Flip the table and divide the family property! Take his wife and daughter into the mountains and eat

At the same time.

On a high slope a few dozen meters away from the abandoned marshalling yard, withered yellow grass swayed wildly in the cold wind, making a rustling sound.

Zhao Shanhe silently crept to the top of the slope, like a lone wolf lying in wait, and lay down behind a half-buried abandoned railway sleeper.

His gaze swept across the swaying grass, quickly passing over the brightly lit open space below, the few loosely positioned sentries, and the black Santana parked at the edge of the shadows.

After confirming that there were no blind spots, he braced himself against the frozen soil with one hand, took off the heavy dark green military canvas bag from his shoulder, and quietly pulled it to his side.

The zipper was slowly opened by rough fingertips without making a sound.

The bag contained no extraneous items, only two genuine weapons wrapped in layers of rags soaked in waste engine oil.

Zhao Shanhe reached in first and pulled out the Type 56 semi-automatic rifle, which had more powerful firepower.

By the faint starlight, he skillfully removed the magazine, his fingertips brushing over a row of gleaming yellow bullet casings. After confirming it was fully loaded, he pushed it back into the magazine with a dull click.

Instead of using this high-powered weapon, he placed it flat on a straw mat that he could easily reach, as a trump card for clearing the field and suppressing fire later.

Then, he carefully took out the old bolt-action shotgun that bore the marks of time.

The oil-soaked rag was peeled off layer by layer, revealing a well-maintained, gleaming blued gun barrel.

This old gun has clearly been carefully modified by someone knowledgeable; a crude but practical old-fashioned optical sight has been hand-welded onto the gun body.

Zhao Shanhe lay prone on the cold, frozen ground and pulled a heavy brass slug from the inside pocket of his black cotton-padded coat.

He used his thumb to push open the bolt, loaded the large bullet—enough to blow a wild boar's head off—into the chamber, then pressed his palm against the cocking handle and gave it a sharp push and pull.

"Click".

The crisp sound of the door closing echoed through the withered grass, only to be instantly shattered and swallowed up by the howling north wind.

Zhao Shanhe steadily rested the cold gun barrel on the discarded sleeper in front of him, his entire body like a cold sculpture blending into the night.

He was not disturbed in the slightest by the arrogant shouts below and the screams of Scarface Liu Qili; his breathing became long and steady in the cold wind.

He squinted his right eye, his gaze piercing through the crosshairs of the scope. Through the slightly scratched glass of the scope, the bloody scene on the open ground below was brought close to his eyes without reservation.

As Scarface Liu let out a desperate and shrill roar, several thugs grinned and stepped forward, their triangular irons and rusty steel pipes whistling through the air as they rained down on him.

The dull thuds and the cracking of bones carried intermittently up the hillside on the north wind.

Zhao Shanhe didn't even blink, his index finger still firmly on the trigger, coldly watching the atrocity below.

In my sight, Scarface Liu was still struggling frantically, but soon, his beast-like screams were reduced to weak spasms.

His body was covered in blood, and he hung limply on the rusty iron chains, barely breathing.

"Bang!"

One of the thugs raised half a railway sleeper, preparing to deliver another hard blow to Scarface Liu's chest.

The tall, thin man next to him, holding a double-barreled shotgun, reacted quickly and grabbed his wrist.

"Stop hitting him!"

The tall, thin man leaned forward, reaching under Scarface Liu's bloodied and mangled nostrils to probe, then turned to the burly man and shouted, "Brother, we can't go any further! This old bastard's almost dead! If we keep hitting him, he'll really die here, and we won't get anything out of him!"

The burly man frowned, picked up the blood-stained triangle, and strode forward.

He used an iron rod to lift Scarface Liu's chin, looked at the swollen face that was unrecognizable, and spat in annoyance.

The man with the pockmarked face threw down the bent steel pipe in his hand, rubbing his aching arms and panting heavily.

"This is fucking weird."

Ma Zi wiped the blood and coal dust from his face, his tone puzzled: "Brother, we've been taking turns, tossing him around for three or four hours, using every trick in the book. This old bastard looks like a cowardly bully, but why has he suddenly changed his tune and become so loyal today? He just won't budge!"

"Loyalty?"

The burly man, as if he had heard the biggest joke in the world, suddenly turned around and pointed the triangular iron in his hand at the pockmarked man's nose.

"That piece of trash from the lowest ranks of society, a useless coward who can't even keep his own wife's belt, dares to talk to me about loyalty?"

The burly man sneered, then turned and stared intently at the half-dead Scarface Liu, his eyes filled with extreme malice.

"This old dog isn't talking, not out of loyalty. He knows perfectly well that once he spills all the secrets about Old Scar's whereabouts, he'll be useless to us. We won't leave him alive, and he'll be dead anyway!"

He paused, rubbed the stubble on his chin with the blood-stained triangle, and a violent excitement appeared on his face.

"But I love this kind of stubbornness! Pockmarked guy, take a few brothers over there and rip this piece of trash's pants off!"

The burly man's features were contorted, his voice filled with extreme cruelty: "His dangling lice are just for show. I'll castrate him myself today and see if his stubbornness prevails over my knife!"

Upon hearing this, the dozen or so desperados around him immediately became as if they had been injected with chicken blood.

Cruel and vulgar laughter erupted once again in the open space.

A whistle pierced the night sky, and Ma Zi and his gang rubbed their hands together, their eyes shining, and eagerly reached out to rip off Scarface Liu's bloody belt.

Just as this group of desperados descended into madness...

"Click".

A very soft sound of a car door opening suddenly rang out from the heavy shadows at the edge of the open space.

Although the sound was not loud, it was like an invisible whip lashing through the air.

The burly man and his gang of thugs, who had been arrogantly shouting just a second ago, froze and instantly dropped all their lewd expressions.

Everyone held their breath, obediently shut their mouths, and quickly stepped aside to make way.

On a high slope a few dozen meters away.

Through the slightly scratched glass of the scope, Zhao Shanhe's gaze followed the parting crowd and locked onto the black Santana.

With a noticeable swaying and sinking of the car body, the rear right door was roughly pushed open from the inside.

A black leather shoe, stretched and deformed by fat, landed heavily on the frozen ground covered in coal dust.

Immediately afterward, a fat man with a huge beer belly and wearing a nouveau riche mink coat squeezed out of the carriage, panting heavily.

The gold chain around his neck, as thick as a dog leash, gleamed with a vulgar light in the firelight.

The fat man impatiently exhaled a puff of cigar smoke, his thick double chin trembling with the movement. His small eyes, squeezed into slits by his thick flesh, revealed a chilling greed and cruelty.

This was Wang Biao.