Spy Wars: I am the Captain of the Military Police

Chapter 716 There is a more important mission

Just as Zhou Zhengqing was planning to use benefits to impress consuls from various countries in the dance hall and get what he wanted.

downstairs.

Old Tan was leaning against the entrance of the alley with a baton in his hand, his eyes fixed on the entrance of the Santa Anna Dance Hall, and no one knew what he was thinking.

Suddenly, the gate on one side of the alley opened.

Itai Yudai slowly walked out from the shadows.

"Did you hear that?" Old Tan asked in a hoarse voice.

"Yes." Itai Yudai, dressed in casual clothes, walked over to Lao Tan and stood beside him. He also glanced in the direction of the Santa Ana dance floor, then looked at Lao Tan puzzledly and asked, "What do you want to do?"

"Let me tell you that since I agree to cooperate, I won't do anything tricky. The man just now was from the Second Department of the Military Control Commission." Old Tan said dully without turning his head.

"I don't quite understand." Itai Yudai showed his habit of asking questions when he didn't understand something.

"I don't understand either. We are all Chinese, so why do we like to do things behind the scenes that are shady." Old Tan seemed to be answering Itai Yudai, but also seemed to be talking to himself.

"If I were you, I would check out the ambush location he mentioned." Old Tan turned and walked into the alley. "I'll do what you asked me to do tonight. Wait for my news."

Itai Yudai stretched out his hand, wanting Lao Tan to stop and explain things clearly, but Lao Tan's figure quickly disappeared into the darkness of the alley.

Only Itai Yudai was left standing there, frowning and thinking.

Itai Yudai murmured, "I hate people who don't speak clearly! Damn it!"

. . . . . . . . . . .

The French Concession at night is like a huge, sophisticated honeycomb maze, consisting of countless narrow, winding alleys cut into pieces by shadows.

The light pollution of neon lights struggles behind high walls, and the decadent music from the Santa Ana dance hall in the distance has long been diluted into faint background noise. After being filtered by Tianjin's unique air, which is mixed with coal smoke, moisture and the smell of cheap perfume, only hollow echoes remain.

Old Tan was like a ghost, silently moving through the maze.

He did not take the main road, his figure always sticking to the thickest shadows of the brick wall, or using narrow doorways and closed shop awnings as cover.

With every step, the sole of the foot fits the uneven ground in a well-trained manner, eliminating any possible sound to the greatest extent possible.

Shortly after leaving Santa Ana, he took off the uniform on his head that symbolized his police officer status and stuffed it under a broken bamboo basket in the corner.

At this moment, the half-worn dark brown short coat he was wearing blended into the night and was almost indistinguishable.

Only those eyes, like stones immersed in a cold pond, were cold and solemn, without any emotional fluctuations. They scanned sharply at every shadowy corner in front that might pose a threat, open window, or blind spot at the corner that could not be seen immediately.

The ears are highly sensitive to the surrounding environment.

He turned into an even narrower alley filled with the stench of sewerage, and stopped for half a second at a ruined corner at the fork in the road where a wonton vendor's pole was standing.

Instead of choosing the slightly wider road leading to the river bank, he slipped behind a broken brick wall that had most of it collapsed.

This is an almost forgotten "ghost trail".

After turning left and right in the complex "terrain" composed of the chaotic stacking of dilapidated furniture and discarded debris, we finally arrived at a high blue brick wall covered with moss.

An extremely inconspicuous gap, barely wide enough for one person to squeeze through, is hidden behind a few half-dead ivy plants.

After squeezing past, I came across the back door of a small silk shop.

He tapped the heavy wooden door with his fingers, creating a rhythm of two short, two long, and one short beats. He paused for a second and repeated it again.

The door opened silently, and no light came out.

A burly figure also wearing a short coat showed his face, their eyes met, and without saying a word, he quickly stepped aside.

Old Tan slipped in and the wooden door closed silently.

The dark and foul-smelling alley outside was still dead silent, as if nothing had happened.

Outside the door is abandoned and messy, but inside the door is another world.

Passing through the cramped backyard of the silk shop where scraps of cloth and empty wooden boxes were piled, I pushed open a half-open carved wooden door leading to the inner hall.

In an instant, a heat wave mixed with the smell of cheap tobacco, sweat, and strong tea hit my face, with a faint hint of the cold and hard smell of machine oil and metal.

The air is turbid and sticky.

This is the back hall of an inconspicuous three-story old-fashioned teahouse on the edge of the French Concession, and it is long past normal business hours.

A dozen people gathered in this narrow space, filled with smoke.

Most of the people were wearing short jackets similar to Lao Tan's, or simply the coarse cloth vests commonly worn by dock coolies or rickshaw pullers. They had ordinary faces and would disappear immediately if thrown into the crowd.

But their eyes and temperament are completely different from those of ordinary coolies and workers.

No one was whispering to each other. Everyone stood as straight as a javelin, either sitting or standing. Their postures seemed casual, but they contained explosive power like a taut bowstring.

Eyes vigilantly scanned the direction of doors and windows, or expressionlessly wiped and maintained the weapons in their hands, hidden under the table, hidden in the cloth bag in the corner: short axes, special short spikes, sharp daggers with blood grooves, corrugated iron sheets with thin and sharp edges, heavy short sticks with copper heads...

There was even a burly man in the corner with a dirty cloth draped over his legs, revealing a cold and heavy corner of a hardwood gun stock, which was a submachine gun hidden in the dark.

This is the temporary base of a Tianjin action team of the Military Intelligence Bureau. The air is filled with the dull pressure of an impending bloody operation.

When they saw Old Tan pushing the door open, more than a dozen eyes in the hall instantly focused on him.

The long-awaited anxiety, a barely perceptible slackness, and the bloodthirsty cold light that immediately rose mixed together.

"Stationmaster!" A short and strong man with a scar on his face, the operations team leader, nicknamed "Scarface", who was sitting at the table by the door, immediately stood up and said in a short, low voice with obvious anxiety: "Why did you come so late?

There's something wrong outside, we're all freaking out!"

Everyone's nerves were on edge.

It seems that Old Tan was not the only one who noticed that the Japanese had entered the French Concession.

Old Tan didn't look at Scarface. His eyes were as sharp as ice cones. He quickly scanned the faces of every team member in the hall to confirm their number and status.

He walked slowly to the center and unbuttoned the top button of his short jacket to allow his Adam's apple to move better.

This subtle movement seemed like a signal, making the hall a little quieter.

"The Japanese are coming." Old Tan's voice was low, hoarse and dry, like sandpaper rubbing against rusty iron. It carried a deep weariness and a coldness steeped in murderous intent. Without any preamble, he said, "They entered the French Concession carrying weapons and went to Santa Ana. Several consuls from various countries have also come. It seems they have something to discuss."

"Webmaster, is our goal today..." Scarface asked immediately.

"No, they are not our target. We have a more important mission to carry out. Go get some important things!"