He picked himself and the motorcycle up, wiping mud from his face with equally muddy hands, which just spread it around more. The bike was filthy but miraculously undamaged—high-quality construction paying off.
He kept riding, this time at a much more cautious 20 mph, navigating through the marshland terrain with excessive care. Trees appeared sporadically, some half-submerged in standing water, others on slightly elevated ground—and he dodged them with exaggerated swerves that probably looked ridiculous but kept him upright.
The ground gradually became firmer as he moved away from the deepest marsh areas, the mud giving way to packed earth and sparse vegetation. The sound of moving water grew louder, the distinctive rush and gurgle of a river.
Eventually, he reached a vantage point where he could see the water through the trees and vegetation. He parked the motorcycle behind a thick cluster of bushes—hiding it from casual view—and approached on foot.
The river was wide here, maybe two hundred feet across, the water moving with steady current. And there, docked at a private pier, was the yacht Lucy had mentioned—the 6 PM tour cruise.
Tòumíng crouched behind some reeds and squinted at the boat.
There were people on deck. Several of them. Standing in various positions like they were on patrol or keeping watch.
But they weren't moving. At all. Perfectly still.
Tòumíng squinted harder, his vision focusing.
Cardboard cutouts. They were fucking cardboard cutouts. Life-sized standees positioned to look like guards from a distance.
"Shit," he muttered. Decoys. Smart. Made the boat look occupied and dangerous when it was probably empty or minimally staffed.
He stayed low and started following the river north, moving parallel to the boat's path, keeping to the vegetation for cover. His borrowed clothes were already ruined from the mud, so he didn't care about crawling through bushes and getting scratched by branches.
Thirty minutes of careful movement brought him to the factory.
And it was HUGE.
Like, absolutely massive. The kind of industrial complex that had probably employed hundreds of people in its operational days. Multiple buildings connected by covered walkways. Storage warehouses. Processing facilities. Administrative offices. Loading docks. The whole thing easily six times the size of Ghost Claw's building—maybe more.
The Jinwei Metal Components logo was still visible on the main building despite years of weathering—faded paint on rusted metal, a relic of when this place had been legitimate business.
Tòumíng's awe was interrupted by sounds coming from the loading dock area. Grunting. The scrape of something heavy being dragged.
He ducked behind a dumpster and watched as several men, dressed in the same all-black outfits as the guys who'd kidnapped Xuān Láng, dragged a large crate toward one of the warehouse entrances. The crate looked heavy, requiring three men to move it, their muscles straining under the weight.
Tòumíng didn't care about the crate for long. His focus was on infiltration.
He scanned the building's exterior, looking for entry points. The main entrances would be guarded. Windows were too visible. But there, on the side of the main building—air vents. Industrial-sized ventilation ducts that would lead inside.
"Perfect," he whispered.
He waited until the men with the crate had disappeared inside, then sprinted across the open ground to the building's wall. He found a vent grating, pried it open with his fingers—the screws were rusted enough that they barely held—and started humming under his breath.
Dun dun dun dun dun, dun dun dun...
The James Bond theme. Obviously. This was a James Bond infiltration now.
He climbed into the vent, pulling himself forward commando-style. The duct was tight—barely wide enough for his shoulders—and immediately started to creak ominously under his weight.
Dun dun dun dun dun dun...
He kept humming, crawling forward, trying to move quietly despite the metal groaning beneath him.
Five seconds later, the vent collapsed.
The metal gave way with a horrible screeching sound, and Tòumíng fell straight down, tumbling through the ductwork before crashing through a ceiling panel and landing directly on top of someone.
A grunt—one of the Black Hawk members—who'd been taking a smoke break in what appeared to be a storage room. The man's cigarette went flying as Tòumíng's full weight landed on him, driving him to the ground with a painful THUD.
"WHAT THE—" the man started to yell.
Tòumíng clamped his hand over the guy's mouth, panic flooding his system. Footsteps were already approaching—the crash had been LOUD. People were coming to investigate.
