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

There was a knock on the door. Hank frowned, looked at the doorway, and said in an icy voice, "Come in."

The door opened, and the sentry in camouflage walked in, standing ramrod straight in the doorway, his hands pressed against his trouser seams, his head slightly bowed. "Sir, someone wants to see you." Hank looked at him. "Who?" The sentry said, "Xie Wanying. From Borneo."

Hank's eyes narrowed. He looked at Wade, and Wade looked back at him. After a moment, Hank nodded. "Let her in."

The door opened. Xie Wanying walked in. She was wearing a dark green cheongsam with a perfectly low neckline, her hair was styled up, and she wore light makeup with a thin layer of lip gloss. She looked much more energetic than before. But beneath her bright eyes, there was an unconcealable weariness, like dark clouds pressing down on the horizon before a storm.

She walked to the long table and stopped, her gaze sweeping over everyone in the room—Hank, Wade, Paul, and the squad leaders—she looked at each of them. Then she spoke, her voice as calm as if she were having a casual conversation: "Mr. Hank, let's all make money together. One person can't earn it all. I'm here to cooperate with you."

Hank leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers lightly on the table. He looked at the woman, at her bright eyes, at her face, which was lightly made up but couldn't hide her weariness.

The last time they met, she came to buy weapons. Alone, a woman, she brought money and opened the leather suitcase in front of him. This time, Ruan Bao is dead, and his Borneo business is about to collapse. She's here again, still alone, still a woman, standing before him once more. He speaks, his voice low and somber: "Ruan Bao is dead, but you haven't run out of weapons. What kind of cooperation are you here to discuss?"

Xie Wanying looked at the expressionless face in his eyes and said calmly, "Ruan Bao is dead, but Borneo is still here. The rubber plantations are still here, the docks are still here. As long as there are people, business can continue." Hank looked at her, and the corners of his mouth slowly turned up.

Wade picked up his coffee cup, took another sip, put it down, and looked at Xie Wanying. His voice was soft: "Ms. Xie, can you hold this up alone?" Xie Wanying looked at Wade. This man had been with Hank for over a decade, a comrade-in-arms since the Vietnam War. He didn't speak easily, and when he did, it was always meaningful. She spoke, her voice still calm: "That's why I came to find you."

Wade leaned back in his chair, remained silent for a moment, then nodded without saying anything more.

Xie Wanying's gaze swept over the people in the room—Hank, Wade, Paul, and several squad leaders. Her voice wasn't loud, but every word was clear: "For the second batch of weapons, I need someone to go to Hong Kong to negotiate for me."

Hank leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers twice on the table. "You mean, send your people?" Xie Wanying shook her head. "Not my people. Your people. Hyena's people."

Hank narrowed his eyes.

Xie Wanying looked at Hank, her voice calm as if she were chatting casually: "I can't go back to Hong Kong. The mainlanders are there; if I go back, I'll die. But if you want to sell your weapons to Hong Kong, you need a middleman." She paused, her voice lowering even further, so low that only Hank could hear her: "This person can't be me. He must know the situation in Hong Kong very well, know people doing business there, be able to negotiate, fight, and kill. I know someone like that. But he's not one of yours."

Hank's eyes twitched, just once.

Xie Wanying looked into his eyes and said calmly, "This man is called Snake King Can. He's spent most of his life in Hong Kong, knows a lot of people, is addicted to drugs, and needs money. Give him money and let him do things for you. He'll obey you."

Hank remained silent for a long time. His fingers tapped on the table. Then he sat up straight, looked at Xie Wanying, and said, "Ms. Xie, I'll provide the second batch of weapons. You'll act as the middleman for the business in Hong Kong. We'll split the profits 30/70." Xie Wanying's eyes flickered slightly, just a moment. She nodded and extended her hand: "It's a deal." Hank took her hand.

Yau Ma Tei, Hong Kong Island.

The mahjong parlor is hidden in a narrow alley on Temple Street, so narrow that you can only pass sideways. There isn't even a decent sign at the entrance; the only thing is the word "Mahjong" crookedly painted in red on the mottled wall.

The paint had dried long ago, peeling and curling at the edges like pieces of skin about to fall off. The iron gate was half-closed, with large patches of paint peeling off the door frame.

At three o'clock in the afternoon, which should be the busiest time for mahjong parlors, all sorts of people from different walks of life crowd into the smoky room, dice roll in the bowl, cards are pushed and shoved on the table, and the sounds of cursing can be heard from one end of the alley to the other.

