Starting from South America, speeding through the world

Chapter 291 Hong Kong
6:43 a.m., Kai Tak Airport.

It's foggy, and visibility is low.

At the end of the runway, a few old cargo planes could be vaguely seen parked.

Morrison did not look up immediately as he stepped out of the cabin.

He carried a black travel bag, his suit was wrinkled, his tie was loose, and his lips were chapped.

Like a businessman who has endured a long flight.

Of course, this was a "false identity" that Morrison had prepared for himself.

The name on his passport is "Charles Luther," and he frequently travels to Southeast Asia.

The reason for entry is simple: "Business negotiations, short-term stay".

When we arrived at customs, the line moved slowly and quietly.

Morrison handed his passport to the man sitting behind the counter.

The other person was wearing a light gray uniform, had a strange accent, and a stern expression.

The man took the item, his movements faltered slightly during the inspection, but he quickly resumed normal.

Morrison's heart sank.

Something happened.

The US responded very quickly.

I was being watched as soon as I left.

At this moment, the man glanced at the ID again, then suddenly raised his hand and waved it behind him.

Not far away, several plainclothes officers with bulging waistbands quickly approached.

He looked wary, as if he was ready to fire at the slightest sign of trouble.

Morrison caught the unusual detail out of the corner of his eye.

He showed no hesitation, simply waiting politely.

Soon, two middle-aged men in "Investigation Department" uniforms arrived at the window.

“Please come with us,” one of them said, deliberately slowing his speech.

Morrison's heart raced uncontrollably, but he nodded calmly.

Instead of using the regular entrance, they turned into the side door on the left.

In the very center is a sign in red that reads: “For Staff Only.”

Before entering the "temporary interrogation room," Morrison made a brief assessment.

The door was unlocked, the ventilation opening was small, and the interior area was about six square meters.

The ceiling was fitted with glaring incandescent lights.

Three other people were positioned around the perimeter, one of whom was armed.

"Charles Luther?"

The man spoke, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.

"Yes."

“You’ve been to Hong Kong quite a few times.”

"Yes."

The man grunted an "uh-huh," his tone indistinct.

He tapped his fingers on the table, then suddenly tossed his passport behind him and smirked.

"Take off your coat and raise your hands."

Mason Morrison.

The air solidified instantly.

Morrison didn't move.

He stared intently at the other person: "I don't know what you're talking about."

The man chuckled.

"Don't force me to take action—Mason Morrison."

"Now, take off your coat and raise your hands."

After a brief hesitation, Morrison put down his backpack and raised his hands again.

The distance is too great; there is no chance of winning.

We need to get closer, even closer.

He suppressed his nervousness, but spoke defiantly:
"Tell me, who exactly are you British working for?"

"An American? A German? Or—to put it simply, a Japanese?"

As soon as he finished speaking, the man's expression changed slightly. He took two steps forward and pinned him against the wall.

"You asked for this," he said coldly. "Don't regret it."

The next second, the jacket was roughly ripped off, running down the collar, armpit, and side of the waist.

Morrison stood there, his back soaked with cold sweat.

He felt his throat go dry and his hands trembled slightly uncontrollably.

He was not a soldier, and had never even practiced combat sports.

But now, all we can do is keep a close eye on the other side's movements and wait patiently for the right opportunity.

Finally, the man knelt down and reached for his calf.

It's now!

Morrison's body moved almost on its own.

Before his mind could fully issue the command, the dagger had already appeared in his hand.

The man froze, only to see a dark shadow flash by.

The next second, Morrison suddenly raised his hand and struggled to plunge the knife in.

A feeling of obstruction came over me; the tip of the blade was stuck in my bone, and my palm was numb from the heat of the blood.

The man made a sound that was hard to describe.

It sounded like he was muttering, or perhaps vomiting blood.

Morrison was out of breath and his vision blurred.

The stench almost made him vomit, and he instinctively loosened his grip on the knife handle. At the same time, he raised his right hand.

