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

New Island, the US naval base.

The morning sun rises from the sea, bathing the entire base in a thin layer of gold.

The fighter jets stood silently in rows on the tarmac, their silver-gray fuselages gleaming with a dark metallic sheen in the morning light.

In the distance, several gray warships were moored at their berths by the dock, their cannons pointing skyward like a few upright fingers.

But there were many more people around that gray building today.

Four soldiers in camouflage uniforms stood at the entrance, no longer ordinary sentries—they held M4 carbines with the muzzles pointing downwards and their fingers resting on the trigger guards.

The four men stood back to back, facing four different directions, their eyes scanning the camp like four tireless radars.

A cordon was set up around the small building, and yellow and black striped plastic tape swayed gently in the morning breeze.

Inside the cordon, several military jeeps were parked in a row, with their front ends facing outwards, ready to start at any time.

Further away, two armored vehicles blocked the road leading to the small building. Machine guns were mounted on the roofs of the vehicles, with the muzzles pointing outwards. The gunners sat in the cockpits, their hands on the machine gun grips, their eyes fixed ahead.

Second floor, Hank's office.

The curtains were drawn tightly shut, not letting in a single ray of light.

The room was lit by only one desk lamp, its dim light illuminating the large desk on which several documents were spread out, and next to it sat a cold cup of coffee.

The air was thick with the mixed smell of cigars and disinfectant, making one's chest feel tight.

Hank sat behind his desk, wearing a faded camouflage vest that revealed his two scarred arms.

His bald head gleamed oily under the light, and the scar on his chin stretched from the corner of his mouth to his ear, like a centipede crawling on his face.

He was holding a cigar, unlit, the filter already chewed into a mess.

He leaned back in his chair, his face appearing particularly ferocious in the dim light.

A report lay open on the coffee table, and photos were scattered all over the floor—a jeep blown to pieces, a truck burned to a metal frame, charred bomb craters on the ground, and Jason's hand wrapped in bandages, with dark red blood seeping through the bandages.

The photos, pale and lifeless under the lights, were like slaps to his face.

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.

He had already read the report on the coffee table, and he had also seen the photos.

The North Koreans stormed the base in Singapore, blew up three military vehicles, wounded more than a dozen soldiers, cut off one of Jason's fingers, and then left.

He put down his coffee cup, leaned back in his chair, looked at Hank, and spoke, his voice not loud, but every word like a nail: "Hank, the base needs to be on high alert."

Hank glanced at him but didn't say anything.

Wade picked up his coffee cup, took another sip, put the cup back on the saucer, and lowered his voice even further: "I've never seen anyone who can come and go freely in our base. This person is a madman, terrifying."

Hank took the cigar out of his mouth and stubbed it out in the ashtray.

The cigarette butts in the ashtray had piled up into a small mountain, some of them still smoking.

He stood up, walked to the window, turned his back to Wade, and pulled back the curtains a crack.

The sunlight streamed in, making him squint.

Downstairs, the soldiers were still patrolling, the armored vehicles were still blocking the intersection, and the machine gunners were still sitting in the cockpits.

He glanced at him for a moment, then drew the curtains, turned around, walked back to his desk, sat down, looked at Wade, and asked in a low voice that seemed to be squeezed from his chest, "Is Jason's finger back in place?"

Wade nodded: "It's connected. But I won't be able to hold a gun anymore."

Hank frowned.

Jason has been with him for over a decade, from the Middle East to Southeast Asia, from Africa to South America, and has never let him down.

Her finger was cut off by the Yankees, so she can't hold a gun anymore.

What can I do in the future?

He leaned back in his chair, looking at the ceiling, and tapped his fingers lightly twice on the table.

He sat up straight and looked at Wade: "Starting today, bring a small team from outside."

Wade's eyes flickered slightly, just a moment: "Who should I call in?"

Hank said, "Delta. I have connections there. I'll send twelve men over. They'll be on 24-hour shifts, guarding this building. No one is allowed to come near."

Wade's lips twitched, but he didn't say anything and just nodded.

Hank leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.

Now he's coming to take his head again.

He closed his eyes.

The hotel across the street from the base.

The window of the room on the fourth floor was open a crack, and the curtains were swaying gently in the wind.

Chen Feng took out the sniper rifle from his spatial storage.

The gun was long and painted in camouflage, its surface gleaming darkly in the afternoon sunlight.

The scope has optical zoom, and at its maximum magnification, it can clearly see a person's face from 1,000 meters away.

He spent 1,200 points to redeem the gun from the system. It wasn't cheap, but it was worth it—it was the best sniper rifle he could get right now.

Check the chamber, pull back the bolt, inspect the rifling, and confirm there are no problems.

Attach the scope, adjust the focus, and the world through the lens is as clear as a woodblock print carved with a knife.

He pulled a magazine from his pocket, with brass cases and copper jacketed bullets, and loaded it in one by one.

The moon peeked out from behind the clouds, casting a soft white light on the base's walls and barracks rooftops.

The beams of searchlight moved slowly across the night sky, like several giant fireflies dancing tirelessly in the darkness.

On the distant sea, the sidelights of several warships shone like low-hanging stars.

Chen Feng draped a camouflage net over his body, blending into the night like a drop of ink falling into an inkwell.

Hidden behind the bushes.

He took out a sniper rifle from the space, set it up among the branches of the bushes, with the barrel sticking out and covered with camouflage netting.

Zoom in on the gray building through the scope; the second-floor window is lit.

The curtains were drawn, but a sliver of light shone through the gaps.

He is waiting.

Hank will definitely come out of this building tonight.

It wasn't because he had any compelling reason to come out, but because he had been inside all day, from dawn till dusk, with even his lunch being delivered to him.

He was afraid, afraid of that Yankee lurking in the shadows.

He needs to get some fresh air.

Chen Feng adjusted the focus of the scope to make the window clearer in his field of vision.

The door opened.

A person walked out of the door.

Bald, wearing a camouflage vest, and muscular—that's Hank.

He stood at the doorway, followed by two burly men in dark combat uniforms, each carrying a gun.

His gaze swept across the darkness.

Chen Feng's scope slowly moved along with Hank's head.

The center of the crosshairs rested firmly on his temple, swaying slightly with his gait, like a fly stuck to his skin.

Hank walked down the steps, took a few steps in the open space in front of the building, stopped, and lit a cigarette.

The lighter's flame shone like a lamp in my field of vision.

He took a deep breath, and smoke spilled from the corner of his mouth, slowly rising into the emerald green air.