-equipped."

He watched as Victor placed Alexander, chair and all, in the center of the room, then went to the wall to get a bucket and a towel, his movements unhurried and carrying a sense of programmed indifference.

From this perspective, Eric believes that Victor is very likely also from the CIA.

------

"Outrageous. What kind of killers come out of the CIA?"

Eric watched as Victor woke Alexander up and began the interrogation, shook his head inwardly, and left.

He felt it was best to avoid watching such brutal interrogations to prevent them from affecting his mental health.

Ah!
Ugh! Waaaaah!
Listening to Alexander's painful groans, Eric sat in the living room and began to count the time silently. He didn't think an ordinary person could withstand such a brutal interrogation.

"I...I don't know," came Alexander's weak voice from the inner room.

"He's not a bad guy," Eric thought to himself in surprise.

But less than half a minute later, Victor came out from inside, his hands still stained with blood. He didn't care and wiped his hands with a wet towel. Finally, he handed over a note that was slightly stained with water, his expression still calm and normal.

“Saint-Denis district, 117 Rue Roger B, guarded by no fewer than six men, headed by Florian Kanu.”

He said that kidnapped people are basically sent to that transit station, where they are then distributed—either sold to others or kept on the spot.

Victor's voice was calm and even: "The intelligence is highly credible. I suggest you take action as soon as possible."

Eric glanced at the information on the note, nodded, folded it up, and stuffed it into his pocket, but couldn't help glancing at the center of his eye.

"Inside?" "I'll take care of it," Victor replied.

“OK!” Eric said no more and left the house under Victor’s watchful eye.

Victor watched him leave, then took out his phone: "So young, you trust him?"

Bill: "Yeah! I trust him."

Victor: "Do you need my help?"

Bill: "That's enough, Victor. I can't drag you into this any further. I've already spoken to Quincy, and I'll be there in three hours."

Victor paused for a moment: "Alright, just say so if you need anything. You helped me back then, otherwise I wouldn't have been able to fake my death and live in anonymity."

Bill: "Hmm."

--------------

Just as Eric drove toward the Saint-Denis district, a conspicuous yellow warning line was set up outside the men's restroom in Terminal 2 of Charles de Gaulle Airport.

A traveler, as was his habit, went to the innermost stall to relieve himself and discovered the bodies of four Albanians that Eric had stuffed into the innermost cubicle.

Airport security and local police who arrived later quickly cordoned off the area.

Because the case involved multiple deaths and occurred in a sensitive area such as an international airport, the news was quickly reported.

Several hours later, the case was transferred to the French National Police Headquarters, where it was taken over by the Major Organized Crime Unit.

A French man, around thirty years old and dressed in a well-tailored dark suit with his hair neatly combed, entered the heavily guarded area, accompanied by his assistant and the police officer on site.

If Eric were here, he would know that this Frenchman is the same DuPont from before.

DuPont looked at the men's restroom, which was filled with technicians, and rubbed his temples with a headache. Four corpses, an international airport, professional techniques—this combination sounded like a headache.

Originally, he didn't want to get involved in this kind of thing and would run as far away as possible, but unfortunately, it seems that his superiors entrusted this matter to him because of his strong abilities.

So he had to leave the hotel in a hurry and come here, which ruined his gilded trip for the day.

The main issue is that international airports are too sensitive places; a single misstep could damage France's international image and negatively impact the tourism industry.

DuPont took a deep breath, put on shoe covers, and carefully crossed the cordon. Technicians were busy collecting evidence at the scene, with flashes of light going off intermittently.

“Tell me the specifics,” he said to the chief forensic pathologist beside him.

The forensic doctor pointed to the bodies and explained the cause of their deaths in general terms, concluding, "All of them were killed with a single blow; the murderer's actions were so clean and efficient that it was appalling."

"What a headache," DuPont thought to himself as he looked at the corpse. He was already trying to figure out some other way to get by, as this matter couldn't affect his career.

