Paris is divided into 20 districts, arranged in a spiral pattern from the center outward like a snail shell, radiating outward from Arrondissement 1. These 20 districts are collectively known as Little Paris.
Similar to New York's unpredictable security situation, the security situation in Paris can be puzzling to outsiders. Each district has its own specific characteristics, but generally speaking, the southwest is relatively safe, while the northeast is relatively poor.
The 10th Arrondissement boasts two important transportation hubs: the Gare du Nord and the Gare de l'Est. The former connects to Belgium, while the latter to Germany, resulting in a high level of mobility. It is also home to Paris's famous red-light district.
Brian, wearing a leather jacket over a black suit and dark tie, approached a large red door and glanced left and right.
Not far away, Jack, dressed as a postman, nodded slightly. Brian turned impassively, pushed the door open, and strode across the hallway into the inner courtyard, where two Eastern European men were drinking beer and playing mahjong.
Upon seeing Brian approach, one of them quickly stood up and blocked his way. The other, a burly man, though still seated, cast a wary glance at him, his right hand stealthily reaching into his chest.
"Stupid pig," Brian greeted.
The Eastern European man standing in front of him sported a thick mustache, his eyes gleaming with a fierce glare. "What's up? We don't accept guests here during the day."
"I'm here to see your boss." Brian stood before him, towering over him in both height and imposing presence.
"No boss," the mustachioed man said, his demeanor imperious.
Brian pulled out a business card and handed it to him, printed with the words "National Police."
French law enforcement is divided into two categories: police and gendarmerie. The police are further divided into two types: the national police, under the jurisdiction of the Ministry of the Interior, and the municipal police, which report to the local municipal government.
These three types of law enforcement can roughly correspond to the criminal police, armed police, and auxiliary police of a certain Eastern power.
The municipal police in France do not have criminal law enforcement powers, their duties tending to be administrative and auxiliary, while the national police and gendarmerie share the same functions and can handle criminal cases.
The difference between the two is that the National Police is primarily concentrated in and around large cities, while the Military Police are more responsible for smaller towns and rural areas. And as the name implies, they have the authority to arrest deserters and handle crimes within the military.
The mustache man, seeing the business card, remained unfazed. "We're not some street thugs. Mr. Macon is in charge of our area."
"Macon has changed departments, and I'm in charge here 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 I won't be alone when you visit later."
Brian's eyes narrowed slightly, and he tapped the earphones hanging from his left ear with a threatening tone.
The mustache man glanced nervously at the still-sitting burly man, winking at him to keep an eye on Brian. He then said, "Wait," and hurried away.
He reappeared moments later, standing on the steps and tilting his head slightly towards Brian. "Are you armed?"
"You have it," Brian said, nodding at the fake business card he still held.
The burly man, who had been sitting there, stared at Brian's back until he disappeared at the end of the stairs. He turned around, only to be surprised to find an old man in a peaked cap standing beside him.
"Stupid pig?" Frank greeted with a smile, then suddenly struck out, his finger shaped into a knife, swift as lightning, shattering the burly man's Adam's apple.
"Ho, ho," the burly man clutched his throat, unable to breathe. He struggled to the ground, his legs kicking helplessly a few times before he died.
The red door opened again, and Jack led the nervous Cassel into the inner courtyard.
"Guard here."
Frank had dragged the burly man's body to a corner and pulled a tarp over it. He then handed his son his Beretta 92F, patted his shoulder, and took the Viper with a fine silencer from Jack.
The two of them walked up the stairs to a terrace, where they could see a red M&M's tossed in front of one of the hallway doors.
Jack opened the door and went in. In the room closest to the corridor, there were two Eastern European men playing cards. When they heard the noise, they looked up at him through the window.
"Puff! Puff!" Two soft cracks rang out, and each of the two men had a bloody hole in his forehead.
The sound of shattering glass alerted someone in another room, and someone popped their head out to investigate. Frank, behind Jack, raised his hand and fired a shot.
At that moment, the sounds of fighting erupted from upstairs. It was quite noisy, and even two gunshots were heard. Frank couldn't help but frown, because Brian was truly unarmed.
"Should we go up and help him?"
"No," Jack shook his head. Just kidding! That's Liam Neeson. Unless you're facing Darth Maul with a lightsaber, no one can take him down.
The two men made their way through the corridor and held the stairwell, killing three more Albanians who had heard the commotion and rushed to reinforce them, until Brian's hoarse voice reached them from overhead.
"It's done. You better come up and see."
Brian, his face still murderous, dragged the bearded, slicked-back man to the stairs like a dead dog, a captured M1911 in his hand.
"Uh, you killed them all?" Jack worried. He'd been walking alongside these two killers, leaving behind corpses along the way. He might not have anyone alive to question later.
"This is Mark Ocha, confirmed," Brian said, kicking the still-breathing bearded man in a gesture of indirect confirmation.
Jack stepped over the battered Mark Ocha and entered the hallway. The apartment building was quite old, its layout reminiscent of an old-fashioned Khrushchevsky building, with winding corridors flanked by rooms of varying sizes.
The first room was small, a small dining room with a kitchen. It was a mess. Two bodies lay at the door, and four more were in the dining room, including the bearded man who had led Brian earlier, a knife lodged in his chest.
According to their earlier plan, Brian would impersonate the French National Police and demand to see Mark Ocha under the guise of negotiating protection money. Jack and Frank would follow suit, ensuring no one escaped.
Jack continued walking, while Brian and Frank continued to guard the stairwell, their gazes filled with conflicted thoughts as they watched his back.
This was the Albanian mafia's lair, housing many kidnapped and trafficked girls. It also served as a brothel for prostitutes, where every night these girls were forced to work in the small rooms.
Brian and Frank's gazes were conflicted, for they both wanted to find Alexis and Kim as quickly as possible and yet they also didn't want to witness such heartbreaking scenes. So, Jack had to do the rest of the work.
He opened one of the doors, and the scent of cheap perfume mixed with some indescribable odor filled the room. Inside, a single bed held a disheveled girl, slumbering, despite the commotion outside.
The scene was far from voluptuous, but rather deeply disturbing. One of the girl's hands was handcuffed to the radiator, and her other arm was covered in circular scars from pinholes and cigarette burns.
Jack opened the doors of the second and third rooms along the corridor, each containing a similar scene.
Some rooms had single beds, others double-height iron bunks, but without exception, every girl was handcuffed, their arms bearing marks and scars from the drug injections.
After checking all the rooms, Jack breathed a sigh of relief. Although he had expected this, he was still grateful that Alexis and Kim weren't among them.
A group of foreign journalists rushed through the red gate, led by the burly RIA Novosti reporter and the nimble Reuters reporter.
The French police, arriving a little later, watched in amazement, unsure how to stop these renowned media figures.
Across the street from this den, in a Citroën sedan, a common sight on Parisian streets, Cassel, sitting in the passenger seat, put down his phone, pulled out his SIM card, broke it in half, and tossed it, along with the phone, into a roadside trash can.
"Every news agency I know has been notified. In two hours at most, news of what's going on inside will spread around the world."
"Let's go," Frank sighed from the back seat, draping his cap over the still-unconscious Mark Ocha.
Jack started the car, and the Citroën's tires rolled over the unique French cobblestone road, disappearing around the corner.
(End of the chapter)