Eh? You want to try the humanoid girl's iron fist too?

"Okay, you can't kill me."

"can."

Although such verbal assurances are of little use, Vorchovac must seize any hope he can grasp.

He swallowed hard, swiped his finger across the phone a few times, and the screen lit up, displaying an encrypted folder.

"But I must point out that these are all shell companies set up by the older generation, and I really don't know most of their clients."

"Give me everything you have. Don't try anything funny—I'm being very restrained right now, you don't want to see me in a bad mood."

As Flöhwatz typed to unlock the keyboard, the UMP9 monitored him from the side.

She was a little curious. When Flhofards unlocked the device, he used three layers of 12-digit random passwords, including uppercase and lowercase letters, numbers, and special characters, making it as complex as a bank vault.

How could anyone possibly remember such a complicated code? She followed Folhovacs's gaze and then noticed that he kept looking at the small bookshelf on the wall of the luxury RV.

The small bookshelf had 10 shelves, numbered from 0 to 9, and the books on them varied in age, with 12 books on each shelf. There was some dust on the spines, and some covers were curled, as if they hadn't been touched in a long time.

当她看到弗尔霍瓦茨的解锁过程时，顿时明白了他记忆密码的方式，“5+1+6”的摆放方式就是答案——5个大写字母、1个特殊符号位和6个小写字符。

She squinted, thinking that this guy was a little clever, but that was all.

After unlocking the three layers, a LibreOffice Excel spreadsheet finally appeared on the screen, listing dozens of company names, registered locations, and a few vague contacts.

Flhofard's finger hovered over the screen, as if reluctant to press the send button.

"See, it's not difficult."

"I'm doomed."

"Be grateful that you can still breathe."

“These people will kill my whole family.”

"What a coincidence, if you don't give me the list, I also..."

I will kill your whole family.

UMP9 handed over a note with an email address written on it.

"After sending it, my world is over."

"It's the same if you don't send it."

Vorkhwac swallowed hard, and finally pressed the send button. A "sent" notification popped up on the screen. He stared at his phone as if looking at his own tombstone, his mind completely blank.

"Alright, we can set off now. Try your best to ensure your safety."

"Not enough."

"I'll retire like this, for example, by finding a vineyard in France and living in seclusion."

"You can't do it, you don't understand these people."

“I was planning to get to know them. Now, you can get up and act naturally.”

……

Next to Grimaldi's most famous church, there is a seemingly ordinary building with a mottled gray-brown exterior, as if its edges have been smoothed out by time.

The surrounding area is bustling with activity. Tourists are taking photos in front of the church, and the terrace of the café is full of people, with the aroma of freshly baked bread filling the air.

The bar next door had a neon sign that flashed pink and blue, and a few young people were leaning against the door smoking, with intermittent laughter coming from inside.

The building's entrance is hidden between a tailor shop and an Indian restaurant, sandwiched between two narrow alleys. The storefront is inconspicuous, with a faded wooden sign hanging on the door that reads "Private Club," the lettering blurred as if it hasn't been changed in years.

Diagonally opposite is a retro vinyl record store, which is said to have been open for many years and has even changed owners twice.

After the old man finished speaking, he ran back to his dormitory, fanning himself with a palm leaf fan.

This could have been one of countless unknown shops, but it wasn't.

Raphael was driving the stolen Citroën, with all the 404 crew members inside.

“Let me state upfront, I don’t like this,” Raphael said as he pulled the car over to the side of the road.

"It's okay, nothing will happen."

“You’re trying to get something for nothing,” UMP45 in the back row said. “We agreed to meet in person, but you didn’t bring anything when we met. It’s easy for these uneducated, ruthless gangsters to be fooled.”

Our real goal is to get Jonas Krause out of here. He's a crucial part of this clandestine system, and his departure will inevitably lead to far more serious consequences.

Furthermore, Vörhofatz's client list was insufficient; those lists were specifically designed to conceal the true owners' identities.

Do you think he'll obediently follow orders?

"I don't know about other places, but this isn't a new glass door, so it can't stop a deliberate assassination at all."

In the cargo box behind, Vorhovacs was curled up in a ball, tears streaming down his face, muttering to himself, "We're all going to die." He shook his head as he murmured.

"Let's go." Raphael opened the car door, gesturing for all the members of Team 404 to follow.

Folhovacs was left in the Citroën's cargo box, curled up in a ball, tears and snot streaming down his face, his shirt wrinkled like a rag.

His hands were bound behind his back with plastic cable ties, making his wrists red. A rag was stuffed in his mouth, and he was making muffled whimpering noises. The cargo box was pitch black, with only a small light on the roof shining on his face, making him look even more haggard.

He knew East Germany's backup route, his heart pounded like a drum, and his mind was filled with the image of Krause—that man's laughter was like a knife, cutting into his heart.

