You're a US police officer, what are you thinking about going back to the East for?

In the corridor of the club's first-floor back area, the pungent smell of gunpowder mixed with the sour smell of stale beer permeated the air.

Eva pressed herself against the wooden door of the storage room and heard bursts of gunfire coming from the dance floor on the first floor, along with Lamar's hysterical cry of "Darrell."

The target is on the second floor.

It would be foolish for her to launch a direct assault from the internal staircase, where dozens of automatic weapons are firing in crisscrosses.

Eva decisively turned around and exited the club through the back door along the same route.

The rain outside was getting heavier.

Eva looked up at the second-floor exterior wall of the club. It was an old red brick building with rusty iron drain pipes and several noisy air conditioner units hanging on the outside of the walls.

She tucked the silenced Glock pistol back into its tactical holster on her waist, grabbed the support bracket of the drainpipe with both hands, and used the indentation in the brickwork to lightly climb upwards.

Rainwater slid down her waterproof jacket, and in less than ten seconds, she had silently stepped onto the windowsill of the largest VIP box on the second floor.

This is a single, massive piece of one-way glass. From the inside, you can look down at the street, but from the outside, all you can see is a black reflection washed away by rain.

Eva crouched on the narrow windowsill, her body pressed against the edge of the glass to avoid being seen by the people inside.

She closed her eyes, filtering out the deafening gunfire downstairs, and focused all her attention on the sounds coming from behind the window in front of her.

"Bang! Bang!"

It was the dull sound of a .45 caliber pistol, close to the wooden door of the private room. The gunshot was accompanied by a hoarse, gruff shout: "Take cover! Don't let those drug-addled idiots rush up!"

It is located directly in front, about six meters from the window, near the door.

"Darrell! We can't hold on! With Tyrone's men gone, these casino idiots are no good!"

A slightly shrill voice, filled with extreme panic, came from the left. The voice was about four meters to the left front, seemingly hiding behind some low furniture.

"Shut up, Jimmy! If you want to die, jump down yourself!" the man who fired the gun roared. He was clearly the Darrell that Jimmy had called out to.

"Huff... huff..."

To the right, about three meters away, came heavy breathing, accompanied by the faint clanging of metal chains.

This must be a large, extremely tense man.

Three people. Two non-combatants and a commander who is firing a gun.

Eva opened her eyes, her gray-blue pupils shrinking to the size of pinpoints in the night rain.

She drew her Glock pistol, took a half step back, shielded her face with her left arm, and kicked the edge of the glass with her right foot.

"Splash—!"

The entire one-way glass pane was instantly covered with spiderweb-like cracks under the enormous impact, and then collapsed inward.

A sudden gust of wind, mixed with rain, poured into the stuffy private room.

Jimmy, who was hiding behind the solid wood wine cabinet, looked up in alarm.

"puff!"

The silenced pistol emitted a low, muffled thud.

A 9mm bullet pierced Jimmy's forehead with pinpoint accuracy, ripping off a large chunk of his skull from the back of his head. Blood and brain matter splattered radially onto the expensive wallpaper.

Fat Mike, who was huddled behind the support column, suddenly jolted. His eyes, squeezed into slits by his fat, were fixed on the woman in black who had suddenly burst through the window. He opened his mouth, about to shout.

"puff!"

The second bullet pierced Fat Mike's throat.

His massive body collapsed onto the carpet like a lump of mud, his hands clutching his neck tightly, hissing as dark red blood gushed out between his fingers.

The entire process, from breaking the window to killing two high-value targets in Lyon, took less than two seconds.

Darrell, standing behind the box door, had just emptied the magazine of his M1911.

Let reading always be a chapter faster than others.

The loud bang of shattering glass made him instinctively think that someone downstairs had thrown a grenade at the window.

He turned around abruptly, his pupils dilating before he could even put down the empty gun in his hand.

Jimmy and Fat Mike have become two corpses.

The woman, dressed in a black windbreaker and soaking wet, had already crossed most of the private room like a ghost and appeared in front of him.

Darrell instinctively wanted to call out to his underlings at the bottom of the stairs, while simultaneously reaching for the spare magazine at his waist.

But Eva didn't give him that chance at all.

She grabbed Darrell by the collar with her left hand and, using the momentum of her sprint, slammed his nearly 200-pound body against the wooden door of the VIP box.

"Bang!"

Darrell's back slammed heavily against the wall, the air in his lungs being instantly expelled, and he let out a painful groan.

Before he could catch his breath, the barrel of the Glock gun in Eva's right hand was already pressed firmly against his chin, the cold metallic touch making Darrell's hair stand on end.

Eva covered his mouth tightly with her left hand, her gray-blue eyes staring at him without any emotion.

Darrell's scarred face was contorted with extreme shock and fear.

His eyes darted wildly, staring at the two corpses on the ground, his mind a complete mess.

Who the hell is this?!

Lamar, that small-time crook who made his fortune selling low-grade enhancement drugs, has a bunch of drug-addicted underage thugs working for him. How could he possibly afford to hire a ruthless killer like this?!

Darrell stared intently into Eva's eyes, swallowed hard, and abandoned his attempt to reach for the spare magazine. He slowly raised his hands in surrender.

Eva pushed the barrel of her Glock gun upwards.

"Where is Old Tooth?"

Darrell's eye twitched violently.

Old teeth?

The image of the old black man with thick-rimmed glasses who spent all day huddled in the basement tapping on a calculator flashed through his mind.

Those were the underlings of their Blood Gang, specifically responsible for balancing the accounts of drug trafficking and prostitution.

Lamar paid a fortune to hire such a deranged killer just to steal their ledgers used for falsifying accounts?!

"He...he's just a bookworm who does accounting..."

With a gun pressed against his chin, Darrell spoke with a lisp, his eyes filled with confusion and terror. "He...he hasn't been to the club since last month! He's just a money launderer!"

A flicker of realization crossed Eva's grey-blue eyes.

She could tell that Darrell wasn't lying.

Under such extreme pressure with a gun barrel pressed against the chin, the reaction of the pupils does not lie.

Craftsmen like Lao Ya, who possess top-notch forgery skills, usually choose to attach themselves to a powerful local gang like the Blood Gang.

On the surface, they do low-risk accounting or money laundering work for gangs in exchange for physical protection from street thugs.

Gang leaders are happy to keep such a marginal figure around, since everyone needs to turn dirty money into legitimate money sometimes.

But a powerful commander like Darrell, who only cares about street brawls, would never know about Old Ya's private business of high-end fake passports that can fool customs.

In his eyes, Lao Ya was indeed just a accounting tool that could be replaced at any time.

The trail went cold.

Eva's finger rested on the trigger, ready to pull it.

Leaving behind a gang leader who had seen her face would clearly not fit her survival strategy.

But in that brief pause of less than half a second, the intense gunfire outside the door suddenly changed.

"Boss Darrell is silent! He's been shot and is dead!"

"They're charging in! We can't hold them off!"