Chapter Nineteen: Haruko and the Old Gun

The man with the scarred face called himself Old Gun. No one knew his true age, nor how he could transform his appearance. He claimed to be a man in his forties, but the woman didn’t believe it. In fact, he sometimes doubted whether that weathered, scar-marked visage was truly his own.

Doubts aside, it never interfered with their cooperation.

Moreover, she relished the thrill of skirting the edge of danger.

The two of them drove in silence. One appeared wholly absorbed in driving, the other carelessly smoking a cigarette. Yet both, beneath the surface, were quietly sizing each other up.

The woman wore a red dress, her makeup immaculate. Lipstick, hair ornaments, earrings, even her nails were all painted a striking crimson. Coupled with her delicate, vulnerable aura, she seemed to constantly remind Old Gun that she was nothing more than a frail woman.

Seiko—that was the name she offered. She’d considered giving her full name, but Old Gun had subtly warned her off, prompting her to choose an alias instead.

Old Gun thought the name ill-suited. In his mind, she should be called Lilith, like the legendary vampire queen, for he always sensed a faint trace of blood about her. Were she not his teammate, he’d have avoided her at once—or perhaps seized a chance to kill her.

But such was the nature of their team. Not only was harming a teammate forbidden, but even if Seiko were eliminated, the next recruit would be every bit as dangerous.

Their journey passed without incident, and they arrived at their destination: the villa where Cheng Long had been held earlier that day. They drove straight into the garage, lifting the unconscious Du Fulin onto a wheelchair and pushing him down into the basement.

Night had deepened. The streets outside were empty, silence settling over the neighborhood. Inside the villa, a warm orange lamp glowed. Curtains hung half-drawn. Against the window, a shadowy figure lounged on a sofa, watching TV. Drawn closer, one could just make out the faint sounds drifting from within.

In the basement, Seiko toyed with her wristwatch controller, glancing over as Old Gun stripped Du Fulin of his suit.

“Who’d have thought it would go so smoothly? One move, and the job’s done!”

Old Gun’s tone was indifferent. “Don’t celebrate too soon. The mission requires a tailcoat. There were two sets of tails in the storyline, remember.”

Seiko smiled. “I know. Now that Du Fulin is in our hands, you should be able to pass for him, based on your observations these last few days. All you must do is pretend to escape from an attack, change into the tails without haste, and stroll right out the front door.”

“So easy to say! The Angel Squad hasn’t even made their appearance yet. Who’s to say they won’t ruin it all?”

At this, Seiko tilted her head, a strange smile curling her lips. “Why give the opposition such an odd name? It’s as if your mind is stuck in the eighties.”

Old Gun replied coolly, “Nothing odd about it. People like us belong in hell. Naturally, our opposition must be called angels.”

“There are many kinds of foes for angels. Are we devils, then? Or demons?” Seiko’s laughter was soft, her pale hand covering her mouth.

As they spoke, Old Gun finished searching Mr. Du Fulin.

He stripped him bare, checked his hair, ears, and teeth, finding nothing unusual. Then, with a bucket of cold water, he roused the man.

With a groan, Du Fulin jerked awake, taking mere seconds to piece together his situation. Memories of the car bomb and Cheng Long’s sudden attack flashed through his mind.

He squinted, quickly surveying his surroundings, but found no useful clues.

Seiko observed the disheveled elite agent with an excited gleam in her eye, though her voice was sweet and gentle. “Brother, he’s awake!”

Her tone was part alarm, part timid uncertainty, like a little girl swept into a kidnapping by mistake.

Old Gun glanced at her but ignored the act, stepping forward to lift Du Fulin’s chin. He pried open one eye, checked the pupil, then let go, stepping back to light a cigarette.

Smoke curled upward as Old Gun’s hoarse voice broke the silence. “Clark Du Fulin, the infamous.”

“Who are you?” Du Fulin’s tone was steady, his voice unbroken by coughs or pain. He deduced that he hadn’t been unconscious long. Likely, he was still in New York. That meant his captors probably didn’t know his real identity—perhaps they were simply after the wealthy persona he maintained as a cover.

He decided to test them. “Look, whoever you are, please don’t hurt me. Name your price; I’ll make sure my people deliver the money, every cent, straight to you.”

As he spoke, Du Fulin raised his head, feigning forced calm while barely concealing his fear—a masterful performance.

Seiko was so impressed she nearly applauded.

Old Gun remained unmoved. “No need for games. Don’t think you can get lucky. We know you’re a CIA agent—high-ranking, too.”

Du Fulin froze, the air around him shifting at once.

In an instant, the mask of the trembling tycoon fell away, replaced by the steely composure of a seasoned spy.

“What are you? KGB? Mossad? Freelance mercenaries?”

“You seem to forget who’s in control here.”

Old Gun picked up a hammer from the workbench and brought it down hard on Du Fulin’s thigh.

There was a crack as the bone snapped. Du Fulin had just begun to scream when Old Gun swiftly stuffed a rag in his mouth, stifling the sound to a muffled agony.

This time, the pain was sharp enough to draw tears from Du Fulin’s eyes.

Seiko looked even more exhilarated at the scream.

Old Gun carelessly tossed the hammer onto the tool bench with a metallic clang. He crouched beside Du Fulin, watching him impassively as he exhaled a blue ring of smoke.

“Don’t interrupt, will you? We’re short on time. The rules are simple. For an old hand like you, interrogations must be routine by now. We don’t expect you to spill your deepest secrets in a hurry. All we require is a single, trivial thing—a tailcoat. Tell us how to get it. Once it’s ours, you walk free. My word is good.”

Du Fulin panted, sweat beading his brow. The pain stabbed at his mind like needles, but he fought to stay conscious, hearing every word but giving no response.

CIA training had a course on withstanding interrogation. If captured, never fall into the enemy’s rhythm. The best tactic was to remain silent, or to keep glancing about, distracting the interrogators and biding time for rescue—or for a counterattack.

But in his present state, a counterattack seemed impossible.

He could only keep his silence, stalling for time, waiting for a chance.