Courtyard House: First, kill the hypocrites, leave none alive.

pier.

night.

The sea breeze pressed down from the dark ocean, salty and damp, making the metal containers creak.

The light from the high-mast lamps shines down from above, cutting out geometric patterns of light and shadow on the concrete ground.

The air was thick with the smells of gunpowder, blood, and burnt flesh, all mixed together like an invisible giant hand gripping a person's throat.

Ahei turned around and fired a shot.

The bullet flew past Chen Feng's ear and struck the shipping container behind him, sparks flying as it flashed and disappeared into the night.

He hid behind the shipping container, his back against the cold metal, his hands trembling.

As Ruan Bao's footsteps faded into the distance, he gritted his teeth, poked his gun out from behind cover, and without aiming, pulled the trigger several times in Chen Feng's direction.

Bullets struck the iron railings of the pier, clanging and clattering, the sound particularly jarring in the quiet night.

Chen Feng rolled to the side and hid behind another pile of containers.

The bullet hit the spot where he had just been standing, shattering the concrete and sending fragments flying.

He slung the submachine gun over his shoulder and drew his pistol from his waist—the silencer still screwed on, the gun body black, gleaming with a dark metallic sheen in the dim light.

Peeking out, I saw Ahei crouching behind a pile of shipping containers fifty meters away, with only half his head and a section of a gun barrel showing.

The gun barrel was still smoking, and wisps of smoke rose gently in the lamplight.

Chen Feng raised his pistol and aimed at the exposed barrel.

Ahei's finger was still on the trigger, and the muzzle of the gun was swaying slightly.

Chen Feng pulled the trigger.

The bullet was fired from the silencer with a soft "whoosh," like something deflating.

The bullet struck Ahei's wrist. Ahei screamed in pain as the gun flew out of his hand, hit the metal of the shipping container, bounced, and fell to the ground.

He clutched his wrist and backed away, blood gushing from between his fingers, gleaming a dark red under the light.

Chen Feng walked out from behind the container, unhurried and with each step firmly planted.

A submachine gun was slung over his shoulder, a pistol was in his hand, and the muzzle was pointed in Ahei's direction.

Ahei leaned against the shipping container, his other hand instinctively reaching for his waist, trying to pull out another gun.

Chen Feng fired another shot.

The bullet hit his thigh, and Ahei's knees buckled, causing him to kneel on the ground.

Another shot hit his other leg, and he collapsed to the ground like a lump of mud.

He lay on the ground, his face pressed against the cold cement floor, blood gushing from wounds on his wrists and thighs, pooling into a small dark red puddle beneath him.

Looking up, he saw Chen Feng standing in front of him, his deep, calm eyes looking down at him, his face expressionless.

His lips trembled a few times, his voice muffled as if he had a mouthful of sand: "You...you're not human..."

Chen Feng pulled the trigger.

The gunshots weren't loud, but they were exceptionally clear in the quiet night.

Ahei lay on the ground, twitched a few times, and then stopped moving.

Chen Feng tucked the gun back into his waistband, squatted down, and searched Ruan Bao's body, finding two magazines and a knife. He stuffed the magazines into the pocket of his tactical vest, tucked the knife into his boot, stood up, and continued chasing after Ruan Bao in the direction he had fled.

Ruan Bao ran into a warehouse.

This is the largest warehouse at the dock, with several iron doors, a semi-circular dome, and rusty iron sheets that gleam darkly in the moonlight.

The room was filled with wooden crates and shelves, and the messy passageways resembled a maze.

He crouched behind a pile of wooden crates, leaning against the wall, a submachine gun clutched to his chest, panting heavily, his heart pounding as if it would burst from his chest.

Sweat streamed down his forehead and cheeks, dripping onto the gun barrel and into the magazine.

Is Ahei still alive?

He didn't know that Ahei's gunfire had stopped.

He squatted alone in the dark warehouse, surrounded by wooden crates and shelves, not knowing where the Yankees were or where his men were.

Footsteps could be heard outside.

It was very light, but it was exceptionally clear in the quiet warehouse, like stepping on people's hearts, one step at a time.

Ruan Bao gripped his gun tightly, his finger on the trigger, and held his breath.

The footsteps grew closer and closer, echoing through the warehouse, their direction indistinguishable, as if they were surging in from all directions at once.

He gritted his teeth, peeked out from behind the wooden crate, and fired a burst of bullets in the direction of the footsteps.

Bullets struck wooden crates, sending sawdust flying; they hit shelves, causing the metal frames to clang; they hit the ceiling, sending dust cascading down.

The footsteps stopped, but they didn't move away—they simply changed direction.

Ruan Bao retreated behind the wooden crate and changed his magazine.

With his back against the wall, the cold surface of the wall clung to his skin through his combat uniform, making him shiver.

His hands were still shaking, but he tried to steady his breathing and calm himself down.

The Peking Man hasn't come in yet; he's outside, in the darkness.

He was like a snake, lurking in the shadows outside the warehouse, flicking his tongue, waiting for him to walk into his trap.

Gunshots suddenly rang out outside the warehouse, dense and short, mixed with shouts and screams.

Ruan Bao suddenly raised his head—it was his men, his few henchmen scattered throughout the docks.

They heard the gunshots and rushed over from different directions.

Ruan Bao's eyes lit up, as bright as a drowning person seeing a light in the dark.

He stood up from behind the wooden crate, picked up his submachine gun, and rushed toward the warehouse door.

At the warehouse entrance, several of Ruan Bao's men rushed out of the darkness.

There were six people in total. Some were carrying submachine guns, some were holding machine guns, and some were clutching grenades. The ammunition belts were hanging on the guns, and the yellow bullets gleamed darkly in the moonlight.

They charged in from different directions, their steps hurried, guns pointed outwards, and soon converged at the warehouse entrance, forming a fan-shaped network of fire.

Ruan Bao rushed out of the warehouse, stood among them, and fired a burst of submachine guns into the darkness.

The bullets whistled through the night sky and disappeared into the darkness in the distance.

The machine gun was mounted on the pier, the gunner lay prone on the ground, and the ammunition belt hung down from the right side of the gun, coiled on the concrete.

His finger was on the trigger, the muzzle pointed in the direction Chen Feng had just appeared, and his eyes were pressed against the scope.

As soon as the Yankees show their faces, he will fire a whole magazine of bullets.

Nguyen Pao stood next to the machine gunner, firing his submachine gun.

The bullet flew away as soon as it was fired, and no one knows where it hit.

But he didn't care; he now had men, guns, and firepower.

Six men, machine gun, submachine gun, grenades. Even the most formidable Yankees are still just one person.

"Yankee, come out!"

He yelled into the darkness at the top of his lungs, the veins on his neck bulging like writhing earthworms.

"Today, it's either you or me who dies!"

There was no response from the darkness; the Yankees weren't there.

Ruan Bao's shouts echoed on the dock.

No one answered him; there was only the sound of waves, the distant whistles of cargo ships, and the heavy breathing of the six men.

Chen Feng crouched in the darkness, and in the green field of vision of his night vision goggles, the seven people looked like several glowing trees, clearly visible.

The machine gunner lay prone on the pier, his gun pointed in the direction he had just been; two men stood guard at the warehouse entrance with submachine guns; two men crouched behind containers, and one hid under a crane.