Courtyard House: Home Alone

Lin Yifan placed the cleaned pork knuckle bone on the edge of the rough porcelain plate. The bone struck the porcelain surface with a crisp sound, which only made his thoughts clearer.

"Since they've cooperated with the Japanese, there's no need to be polite. However, you don't need to worry about that; 'Ghost' will arrange for someone to take care of them."

He put down his bowl, his gaze sweeping over the four men. "Tomorrow, during the transaction, Xu Zheng, Liu Quande, you, and Qi Haishan will go. Tang Juye will stay behind."

Xu Zheng's knuckles paused for a moment on the edge of the coffee table before slowly clenching into a fist. He didn't respond immediately, but instead looked down at the swaying liquor in the bowl, the strong Erguotou condensing into a fine ripple in the rough porcelain bowl.

"Young master,"

His voice was a few decibels lower than usual when he spoke, "Since the French are colluding with the Japanese, shouldn't we spare one of them?"

Lin Yifan was wiping the oil off his fingertips with a lotus leaf when he heard this, and his movements paused slightly. Under the dim light of the gas lamp, the profile of his face looked as if it had been sculpted by some ancient technique, with sharp angles but no sharpness.

"Alive?"

He crumpled the lotus leaf into a ball and threw it into the fireplace. The flames crackled as they consumed the dry leaf. "Xu Zheng, this time, you just need to make sure you're safe. Everything else will be handled by someone else."

As for whether to spare anyone, that depends on the situation. In principle, "Ghost" never spares anyone who has colluded with the Japanese.

Xu Zheng's Adam's apple bobbed as he downed the remaining wine in his bowl. The burning sensation in his esophagus from the strong liquor made him squint, but it couldn't dispel the complex expression in his eyes—a fleeting sense of weightlessness in the face of the "Ghost's" operating logic, an instinct ingrained in his bones by ten years of training in the Military Intelligence Bureau.

"Understood," he finally said, placing the rough porcelain bowl back on the coffee table with just the right amount of force, neither perfunctory nor hesitant.

Qi Haishan silently tore at the braised pork knuckle, a thin layer of grease accumulating between his knuckles. When he heard the words "never leave any survivors," his chewing paused almost imperceptibly for a moment, then resumed as usual.

Tang Juye pulled another braised pork hock from the oiled paper package; its outline, wrapped in lotus leaves, gleamed oilily under the gas lamp. He used a small knife to cut along the bone; the sound of the fascia tearing was subtle yet clear: "Young master, about the retreat route..."

"Wait until you've finished eating."

Lin Yifan got up and walked to the window, closing the curtains. His spiritual power spread outwards like a tide, penetrating the brick walls, the night, and the superficial prosperity of the concession.

No exception.

He withdrew his spiritual power and turned around to see that the four people had already put down their bowls and chopsticks, leaving only bones and lotus leaf remnants in the rough porcelain dishes. The Erguotou liquor jar was half empty, but Liu Quande's expression remained unchanged, only a thin layer of tears appeared in his eyes.

"map."

Lin Yifan pulled out a folded detailed map of the concession from the inner pocket of his trench coat. The parchment gleamed with a warm, vintage feel under the gas lamp.

He spread the map out on the coffee table, pointed his finger at the location of 17 Victoria Road, then slid it westward and stopped at a warehouse symbol marked in red ink.

"This is the British receiving point, three blocks west of Victoria Road. It used to be a cotton warehouse for Jardine Matheson, but it was sold to a Norwegian shipping company last month."

A Dodge truck will be parked in front of our door tonight. The British are delivering 20,000 vials of penicillin and 500 kilograms of sulfanilamide powder.

You will receive a call from Chen Gongshu tomorrow morning. He will tell you when to go to the warehouse for the transaction. After the transaction, I will wait for you on your way back. You can then hand over the gold to me.

Then, all that's left is to wait for the transaction notification from the French in the afternoon.

Oh, and now you guys check and prepare your weapons. Make sure the magazines are loaded properly, but don't fill them completely; leave two bullets unloaded from each magazine.

After speaking, Tang Juye got up and dragged out a wooden box that he had just put under the bed. The dull thud of metal clashing was particularly clear in the room.

He lifted the lid of the box, revealing neatly arranged Thompson submachine guns and several Browning pistols, all coated with dark gun oil.

"Two fewer rounds in the magazine," Xu Zheng turned to his three companions, his voice trembling slightly, "Are you worried about it jamming?"

"Yes."

Lin Yifan's tone was calm: "A full chamber of springs puts a lot of pressure on the magazine, making it prone to feeding problems after continuous firing. Reducing the number of springs by two can lower the failure rate by 30%."

He walked to the wooden crate, picked up a Browning, and skillfully removed the magazine. The metal parts clicked crisply in his hands, his movements possessing an almost mechanical precision, as if the gun were merely some kind of clock that needed to be disassembled.

"I'll head back to my room now. You all get your weapons ready and get some rest. No one can afford to be careless about tomorrow's deal." With that, he turned and walked toward the room next door.

"Don't worry, young master, this isn't our first time participating in an operation."

Xu Zheng's voice came from behind, hoarse from the effects of strong liquor, "The rule of the Military Intelligence Bureau is to get four hours of sleep before an operation; this habit can't be changed."

Lin Yifan stopped at the doorway, his hand resting on the brass doorknob. He didn't turn around, but merely turned his head slightly, the glow of the gas lamp casting a pale golden edge around his features: "The rules of the Military Intelligence Bureau don't apply to 'Ghost.' You are my men now, and my rule is to come back alive."

After the door closed, only the heavy breathing of the three people and the occasional crackling of the embers in the fireplace remained in the living room.

Tang Juye took a box of .45 ACP bullets from the wooden crate; the brass casings gleamed warmly under the gas lamp. He picked one up between his thumb and forefinger, twirled it between his knuckles, and suddenly asked, "Old Xu, tell me, what's my background?"

Xu Zheng was inspecting the Thompson's bolt action when he heard this, his fingers paused slightly. He looked down at the intricate rifling inside the chamber. "What's its origin? Have you forgotten my instructions? Put away your curiosity and don't cause yourself trouble."

Tang Juye chuckled awkwardly, loading the bullets one by one into the magazine; the metallic clanging was particularly crisp in the silence. He deliberately lowered his voice, as if afraid of penetrating the thin doorway: "I just feel... I know everything, I know everything."

Liu Quande was wiping Browning's gun barrel, the velvet cloth making a rhythmic rustling sound as it rubbed against the metal. Without looking up, he said, "Knowing less means living longer. Why do you care so much?"

"It's not that I'm trying to control, it's that I'm afraid."

Tang Juye placed the compressed magazine on the coffee table with a dull thud. "Back in the Kuomintang days, when did the higher-ups ever give us a second glance? Missions were assigned; completing them was luck, failing was fate. Now they treat us like human beings, and I'm the one who..."

"On the contrary, it makes me feel uneasy?"

Xu Zheng picked up the conversation, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He rested the butt of his Thompson submachine gun on his shoulder, the sights scanning the peeling paint above the fireplace. "Old Tang, in your ten years in the Military Intelligence Bureau, have you ever seen a superior officer prepare an escape route for his subordinates or help them pick up their families?"

Tang Juye shook his head, the few strands of gray at his temples particularly noticeable under the gas lamp. He was forty-three this year, considered an old man in the Military Intelligence Bureau's field operations, and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes held too many unspoken names.