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

Borneo, rubber plantation.

The afternoon sun was so intense it seemed to be baking the entire earth. The leaves of the rubber trees drooped and wilted, and the distant hills twisted and deformed in the heat, like melted syrup.

The air was thick with the sour smell of latex and the pungent odor of earth, making one's chest feel tight.

The cicadas' chirping came in waves, like countless tiny saws pulling back and forth, making one feel restless and irritable. The curtains of the gray villa were all drawn, letting in no light.

Only a floor lamp was lit in the living room, casting a dim, yellowish light on the large sofa. A cup of tea sat on the coffee table, long since cold, a thin film floating on top, untouched.

Xie Wanying sat on the sofa, wearing a plain white cheongsam without any patterns or embroidery. Her hair was loose and draped over her shoulders. She wore no makeup, but had faint dark circles under her eyes, and her lips were a little dry. She looked quite haggard.

But those eyes still shone brightly—a light that refused to give up even in dire straits, like a lamp that swayed in the wind and rain but never went out.

Ruan Bao is dead. He took twenty men with him, and they all died.

They went to New Island on an American naval transport ship, carrying American guns, American bullets, and American equipment, and they all died.

That guy—that Northerner in overalls, covered in phone grease, with nothing in his eyes—won again. She leaned back on the sofa and closed her eyes.

Ruan Xiong is dead, and Ruan Bao is dead too. She's the only woman left in the Ruan family.

What would those people—those old men who followed Ruan Xiong to conquer the world, those brothers who bowed and scraped before her and called her "Sister-in-law"—think?

Do they think she, as a woman, can't hold onto the family business?

Could someone be trying to take advantage of the situation? Could someone be trying to replace the Ruan family? She opened her eyes, picked up the now-cold cup of tea, and took a sip. It was astringent and bitter. She slowly swallowed it and put the cup down.

She stood up, walked to the window, and drew back the curtains. Sunlight streamed in, making her squint.

Outside the window stretched an endless rubber plantation, row upon row, neat and orderly, extending into the unseen distance, glistening with an oily sheen in the afternoon sun.

In the distance, several workers were working in the rubber plantation, bent over, their tapping knives leaving white marks on the bark of the rubber trees. Milky white latex dripped down the cuts and into small buckets hanging below.

This rubber plantation was built by Ruan Xiong. He went from having nothing to having more than two thousand men under his command, from a dilapidated thatched hut to this vast rubber plantation.

For more than a decade, he has been through bloodshed and crawling on the edge of a knife, from drug trafficking in Southeast Asia to smuggling in Hong Kong, from kidnapping and extortion to subverting the regime, carving out a bloody path.

Now that he's dead, and Ruan Bao is dead too, the family business he built up can't be squandered in her hands.

She turned around, walked to the cabinet, opened the drawer, took out a pistol, and placed it on the table.

He then took out two stacks of banknotes from the cabinet, tied them with rubber bands, and put them into his handbag.

Then she went to the wardrobe, opened it, picked out a dark green cheongsam, changed into it, and looked at herself in the mirror. She put her hair up, applied light makeup, applied a little lip gloss, and pursed her lips, making herself look much more energetic.

She walked out of the small villa, where a black car was parked.

Gacha stood beside the car, wearing a dark short-sleeved shirt and holding a cigarette. When he saw her come out, he stubbed out the cigarette, threw it on the ground, and crushed it with his foot.

"Sister Ying, are you going out?" Xie Wanying looked at him. "To the dock. Get the boat ready to go to the new island." Gacha opened the car door.

Deep within the rubber plantation, a makeshift dock stands on the riverbank, its massive wooden stakes driven into the silt and covered with thick planks that creak underfoot. A small gray boat is moored beside the dock, its hull unmarked, its engine still humming softly, white smoke billowing from its exhaust pipe and drifting across the river.

Gacha was checking the instruments in the cockpit. Xie Wanying stood at the stern, watching the rubber trees on both banks recede into the distance. The boat was moving quickly, and the river wind whipped her hair around. She squinted. New Island—she was going to find Hank.

Ruan Bao is dead; she can't protect the family business alone. She needs someone to rely on.

Hank—the US's black glove in Southeast Asia, with mercenaries under his command and the military, intelligence agencies, and the entire US government behind him.

Does he need her? Borneo's rubber, minerals, ports, and her connections on Hong Kong Island. She needs him, and he needs her. That's enough.

New Island, an American military base. The afternoon sun was so intense it felt like it could melt you; the concrete ground on the tarmac shone with a blinding white light.

In the distance, rows of fighter jets were parked in the hangar, their silver-gray fuselages twisting and deforming in the heat, like molten metal. The air was thick with the pungent smell of aviation kerosene and rubber tires, making one's chest tighten.

The gray building, the conference room on the second floor. The curtains were drawn tightly, not letting in a single ray of light.

Only one chandelier was lit in the room, casting a dim yellow light on the long table, on which lay several maps and a recently delivered report. The ashtray was overflowing with cigarette butts, and the air was thick with the pungent smell of cheap tobacco.

Hank sat at the head of the table, his bald head gleaming under the light, like a polished cannonball.

The scar on his chin stretched from the corner of his mouth all the way to his ear, like a centipede crawling on his face. He wore a faded camouflage vest, revealing two arms covered in scars, muscles bulging, veins standing out, like old tree roots coiled on his arms.

He was holding a cigar between his fingers, unlit, with the mouthpiece chewed up beyond recognition.

Ruan Bao is dead, and the Hong Kong mission has failed once again.

His face was pale, his eyes were sunken, his lips were dry, and there was a bluish stubble on his chin. He looked like an enraged tiger that couldn't find an outlet for its anger.

His fist was clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white and the veins on the back of his hand bulged out.

Wade sat opposite him, wearing a black T-shirt, lean and muscular, with skin as black as charcoal. He held a cup of black coffee in his hand, sipping it slowly, his face expressionless, but his eyes were bright.

"Kevin, Buck, Jason, twenty-one people, now Ruan Bao, twenty-one people. Twice, more than forty people have died." The tone was as if stating the weather, without any emotion.

Hank took the cigar out of his mouth and stubbed it out in the ashtray. The ashtray was already piled high with cigarette butts, some still smoking. He looked up at Wade, his voice low and deep, as if squeezed from his chest: "I know."

Wade put down his coffee cup, leaned back in his chair, and remained silent for a moment before speaking. His voice wasn't loud, but every word was like a nail: "That Yankee, we underestimated him." Hank didn't speak, so Wade continued, "The first time, twenty-one died. The second time, another twenty-one died. Our intelligence was correct; his docks weren't heavily guarded, and he didn't have many men. But he single-handedly wiped out Nguyen Pau. This guy isn't someone you can deal with just numbers."