Courtyard House: Home Alone

Lin Yifan, who was in the last position, stepped on the gas, and his car accelerated to catch up. The Japanese soldiers in the two ordinary cars in front of him were sitting ducks.

With a thought, he sent five bullets flying, each piercing the car window and striking the head of a Japanese soldier inside. The car drove forward for more than thirty meters before veering and crashing into a ditch beside it.

Immediately afterwards, five more bullets flew out, and the Japanese soldiers in the car in front followed suit.

John, in the car in front, stared in astonishment as the two cars behind him plunged into the ditch beside them, his mouth agape and his crocodile-skin briefcase nearly slipping from his grasp.

He turned his head sharply and, through the rear window of the Buick, saw the two black Ford sedans tilted in a strange posture, their front wheels suspended in the air and their rear wheels spinning futilely, kicking up a cloud of dust.

"My God..." John's voice trembled, his thick lips moving, "How did he do that? I didn't even hear a gunshot!"

Chen Gongshu's right hand remained in his long robe pocket, but his knuckles tightened slightly. His gaze met the driver's in the rearview mirror; the driver was also deathly pale, the veins on his hand gripping the steering wheel bulging.

"Mr. John," Chen Gongshu's voice was low and steady, as if he had only just run over two stray cats, "I've said it before, 'Ghost' never disappoints."

He paused, his gaze sweeping across the desolate warehouse street outside the window. In the abandoned coal yard, a few crows were startled and flapped their wings, skimming across the gray sky.

"Now, please have your driver drive carefully. We still have twenty minutes to go."

At that moment, John saw in his rearview mirror that two more cars had sped out from the side road, but before they could reach the waterway, they crashed into the bushes next to them.

"God..." John's voice had trembled, filled with an almost pious fear, "Where...where is he?"

Chen Gongshu did not answer. His gaze fell on the two newly overturned cars in the rearview mirror. The door of one of the cars was pushed open, and a secret agent in a dark blue short jacket stumbled out. He had only taken two steps when he collapsed, with a small bloody hole on the back of his head.

Lin Yifan's voice came through the earpiece: "The Haihe River channel has been cleared. Four vehicles, twenty people, none survived."

Turn right at the next intersection and enter the Laozhaqiao warehouse. Xu Zheng and the others are already waiting.

John's Buick kicked up a cloud of dust on the bumpy dirt road, followed closely by the Green Gang's truck.

The warehouse's iron doors were rusted as if soaked in blood, groaning as they were pushed open. John was practically helped out of the car; a dark sweat stain stained the back of his camel-colored cashmere coat, and the metal clasp on his crocodile briefcase gleamed in the sunlight.

Mr. Zhou,

His Chinese suddenly became fluent, with the rough accent characteristic of Liverpool docks: "I need to see the 'ghost.' I must thank him in person."

"Mr. John,"

Chen Gongshu interrupted him, his gaze sweeping over the sacks piled up deep in the warehouse. "After the transaction is complete, you'll have plenty of time to express your gratitude."

Xu Zheng and Qi Haishan emerged from the shadows. Both had changed out of their long gowns into short-sleeved shirts, the sleeves rolled up high, revealing the bulging veins on their forearms. Behind them was a truck covered with a tarpaulin, with Liu Quande sitting in the driver's seat. The paint on the truck bed had peeled off completely, revealing layers of rust underneath.

"Gold." Xu Zheng's voice was like sandpaper polishing wood.

John opened his briefcase with trembling hands and took out three brown paper bags sealed with sealing wax. Chen Gongshu took them and opened them one by one to examine them—gold bar exchange certificates from HSBC, each stamped with the Chinese signature and English cursive of the head of the trading company.

"Three hundred taels, pure quality." John swallowed hard. "As agreed, thirty percent will be paid upfront, and the balance will be paid after the goods have been inspected and verified."

Qi Haishan had already climbed onto the carriage. The moment the tarpaulin was lifted, a faint smell of camphor mixed with the bitterness unique to medicine wafted out.

"Are you planning to conduct random checks, or do you need to open all the boxes?" Qi Haishan's voice was flat.

"Just do a random check. I trust Mr. 'Ghost'," John said, pointing to three of the boxes.

Xu Zheng and Qi Haishan unloaded the three boxes of medicine that John had pointed to, placed them at John's feet, and then opened the boxes. "Please check them, Mr. John."

John crouched down, his fat knees creaking under the strain. He pulled a brass magnifying glass from his inner pocket, the edge of the lens engraved with the emblem of an old Liverpool shop—an heirloom from his father, said to have been used to test the purity of opium imported from India.

The first box contained sulfanilamide powder, white crystals neatly stacked in a burlap sack. John used a silver knife to pick out a pinch, tasted it on his tongue, and immediately frowned—bitter with a slight numbing sensation, exactly the quality of the original Bayer product from Germany. The next two boxes contained penicillin powder.

"God help us." John made the sign of the cross, a gesture as practiced as a seasoned businessman. "This shipment will save the Union army a lot of lives."

Chen Gongshu put the gold certificates into the inner pocket of his long gown, his gaze never leaving the warehouse door. Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the tin roof, casting dappled shadows on the ground like wandering eyes.

"Final payment." Xu Zheng held out his hand.

John paused for a moment, then smiled and said, "Of course, no problem."

After saying that, he took out another envelope from his briefcase and handed it to Chen Gongshu: "Mr. Zhou, please check this."

Chen Gongshu took the envelope, pulled out the gold storage certificate, examined it, smiled, nodded, and extended his right hand: "Okay, we've settled the payment, Mr. John. I look forward to our next cooperation."

John extended his right hand and shook hands with Chen Gongshu. His palm felt warm and damp, like holding a piece of glutinous rice cake just taken out of a steamer. Chen Gongshu subtly withdrew his hand and rubbed his fingertips against the hem of his long robe.

John's glasses reflected the light from the warehouse ceiling, obscuring his eyes. "Mr. Zhou, please tell Mr. 'Ghost' that I very much hope to meet him, and hopefully see him at the next transaction." With that, he waved his hand, signaling the Green Gang members to transfer the medicine to their truck.

Chen Gongshu nodded slightly, but his gaze went past John's shoulder, looking towards the gray sky outside the warehouse. In the distance came the long, desolate sound of ship whistles on the Huangpu River, like the mournful cry of some giant beast.

"I will pass it on," he said.

The Green Gang members moved swiftly, transferring over forty boxes of medicine in less than ten minutes. John's truck was covered with a tarpaulin again, the cargo bed creaking from the thick hemp ropes.

The British merchant glanced back one last time at the depths of the warehouse, where only Xu Zheng and Qi Haishan remained in silence, along with a few scattered straws on the ground.

"Let's go." John climbed into the Buick, the collar of his camel cashmere coat already covered in rust from the cargo hold.