His eyes darted around frantically and landed on a giant laundry basket in the corner, filled with dirty work clothes.
Without thinking, Tòumíng dragged the unconscious grunt—he'd hit his head on the floor pretty hard—and shoved him into the laundry basket, covering him with clothes.
Then he jumped into another laundry basket nearby, pulling dirty uniforms over himself just as the door burst open.
"What was that noise?" A voice demanded in Mandarin.
"Sounded like something fell. Check the vents!"
Tòumíng held his breath, perfectly still under the pile of sweaty work clothes that smelled like industrial chemicals and body odor. Through a gap in the fabric, he could see boots walking around the room.
"Vent's collapsed. Probably structural failure. This building's ancient."
"Should we report it?"
"For a broken vent? Fuck no. Just mark it for maintenance or whatever. Come on, we've got work to do."
The boots walked away. The door closed.
Tòumíng waited a full minute before moving, then carefully extracted himself from the laundry basket.
Dun dun dun dun...
He resumed humming, peeking out into the hallway. Empty. He slipped out of the storage room and started moving through the factory's corridors.
The interior was a maze—hallways branching in multiple directions, rooms that seemed to serve no clear purpose, the remnants of manufacturing equipment covered in dust and rust.
Ten minutes of careful sneaking brought him to an intersection where he could hear voices ahead. Guards. At least three of them based on the conversation.
Tòumíng looked around for a distraction. His eyes landed on a loose piece of metal piping on the floor—probably fell off some degraded equipment years ago.
He picked it up, aimed carefully, and threw it down a perpendicular hallway as hard as he could.
CLANG CLANG CLANG.
The metal pipe bounced and rolled, making a tremendous racket.
"What was that?!" The guards' voices immediately sharpened with alarm.
"Check it out! Could be an intruder!"
Footsteps ran toward the noise, boots pounding against concrete.
Tòumíng grinned and slipped past the now-unguarded intersection, continuing his infiltration.
Dun dun dun dun dun dun dun...
He kept humming the theme under his breath, feeling ridiculously cool despite the fact that his infiltration had been mostly accidental success rather than actual skill.
The hallways eventually led him to a stairwell. He paused, considering his options.
Captives would be held somewhere secure. Somewhere away from main traffic. Somewhere they couldn't easily escape from.
Basements. All basements in movies held captives. That was practically a universal law.
He descended the stairs carefully, the concrete steps worn smooth by decades of use. The temperature dropped as he went lower, the air becoming damp and stale.
At the bottom of the stairwell was a heavy metal door with a simple handle. No visible locks. No security mechanisms.
Tòumíng's infiltrator instincts—which were entirely based on movies and video games—screamed that this was suspicious. Too easy. But his desperation to find Xuān Láng and Háo Héng overrode caution.
He grabbed the handle and pulled the door open.
Immediately, alarms blared.
WAAAAAAH WAAAAAAH WAAAAAAH.
Loud. Piercing. Echoing through the entire factory complex. Red lights started flashing in the hallway behind him.
"SHIT!" Cupid's voice exploded in his chest. "WHY WOULD YOU JUST OPEN A RANDOM DOOR?!"
"I THOUGHT IT LED TO THE BASEMENT!" Tòumíng yelled back.
"IT CLEARLY LED TO AN ALARMED SECURITY DOOR!"
"I KNOW THAT NOW!"
The sound of running footsteps. Many footsteps. Coming from multiple directions. Boots pounding against concrete and metal. Voices shouting in Mandarin and what might have been Mongolian.
The distinctive sound of weapons being drawn, the metallic CLICK-CLACK of slides being racked, safeties being switched off.
Tòumíng stood frozen in the stairwell, his hand still on the door handle, his brain processing how badly he'd just fucked up.
He spoke quietly, his voice small and defeated:
"They're right behind me, aren't they?"
"Yes," Cupid confirmed.
"Fuck."