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

Central, Hong Kong Island.

A 32-story building with a gray glass curtain wall stands on Queen's Road Central. It is not particularly eye-catching in this area full of high-rise buildings, but its location is excellent. There is a subway station exit downstairs and Landmark Plaza across the street. It has a large flow of people, is easy to enter and exit, and is also easy to hide.

The building's property rights are registered under a company called "Asia United Investment," which is registered in the British Virgin Islands. Its shareholders are several offshore funds, nested in layers, and the actual controller cannot be found.

Nominally, this is an American-owned trading company that does import and export business. The office area is on the fifteenth to eighteenth floors. There is a reception desk, reception staff, workstations, and male and female employees in business attire coming and going. It is no different from any ordinary foreign-funded enterprise.

But there's another set of buttons in the elevator that requires a special key to activate—the third basement level, which is the true heart of this building.

Three underground floors.

The elevator doors opened, revealing a heavy steel door, painted gray, that blended seamlessly with the wall.

A camera was embedded above the door, its red indicator light shining in the dimly lit corridor like an eye that never closes.

An Asian man in a dark suit stood by the door.

Chan Chi-keung, a local from Hong Kong Island, worked for the CIA for eight years, in charge of internal security. He had seven or eight subordinates, all of whom were of Asian descent and locals from Hong Kong Island.

This is also the CIA's strategy on Hong Kong Island—using locals to do peripheral work, as they speak the language, are familiar with the environment, and are less likely to attract attention.

He pressed the button next to him.

The steel door hummed softly as it slid open slowly.

Inside was a spacious conference room.

A long table, black leather chairs, several huge maps of Hong Kong Island hanging on the wall, and several telephones and encrypted communication devices on the table.

Fluorescent light tubes were embedded in the ceiling, casting a stark white light that illuminated the entire room without a single shadow.

A dozen or so men and women sat on either side of a long table. Some were Chinese, some were white, some were wearing suits, and some were wearing casual clothes. They all had documents and notebooks spread out in front of them.

No one spoke; only the low hum of the air conditioning system could be heard.

There was a person standing at the head of the table.

Andrew Miller, 45, CIA Island Station Chief.

She had blonde hair, but her hairline had receded to the top of her head, and the remaining hair was cut extremely short, almost touching her scalp.

He was wearing a well-tailored dark gray suit with a dark blue tie tied in a Windsor knot, the knot neat and tight, like a bullet.

His face was expressionless, but his gray-blue eyes were bright, like two polished glass beads under the stark fluorescent light, sweeping across everyone's face, pausing for a moment, and then moving away.

He worked for the CIA for over twenty years, from the Middle East to Europe, and from Europe to Southeast Asia. He saw all kinds of situations and killed all kinds of people.

Hong Kong Island was where he spent the most time—seven years—and he knew every street, every community, and every prominent figure in the city like the back of his hand.

But today, the report in his hand felt unfamiliar to him.

He put the report down, placed his hands on the table, leaned forward slightly, and glanced at everyone's faces one last time.

He spoke, his voice not loud, but every word clear: "A new mission. The Yankees. Our objective."

There was a moment of silence in the conference room.

The silence was like a stone thrown into a deep pool, the ripples spreading from the surface to everyone—some put down their pens, some closed their notebooks, and some sat up straight.

All eyes were on Andrew's face.

They had certainly heard of the name "Northeasterner".

The owner of Golden Princess Nightclub runs more than a dozen establishments in Yau Ma Tei—nightclubs, gambling dens, noodle stalls, and brothels—and employs dozens of people. The entire Temple Street is his territory.

One man killed fifteen of Tyrannosaurus Rex's men, ravaged Fat Bo's territory, wiped out one hundred of Ruan Xiong's men, and killed twenty-one of Ruan Bao's men.

Han Ke died at his hands, at the US military base in Singapore, shot in the head with a sniper rifle.

They knew all the details about his entanglement with Hank, how he infiltrated the American base, how he blew up military vehicles, and how he cut off the CIA agent's finger. They had circulated the report, and everyone had read it more than once.

A middle-aged man in a dark suit closed his laptop, took off his glasses, and slowly wiped the lenses with a velvet cloth.

His name is Fong Sai-ho, the deputy station chief of the CIA Hong Kong Island station. A local Hong Kong resident, he has worked for the CIA for fifteen years, rising from a junior detective to deputy station chief. He is responsible for coordinating the operation of various intelligence networks on Hong Kong Island and is Andrew's most capable subordinate.

Fang Shih-hao put on his glasses, looked at Andrew, and said in a low voice, "Station Chief, the matter between Yankee and Hank was his personal feud. Now that Hank is dead and the Mad Dog Squad has disbanded, this matter should end here. We don't need to get involved anymore."

Andrew looked at him, his grey-blue eyes expressionless.

He certainly knew that Fang Shih-hao was right.

Hank is not a formal CIA employee. The Mad Dog Squad is just a CIA black glove. They can be used for a few more years if they are useful, and can be discarded at any time if they are not.

Now that Hank is dead and the Mad Dog Squad is disbanded, things should indeed end here.

But the higher-ups don't think that way.

Adrian didn't think so.

More than a dozen people died, several military vehicles were blown up, and people were allowed to come and go freely in the base. If the US doesn't get revenge, where will it put its face?

He leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers lightly on the table twice. "These are Mr. Adrian's orders. The Yankees must die."

Fang Shih-hao frowned slightly and didn't say anything more.

He picked up his notebook, opened it, lowered his head, drew another horizontal line under the line he had just written, paused for a moment on the paper, and then continued writing.

Andrew shifted his gaze from Fang Shihao, scanned the conference room, and finally focused on the people at the far end of the long table.

Seven people, six men and one woman, sat in the far corner, several empty seats away from the others.

They were dressed in casual clothes, some in dark jackets, some in shirts, some in T-shirts, some in sneakers, and some in boots, standing out from the suited agents in the conference room.

But everyone sat in the same posture—back straight, hands on knees, eyes looking straight ahead, like seven guns holstered.

The captain's nickname is Scorpion, and his real name is Charles. He is a retired Navy SEAL who served in the Middle East for eight years, participated in countless special operations, and killed more people than all of you here combined.

He had short, blond hair, shaved very short, almost touching his scalp.

His face was thin, with high cheekbones, and a pair of gray-blue eyes that were sunken deep in their sockets. When he looked at people, he was like a scorpion lurking in the dark—unmoved until he moved, then deadly.

He was wearing a dark gray tactical jacket, zipped up to his chest, revealing a black T-shirt underneath. A faint dark red scar was visible at the collarbone, extending down to his Adam's apple.