Snake King Can reclined on a worn-out wicker chair, his eyes half-closed, a cup of cold tea beside him. A cigarette was held between his index and middle fingers, unlit—not because he didn't want to, but because he was too lazy to move; he hadn't moved since sitting in the chair that afternoon.

His dirty T-shirt was wrinkled as if it had been fished out of a pickle jar, the collar was open, revealing his thin collarbone and sallow chest flesh. His face was expressionless, but the bags under his glasses were so heavy they could trap flies.

At this time of year, he used to be busy counting money, looking at the fees his subordinates collected from various establishments—a thick stack of brand-new Hong Kong dollars, gleaming enticingly under the lights. Now, most of those establishments have closed down or moved to other places.

With the docks taken over by the North, the smuggling business collapsed, and the human trafficking business also couldn't continue. His men either left or scattered, and he couldn't even gather enough errand runners.

He picked up the glass of cold tea; a thin film floated on the surface. He touched the rim of the glass with his lips, then put it down; it tasted bitter.

The chair creaked under his weight. He put the cigarette in his mouth, turned his head to rummage for matches in his pocket, and after a couple of tries without finding any, he took the cigarette out of his mouth and held it between his fingers, letting out a frustrated hum.

The light at the doorway dimmed for a moment.

The door was pushed open from the outside, the iron door slammed against the wall, then bounced back halfway, the hinges making a rusty scraping sound.

A white woman stood in the doorway, the dim yellow wall lamp casting a long shadow of her on the damp, moldy floor.

She wore a well-tailored dark gray suit dress, her blonde hair pulled back, revealing a section of her fair neck and a small patch of skin behind her ears. Her face was lightly made up, her features were well-defined, not particularly beautiful, but her gray-blue eyes held an inexplicable sense of pressure when she looked at people—like the operating lights on an operating table, illuminating you inside and out, leaving you nowhere to hide.

Snake King Can narrowed his eyes and looked her up and down. He didn't recognize her and had never seen her before. His mahjong parlor was located in the most secluded alley of Temple Street, and even regular customers had to wander around for ages to find it. How did a white woman manage to find her way here?

He pointed to the sign on the door with his finger holding a cigarette. "Who are you? You've come to the wrong place, haven't you?"

The woman ignored him, her high heels clicking crisply on the terrazzo floor, each step unhurried and deliberate, as if treading on the very tip of his heart.

Snake King Can frowned. The footsteps bounced back and forth in the empty mahjong parlor, sending chills down one's spine.

The men around him also noticed. They stopped shuffling mahjong tiles at the table, paused in mid-air with their cigarettes in their mouths, looked up from the tiles, lingered on the white woman for a moment, and then quickly looked away.

Snake King Can sat up straight. The rattan chair tilted forward abruptly, making a creaking sound.

The woman stopped in front of him, looking down at him. Her grey-blue eyes drooped down, like two unsheathed swords.

"Are you Snake King Can?"

He spoke fluent Cantonese, with a slightly peculiar accent, but every word was clear and distinct. His voice wasn't loud, as if he were asking about today's weather.

Snake King Can stared at her, looking her up and down, his mind racing—he didn't know her, had never seen her before, and had never done business with foreigners.

Who are you?

The woman didn't answer. She glanced down at the table in front of Snake King Can, which was covered with cigarette ash and tea stains, and her brow furrowed slightly, as if she had stepped on a puddle of vomit.

That expression flashed by, but Snake King Can saw it clearly and couldn't save face. The table was indeed dirty; the ashtray was overflowing with cigarette butts, tea had been spilled everywhere, several crumpled banknotes were soaked, and there was a sticky stain left at some unknown time.

He rummaged through the water stains to get the crumpled banknotes out of the water, stuffed them haphazardly into his pocket, and looked up at the woman. He pulled his hand off the table, wiped it on his trouser leg to remove the tea leaves stuck between his fingers.

Who are you?

The woman took a business card from her handbag and placed it on the table. Her fingers were long and slender, her nails neatly trimmed and coated with clear polish. The business card was plain white, without any fancy designs, only a line of gold-embossed English text and a phone number.

Snake King Can glanced down; his English wasn't good.

The woman nodded: "Mr. Hank sent me to see you. He wants to discuss a business deal with you."