Starting from South America, speeding through the world

Chapter 228 Who are you?

Kampala, Republic of Uganda.

6:35 PM.

The sky was just beginning to darken, and the streetlights weren't all on yet.

Zhou Yi sat in a corner of the hotel lobby, leaning against the wall, with a glass of whiskey on the rocks in front of him.

He was wearing an unassuming gray shirt with the cuffs rolled up and his elbows resting on the round table.

This place has a French background, and most of its guests are French clients and UN representatives.

Therefore, the security level is above average locally, and it is managed by locally hired personnel.

Zhou Yi was finally able to relax a little—after all, the past three weeks were enough for him to savor for a while.

The mosquitoes in the forest, the smell of Eastern Europeans, Colin yelling like a madman, and that bunch of bastards who can't keep track of numbers.

ended.

We might actually have to thank Lucas.

He sighed, picked up the glass, and drank the alcohol in one gulp. The ice cubes clinked against the glass.

At the same time, the elevator at the end of the lobby made a "ding" sound.

Zhou Yi glanced over instinctively.

The door opened.

An Asian man walked out, his steps slow, looking slightly tired, as if he had just finished a meeting or dinner.

Behind him were two locals dressed as bodyguards.

In the blink of an eye, Zhou Yi was stunned.

This face.
This face.
In just two seconds, he felt his breath catch in his throat, his heart race, and his mind went blank except for the photograph he had found in the villa in Potomac.

[For details regarding the photos, please see Chapter 129]

On a street in a certain place, a mother stands next to three unfamiliar faces, smiling at the camera.

Finally, a name appears: Li Chengyi.

this man
The man before me.
Not like.

They look so alike.

It's so absurd, so chilling.

Zhou Yi couldn't remember the last time he was so lost in thought; perhaps it was twenty-three years ago, lying next to a cold corpse.

He stared blankly as the man walked to the bar, sat down casually, and said something to the bartender.

After a long while, Zhou Yi suddenly came to his senses and then stood up abruptly.

The man noticed his arrival, turned his head and smiled, but his expression betrayed a hint of wariness.

"Excuse me, what's the matter?"

“Hello,” Zhou Yi said directly. “We seem to have met before.”

"Probably not," the man replied politely.

As he spoke, he subtly shifted his position slightly, as if afraid that the man who had suddenly approached him might have ulterior motives.

Zhou Yi stared intently at him.

"Your surname is Li?"

The man paused for a moment, then said, "I'm sorry, you've mistaken me for someone else."

Zhou Yi still didn't look away: "I know someone named Li Chengyi."

As soon as he finished speaking, the man's expression changed drastically.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “Please leave immediately, or I’ll have to call someone else to handle this.”

The silence lasted for a few more seconds.

The man's expression grew increasingly tense.

Zhou Yi thought for a moment, then turned to look at the scrolling news subtitles on the television screen—it was a report from the National Broadcasting Corporation about a traffic accident in the north.

“Yes,” he said meaningfully, “I must have misremembered.”

The man secretly breathed a sigh of relief, so much so that even the bartender noticed.

Zhou Yi nodded and turned to leave.

However, after taking only two steps, he suddenly said, "Just a reminder—your bodyguard on the right, after sitting down, touched his lower back a few times, seemingly unintentionally, probably checking something."

"That's usually where guns are hidden."

"But considering how nervous you are about my appearance, he shouldn't be carrying any weapons."

The man did not heed the "weirdo's" advice.

Seeing that Zhou Yi was finally about to leave, he hurriedly stood up, whispered a few words to the bodyguard, and then walked with them toward the hotel's main entrance.

There, the security guard at the front desk stood ramrod straight, his eyes following the group of people.

As the temperature dropped at night, the streetlights were gradually turned on, and the air was filled with dust and the smell of diesel fuel.

Swarms of flying insects circled the light, and a motorcycle whizzed past the street corner.

Just then, there was a commotion outside.

A dozen or so Black men of varying ages walked in, dressed in tattered clothes, dragging several large canvas bags.

Two of them were wearing outdated imitation military jackets and cheap rubber shoes.

Instead of rushing in, they lined up in two rows, their movements exhibiting a subtle consistency.

The lobby manager was stunned and quickly stepped forward to greet them, calling out in Swahili.

The man in the lead ignored him and slowly put the bag down.

The zipper slid open, revealing a section of an object.

It appears to be a wooden gunstock.

Before the lobby manager could react, the men had already drawn the rifles they had prepared.

The sound of metal being cocked rang out one after another.

The man who was about to leave was the first to realize what was happening. He was terrified and hesitated whether to run for his life or kneel down and beg for mercy when he noticed that his bodyguard on the right had actually come to meet him.

"Put them down! Don't do this here—this is downtown!"

The next second, the man raised his hand and fired a shot at the bodyguard's head without any mercy.

The bullet pierced through his face and exploded from the back of his head, splattering bone fragments and blood all over the ground.

The body fell backward and crashed onto the smooth marble.

At this moment, the lobby manager seemed to be awakened by the gunshot, and opened his mouth to let out the loudest scream of his life.

The man stood frozen in place, his ears ringing.

And all around him, chaos was inevitable.

Some people fell, some desperately lunged at the nearest pillar, and many more scattered and fled, trying to rush to the elevator, the toilet, or any corner that looked like cover.

"Get down! Everyone get down!" a young militant shouted in broken English.

Realizing his orders were ineffective, he simply raised his gun, aimed, and decisively opened fire on a man and a woman who had opened the stairwell door.

The bullet struck her in the back, and the woman collapsed helplessly onto her male companion, her skirt quickly staining red with blood.

Screams erupted again.

This time, however, the tourists all chose to lie down on the ground, covering their heads and remaining motionless, for fear of becoming the next target.

The militants advanced rapidly and soon seized the main entrances and elevators.

"Cellphones! Throw them all out!" the leader roared.

No one dared to move.

Soon, the search began, one by one.

Backpacks and carry-on luggage were roughly torn open and inspected.

Those who tried to explain were all silenced by a rifle butt.

When the man was forced to lie face down, his face was pressed against the edge of the broken glass, and the cut went across his brow bone. The pain almost made him faint.

Prayers, sobs, footsteps, the sound of gun butts hitting the floor tiles, and countless incomprehensible shouts nearly made him faint.

He turned his head in despair, but caught a glimpse of an acquaintance out of the corner of his eye.

In the corner, opposite the bar, the Asian man who had spoken to him in Chinese was squatting behind a trash can.

Upon realizing he was being stared at, the corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly, as if he were smiling.

(End of this chapter)