The city of Paris is divided into numbered districts, spiraling outward like a snail's shell, with the 1st arrondissement at the center expanding outward into a total of 20 districts, collectively known as "Little Paris."
Similar to the unpredictable distribution of public safety in New York, the security situation in Paris can also be baffling to outsiders. Each district varies, but generally speaking, the southwest is relatively safer, while the northeast is more problematic.
The 10th arrondissement houses two major transportation hubs: the Gare du Nord and the Gare de l'Est. The former connects to Belgium, while the latter leads to Germany, resulting in high passenger flow. Additionally, Paris' infamous red-light district is also located here.
Bryan wore a leather jacket over a black suit with a dark tie. He walked up to a red door and glanced left and right.
Not far away, Jack, disguised as a postal worker, gave him a subtle nod. Bryan, expressionless, turned back, pushed open the door, and strode through the corridor into an inner courtyard. Two Eastern European men were drinking beer and playing a two-person mahjong game.
Seeing Bryan enter, one of them quickly stood up to block his path, while the other, a burly man, remained seated but cast a wary gaze at him, subtly slipping his right hand into his coat.
"Stupid pig," Bryan greeted them.
The Eastern European man blocking his way had a thick mustache and a fierce glint in his eyes. "What do you want? We don't take visitors during the day."
"I'm here to see your boss," Bryan stated. Standing in front of him, he was taller and more imposing.
"There's no boss here," the mustached man said defiantly.
Bryan pulled out a business card and handed it over. It bore the insignia of the National Police.
France has two main types of law enforcement: police and gendarmes. The police are further divided into two categories: the National Police, which falls under the Ministry of the Interior, and the Municipal Police, which reports to local city governments.
These three types of law enforcement can be roughly compared to the criminal police, paramilitary police, and auxiliary police in a certain Eastern country.
The Municipal Police do not have the authority to handle criminal cases, focusing more on administrative and auxiliary functions, whereas the National Police and the Gendarmerie both have criminal investigation powers.
The difference is that the National Police primarily operate in major cities and their surrounding areas, while the Gendarmerie is more active in small towns and rural areas. As their name suggests, gendarmes also have the authority to arrest deserters and handle crimes within the military.
However, the mustached man showed no fear upon seeing the business card. "We're not some street gangsters. Mr. Meiken is in charge of this area."
"Meiken has been reassigned. I'm in charge now. So take me to see your boss. I won't repeat myself a third time. Of course, you have the right to refuse, but if I come back later, I won't be alone."
Bryan's eyes narrowed, his tone heavy with threat as he tapped the earpiece in his left ear.
The mustached man hesitated, glanced nervously at the burly man still sitting, and exchanged a look signaling him to keep an eye on Bryan. Then, he muttered, "Wait here," before turning and hurrying away.
A short while later, he reappeared, standing on the steps and tilting his head slightly toward Bryan. "Are you carrying any weapons?"
"It's in your hand," Bryan motioned toward the fake business card still in his grasp.
The burly man, who had remained seated, had been watching Bryan's back the entire time. When Bryan disappeared up the stairs, he finally turned his head—only to be startled to find an old man in a baseball cap standing beside him.
"Stupid pig?" Frank greeted him with a smile before suddenly striking. His fingers, sharp as a blade, shot out like lightning, crushing the man's throat instantly.
"Guh… guh…" The burly man clutched his neck but couldn't breathe. He struggled on the ground, kicking helplessly for a few moments before going still.
The red door opened again, and Jack entered the courtyard with a visibly tense Castle.
"Stand guard here."
Frank dragged the corpse into a corner and casually pulled a rainproof tarp over it. Then, he handed his Beretta 92F to his son, patted his shoulder, and took the "Viper" silencer-equipped pistol Jack handed him.
The two ascended the steps to a terrace. Ahead, a red M&M had been placed near one of the hallway doors.
Jack immediately pushed open the door. Inside, two more Eastern European men were playing cards. Hearing the noise, they looked up through the window to check.
"Pfft! Pfft!" Two soft gunshots rang out. Each man now had a bullet hole in his forehead.
The sound of shattering glass alerted someone in another room. A man peeked out to investigate, only to be met with a gunshot from Frank behind Jack.
At that moment, a scuffle broke out upstairs—loud, with two more gunshots ringing out. Frank frowned. Bryan had really gone in unarmed.
"Should we go help him?"
"No need." Jack shook his head. "Come on, that's Liam Neeson. Unless Darth Maul is up there, no one's taking him down."
The two continued clearing the hallway, taking down three more Albanian reinforcements rushing in. Then, Bryan's raspy voice called from above.
"All clear. You'd better come up and take a look."
Bryan, his face still carrying traces of violence, dragged a bearded man with slicked-back hair to the stairwell like a dead dog. He now held a confiscated M1911 in his hand.
"Uh… did you kill them all?" Jack hesitated. With these two killing machines as teammates, there were bodies everywhere—what if they needed someone alive for questioning?
"This is Mark Ocha. I confirmed it." Bryan nudged the gasping man with his foot, indirectly answering Jack's concern.
Jack stepped over the barely conscious Mark Ocha and entered the corridor. This apartment building was old, its layout similar to a Soviet-era Khrushchyovka, with a maze-like hallway lined with various rooms.
The first room was small, a kitchenette and dining area in complete disarray. Two bodies lay at the entrance, and another four inside, including the mustached man who had led Bryan upstairs. A kitchen knife was lodged in his chest.
According to their plan, Bryan was to impersonate a French National Police officer, using the pretense of discussing protection fees to gain access to Mark Ocha. Jack and Frank would follow up to ensure no one escaped.
Jack moved forward while Bryan and Frank guarded the stairwell, watching him with conflicting emotions.
This was the Albanian gang's headquarters, where numerous kidnapped and trafficked girls were held. At night, they were forced to serve clients in the small rooms.
Bryan and Frank's conflicted gazes stemmed from their desperate hope of finding Alexis and Kim—while dreading the possibility of discovering something even more heartbreaking. So, the task fell to Jack.
He opened a door. A pungent mix of cheap perfume and other indescribable odors filled the air. A disheveled girl lay unconscious on a single bed, undisturbed by the earlier commotion.
The sight was anything but titillating—it was revolting. One of her wrists was cuffed to a radiator, and her arms bore needle marks and circular burn scars.
One room after another, Jack continued down the hallway. Each scene was similar.
Some rooms had single beds, others had bunk beds, but without exception, every girl was handcuffed, with varying degrees of needle marks and scars.
After checking all the rooms, Jack let out a quiet sigh of relief. As horrific as the situation was, at least neither Alexis nor Kim were among them.
—
A swarm of foreign reporters rushed through the red door, with a burly Russian news agency journalist and a swift-footed Reuters correspondent leading the charge.
French police, arriving later, stood dumbfounded, unsure how to stop the notoriously fast media horde.
Not far away, in a Citroën parked across the street, Castle snapped his phone in half and tossed it into a trash bin.
"I've alerted every news agency I know. In two hours, the whole world will know."
"Let's go," Frank sighed, placing his baseball cap over the unconscious Mark Ocha's face.
Jack started the car, and the Citroën rolled away over the cobblestone streets, vanishing around the corner.
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