The driver in the car had already been shot dead in the middle of his forehead by An Yiqing. He was a big, burly, bald man with ordinary looks and a tattoo on his arm, seemingly done years ago. An Yiqing opened the car door, searched him, and found a smartphone and a wallet.
There were eight hundred-dollar bills in the wallet, and besides that, there were no IDs.
An Yiqing turned on the phone and checked the call records. In the past few days, this man frequently contacted three numbers, and on his bank card messages, a transfer of one hundred thousand yuan was made the day before yesterday.
With her eyes slightly narrowed, An Yiqing put the phone in her pocket.
She then turned and walked towards the black Mercedes, whose four wheels had been brutally shot to pieces by Zhang Yuksheng's bizarre shooting skills. The driver inside was not dead yet, but Zhang Yuksheng's shooting was so poor that he hit several shots without a single lethal one.