A massive desert eagle appeared out of nowhere.

however--

boom!
A gunshot rang out in the enclosed room.

Morrison felt as if his abdomen was being torn apart, a burning sensation spreading outwards, and the excruciating pain almost made him lose consciousness.

He instinctively looked down, almost forgetting how he pulled the trigger.

boom--!
May God protect us.

The bullet whistled through the air, grazing the man's ear and piercing half of his skull.

Blood and brain matter splattered on the wall, and the corpse collapsed like a tattered sack.

The room was deathly silent.

The remaining few dared not move, holding their breath, their faces deathly pale.

Morrison clutched his abdomen, blood gushing from between his fingers.

He fought with all his might to avoid collapsing on the spot.

Not yet.

Not even close.

Morrison braced himself against the corner of the table, dragged himself to his feet, his vision blurred, and his ears were ringing.

He grabbed the torn-off coat and stumbled out of the room.

No one was chasing him.

The group was so terrified they were too scared to move.

Morrison felt as if his chest had ruptured.

Blood, pain, fear, and anger mingled into a paste-like heat that burned him from the inside out, making him feel like he was about to explode.

People screamed and scattered.

The Japanese voice on the radio remained lukewarm.

"Welcome to Kai Tak International Airport."

He staggered across the detention area, burst through the side door, and plunged into the bright Hong Kong sunshine.

Some people screamed and scattered, while most simply lowered their heads and quickly moved away.

The Japanese on the radio was still lukewarm, as if it were from another world.

"Welcome to Kai Tak International Airport."

Everything was mixed together in my ears, near and far, high and low, blurry and indistinct.

Faster, faster!

Morrison gritted his teeth.

He knew he couldn't hold on much longer.

My intestines felt like they were being churned, my stomach was refluxed, and the taste of blood rose to my throat.

He turned into the parking area, his eyes flashing as he headed straight for the nearest black taxi.

Just as the car was about to start, Morrison yanked open the car door and pointed a gun at his head.

"roll!"

The driver was about to argue when he saw that the man was covered in blood, the crimson color glaringly bright.

That's fucking ridiculous.

The man shuddered in fright and ran away without looking back.

Morrison didn't hesitate for a moment, climbed into the driver's seat, shifted gears, and slammed on the gas.

The tires screeched against the ground with a short, sharp screech, the front of the car jerked for a moment, and then it lurched forward.

The road was empty and straight, and the sunlight shone on the glass, so bright it hurt the eyes.

Morrison forced himself to blink a few times.

Blood flowed down his forehead, making his vision even more blurred.

The car turned right and then left, finally entering East Kowloon Road.

The roadside was lined with low-rise buildings, construction sites, ruins, and a few scattered people.

Further on, there were rows of shantytowns, with dirty water flowing everywhere, and children running around in the alleys.

Morrison's breathing became increasingly difficult, each breath feeling like a knife slicing through his lungs.

He could feel himself getting colder and colder, his fingers were numb, and he almost ran onto the curb several times.

Finally, just before passing out, they arrived at the rendezvous point.

Morrison pushed open the car door and got out, almost rolling onto the ground.

He dragged his feet, found the loose iron plate on the wall, and laboriously knocked on it four times.

There was a moment of silence inside, followed by the clanging of chains.

The door was opened, and a dark-skinned middle-aged man poked his head out.

He was about to give the code, but Morrison couldn't wait any longer.

The item was sewn inside the lining.

He used all his strength to shove the blood-stained suit into the man's arms.

Tell them. Tell them.

The man was terrified and tried to help Morrison, but Morrison broke free forcefully.

"Japan. Someone in Japan wants to nuke Japan."

Tell them to plan ahead and move on.

Morrison knelt on the ground, tilting his head back and panting heavily.

Sunlight streamed through the building and fell upon him.

"Keep going. Keep moving forward."

Dust rose and then slowly settled.

(End of this chapter)