He tried to shift his body, his knees pressing against his chin, the cable ties tightening even more, causing him to gasp in pain.

Then, the cargo box door was closed, and he couldn't see anything. He could only hear his own breathing and heartbeat, as if he were trapped in a coffin.

At that moment, four people pretending to be people suddenly appeared in the corridor and approached.

The opposing side was well-dressed, fully armed, and outnumbered, with the same arrogant smile as any ordinary thug.

Raphael will make good use of this weakness.

"Let's go." She smiled weakly, clutching her small backpack full of spoils.

Each person had bulging waistbands concealing pistols, and dagger sheaths peeking out from their trouser legs—they were fully armed.

The leader was a big guy with shoulders as broad as a wall, muscles bulging under his suit, veins standing out on his neck, and a disdainful look in his eyes, as if he were looking at a bunch of lackeys.

His three companions followed behind, their steps synchronized, their eyes revealing a sense of complacency, believing that their numerical advantage would allow them to overcome everything.

But that's how small fry are; they never judge the situation correctly.

"Stop!" the big guy said, his voice rough and hoarse, like sandpaper rubbing against wood.

At this moment, Raphael stopped his pursuit, stood in the middle of the corridor, his hand on his waist, as if he could draw his gun at any moment.

His companions spread out, forming a semi-circle, surrounding Squad 404. Raphael stopped, his smile deepening, as if completely unaware of the danger.

"Release them," the leader said again.

His feet were already staggered, and one hand was on his waist, ready to strike.

"Hey, look here."

When the UMP45 made a sound, my index finger was on the trigger.

blah blah blah...

Her gunshot was the signal.

Five seconds later, the gunshots stopped.

The few who chased after them and tried to intercept them paid the price for their recklessness.

Volume 5 Dancing in Shackles: Chapter 50 May Be the Finished Product

The gunfire subsided, leaving only the acrid smell of gunpowder and the stench of blood in the corridor. Four bodies lay on the ground, their suits soaked in blood, guns still clutched in their hands, but they hadn't had a chance to fire.

The leader stared wide-eyed, two bullet holes in his chest, blood flowing all over the ground.

When flesh clashes head-on with bullets, the winner is obvious.

Semi-encirclement is a very good tactic, but if you don't understand the situation, giving up the advantage of concealment and rashly showing yourself is undoubtedly the worst choice.

These people are pathetically stupid.

As the gunfire subsided, UMP45 emerged, her submachine gun hanging limply at her side, wisps of white smoke still rising from its muzzle. She bent down to check the magazine, making sure there were enough bullets, and then clicked the gun back into place.

The boots splattered over the pool of blood, making a sticky, smacking sound.

A moment later, the submachine gun fired again, five times rhythmically. Each shot landed precisely on the head of the corpse, ensuring no one could get up.

Having a numerical advantage grants a dominant position, but this rule no longer applies when humans are absent.

Confidence can sometimes lead to illusions.

She kicked away the weapon next to the corpse's hand.

Suddenly, the sound of heels hitting the marble floor came from afar, growing louder and louder—the owner of the sound was approaching.

The door at the end of the corridor opened, and light spilled out, illuminating a small area of ​​the floor. After a short while, a tall woman in an office lady dress appeared before them.

She wore a black bodycon dress that reached her knees, making her legs look even longer, and her black high heels were polished to a shine, the clicking sound of her footsteps echoing in the corridor.

She held a folder in her right hand, her hair was neatly tied up, her face was lightly made up, her lips were painted with dark red lipstick, and her eyes were as calm as a lake, without the slightest ripple.

She walked slowly closer, as gracefully as if she were walking a catwalk, showing no sign of having just heard gunshots.

"Professor Lovelace, Mr. Adrian wants to see you now."

She paid no attention to the corpses on the ground and the spreading bloodstains, and finished speaking in a completely emotionless tone.

His gaze swept over Squad 404, lingered on Raphael for a second, and then looked away.

The stench of blood made people wince, but she didn't even flinch, like a robot, her face expressionless.

I can't read it.

"Where is Adrian?" Raphael asked casually.

"I'll take you there, please follow me."

The female secretary nodded slightly, turned and walked towards the door at the end of the corridor, the clicking of her high heels starting again, the rhythm even.

“Volhovacs,” Raphael whispered to the elite of the private equity firm, “thank you for the guidance. You can start thinking about your options now.”

Raphael stepped forward, his boots treading on the edge of the pool of blood, avoiding the stains on the ground.

The three officers from 404 escorted Vorkhovatz, with UMP45 leading the way, his submachine gun hanging at his side, his eyes scanning both sides of the corridor, keeping watch for hidden sentries.

The UMP9 and MP7 flanked Flöhwatz, one on the left and one on the right.