The assistant approached with a tablet and whispered, "They're all Albanians, confirmed to be the same group of Albanians from before."

Dupont frowned. He knew the true nature of this group of people. Since they came to France six or seven years ago, this group of Albanians had quickly developed into a small but powerful force.

He had tried to reprimand them, but no matter what, these scumbags always found a way to quickly move on, or even throw out a few scapegoats to deal with the situation.

Even destroying several hideouts was of no use.

From this, he realized that there were far too many traitors, and he even sensed that there were powerful figures backing these scumbags, so he had no choice but to give up.

"Hiding the body was to buy time, which means the killer needed time." DuPont looked at the body inside, a smile spreading across his face, and said:
"Did they offend someone?"

He was truly happy to see these scumbags go to hell.

The assistant shook his head, indicating that he did not know.

DuPont turned and left the scene, saying, "Check all the airport's surveillance footage, focusing on the Albanians, and also check all the flights to France today, especially the list of young female passengers traveling alone."

The assistant paused for a moment, then asked, "What do you think about the deaths of these people and..."

DuPont walked out of the restroom and calmly said, "The main business of this group of scum is human trafficking. In addition, the airport is a special place, and the method of killing them with one shot means that the murderer must have kidnapped someone from this group of scum."

After a pause, DuPont suddenly said, "To be honest, those scum deserved to die."

The assistant glanced cautiously at the people around him and coughed lightly.

DuPont ignored his assistant's reminder and glanced back at the bathroom. If there was a chance to get rid of this growing criminal gang, he would definitely give it a thumbs up.

Clearly, the murderer is also investigating, no, hunting down these scumbags, but he doesn't know who this good guy really is.

-----------

It was 5:30 p.m. in the Saint-Denis district.

Eric drove his Audi A6 Avant and found his destination using navigation: 117 Roger Street, Building B.

But they drove slowly without stopping, instead controlling their speed and observing their surroundings.

It was very quiet, with few pedestrians, and most of them seemed to be in a hurry.

Building B at 117 Roger Street is an old, five-story apartment building with mottled exterior walls and most of the windows closed, some even boarded up.

There is only one entrance, a heavy iron gate with peeling red paint.

It's obvious that this place was specifically chosen by the Albanians.

At the same time, it is likely a very important stronghold, and the defenses here are quite tight.

After driving only a short distance, Eric had already identified at least two sentries, one visible and one hidden.

Across from the building, a dirty van was parked, with a burly man sitting in the driver's seat. He seemed to be dozing off, but he would look up every now and then.

At the entrance of a small bar diagonally opposite the entrance of Building B, two men wearing hoodies leaned against the wall smoking, their eyes occasionally glancing in the direction of number 117.

The reason why they were able to confirm that they were lookouts was simple: all three of them were Albanian, and there was no one else around, just the three of them.

This is too obvious.

This also gives you a sense of the skill level of this group of Albanians.

After completing his initial observation, Eric slowly drove over and quietly parked the car on the side of the street about a block away from his destination, then turned off the engine.

He gave the stolen Glock 19 one last check, too lazy to go to the equipment shop Bill had given him to equip it; time was of the essence.

If Kimmy and Amanda suffer any damage or are reassigned due to equipment time constraints, it will be very troublesome.

Moreover, for someone like him, a pistol would be more convenient.

“Those Albanians probably don’t have that kind of heavy weapon either?” Eric tucked the Glock 19 into his waistband, got out of the car, and walked along the exterior walls of the buildings on the street.

Instead of heading straight for the apartment building, they took a short detour and chose the first target to eliminate.

Based on his observation, he realized that approaching the van used as an observation post from the side and rear would allow him to use the van's cargo compartment to block the view from the bar.

As for whether the burly man inside the car will notice his situation, that doesn't matter; he'll just block the line of sight first.

(End of this chapter)