ShangYan's residence in Beijing was not the kind of place that announced itself.
No gates with family crests. No ostentatious architecture designed to communicate wealth to people passing by. Just a large, quietly beautiful compound tucked behind high walls in one of the city's oldest districts, the kind of property that had been in careful hands for a long time and showed it in the way well maintained things did, not loudly but unmistakably.
The cars pulled in just after six.
The men who had accompanied ShangYan from the airport dispersed with the efficiency of people who knew their positions without being told them, some to the perimeter, some to the interior, all of them moving with the quiet purpose of an organization that had been running long enough that it no longer required noise to function.
ShangYan walked inside.
