Courtyard House: Home Alone

"Unpack it," Lin Yifan said.

Qi Haishan pulled a folding knife from his waist; the sound of the blade snapping open was as crisp as tearing silk. He crouched down, inserted the tip of the knife into the gap of the lock, and with a slight twist of his wrist, the brass spring made a compliant, soft click.

The moment the lid was lifted, the outline of the oil-paper-wrapped box gleamed dimly under the gas lamp. Tang Juye reached in and took out a gunstock from the top shelf; the walnut wood grain felt warm and smooth in his palm.

"A Chicago typewriter," he murmured, his thumb tracing the inscription on the ventilation holes. "Young master, this is in excellent condition..."

"They're all brand new."

Lin Yifan pulled out a complete gun from the bottom of the box; the blued steel on the barrel gleamed a deep indigo blue under the light. This was one of the guns seized from the guards of Prince Asaka Yasuhiko; it had never been used and was practically brand new.

He attached the receiver to the stock, the click of the latch clicking crisply and cleanly. The smooth insertion of the magazine indicated that the magazine spring was unworn, and each bullet would spin out along the perfect rifling.

The inscription on the side of the gun is clearly visible under the gas lamp—"Auto-Ordnance Corporation," the factory code for Westport, New York, and the production batch from 1939.

"Ten rifles, five magazines per rifle." Lin Yifan placed the Thompson submachine guns back into the boxes, covering them with oil paper again. "Plus 15,000 rounds of .45 ACP ammunition, packed in three other boxes. You two each take one, and the rest are upstairs for easy access."

Qi Haishan's Adam's apple bobbed. He had seen this kind of firepower monster in the Northwest Army; a single burst of bullets could carve honeycomb into a brick wall.

But those were all old guns from the warlord era. The barrels overheated and expanded, and the magazines had poor feeding. Two or three out of ten would always jam at a critical moment.

And this batch before him—he reached out and took out another one, pulling back the bolt to inspect the chamber, the mirror-like inner wall reflecting his dilated pupils—these were the ones that could truly decide the outcome of an encounter.

Just then, the doorbell rang again downstairs: "Someone go open the door, it should be Xu Zheng coming back."

Tang Juye gently placed the Thompson submachine gun back into its case, the oiled paper rustling softly as it rubbed against the case. He gave Qi Haishan a wink, who understood, put his folding knife into his pocket, and walked up the stairs with a hurried yet composed pace.

Lin Yifan did not move. His spiritual power spread downwards like a tide, penetrating the floorboards, and he "saw" the figure in the hallway taking off his hat - Xu Zheng's hat brim was still damp with the moisture of the night, and there was a damp stain on the shoulder of his coat from a sycamore leaf.

"Did the procedures go smoothly?" Lin Yifan asked as the footsteps reached the middle of the stairs.

"It went too smoothly."

Xu Zheng's voice carried a hint of amusement. Before he even arrived, he spoke first, "The Public Works Bureau of the British Concession just got a new director, a Scotsman transferred from Hong Kong, eager to make a name for himself. I used the name 'Nanyang Overseas Chinese Trading Company,' and he didn't even bother with a background check."

He appeared at the top of the stairs, holding a property ownership document with gold-embossed edges in his hand; the wax seal on the paper still had a fresh, raised texture.

Lin Yifan took the document, his fingertips tracing the elaborate English signature. 17 Victoria Road, property owned by "Nanyang Hongye Trading Company".

Xu Zheng walked to the porch, his gaze falling on the row of wooden crates. A knowing smile curled at the corner of his lips: "Chicago typewriters? Young master, are you getting ready for something big?"

"Better safe than sorry."

Lin Yifan turned and walked towards the living room, his leather shoes making a crisp sound on the wooden floor. "This is our warehouse and base. Although we don't usually store medicine here, we still need to have some necessary self-defense weapons."

"Tang Juye, go out and buy some food right away, buy a lot of braised meat and stuff, don't skimp on food." After saying that, he took out a stack of Japanese yen from his pocket (space), about two thousand yen, and handed it to Xu Zheng who was following behind.

The yen is still quite strong right now, about 4.2 yen to one US dollar, so all of this is about 500 US dollars.

His storage space contained nearly two billion Japanese yen, all seized from Japanese banks in Beijing, Tianjin, and Shanghai.

There aren't usually any large transactions, so it's just been sitting in his storage room. "This is for the next couple of days. I'll leave you enough funds for your activities before I leave."

Xu Zheng took the stack of Japanese yen, his fingertips making a crisp sound as he twirled the banknotes along their edges. He didn't count them, but simply stuffed the money into his inner pocket, his movements carrying a trust and tacit understanding unique to veterans.

"Braised pork, roast chicken, or crab roe xiaolongbao from the old Zhengxing restaurant in the French Concession?" Tang Juye had already reached the door, his fingers on the doorknob, and turned back to ask.

"Either is fine." Lin Yifan sat down in the leather chair in front of the fireplace, the concave curve of the seat perfectly supporting his back. "Buy the hot food, don't skimp. Only when you're well-fed will you have the energy to work."

Meanwhile, in the office of the head of the Japanese Special Higher Police, Kita Seiichi was sitting in a chair with his eyes closed, looking very relaxed.

Suddenly, a knock on the door startled him awake. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his right hand and rubbed it, then called out to the door, "Come in!"

A young man in plain clothes pushed open the door and entered, his leather shoes making short, sharp sounds as they scraped the floor. His face was so ordinary it was almost indistinct; he could be thrown into a crowd and never be found again. The only distinguishing feature was an old scar about an inch long on his left eyebrow, which gleamed faintly under the light.

"Section Chief," he bowed slightly, his voice extremely low, as if squeezed from the depths of his throat, "there's some activity from the French."

Kita Seiichi opened his eyes, his pupils instantly shrinking to the size of pinpoints. He didn't ask a question immediately, but slowly sat up straight, his right hand unconsciously stroking the chrysanthemum emblem carved on the armrest of the chair.

"explain."

"We've received word from the Black Dragon Society that the French have arranged a transaction for tomorrow evening. At the same time, we've also received word from Mitsui Bank that the Frenchman has arranged to collect the gold at 1 PM tomorrow. This means the drug deal between 'Ghost' and the Frenchman will definitely take place tomorrow afternoon. What do you think…?"

Kita Seiichi suddenly stood up: "Good! After waiting for so many days, we can finally have results. You immediately inform everyone that tomorrow, no matter what, you must keep an eye on that Frenchman, as well as the others, and find the person sent by 'Ghost' to make the deal through them."

At the same time, locate their strongholds and warehouses, and tell them that both the "Ghosts" and the medicines are things the Empire is determined to obtain.

If they lose track of them, there's only one path awaiting them: seppuku (ritual suicide by disembowelment)! Do you understand?

"Hey! Section Chief, I'll notify the action team immediately and give them your orders."

The plainclothes man bent even lower, and the collar of his shirt at the back of his neck was slightly rolled up, revealing the faded lining underneath.

He backed away towards the door, his leather shoes making a dull thud on the edge of the carpet, until his back hit the doorframe before straightening up, his left hand already on the brass doorknob.