Chapter 147 — The Long-Awaited...

Once outside, Yang Ce hailed a taxi, and the two of them again sat side by side in the back. Yang Ce told the driver they were going to Xinhua Shopping Mall.

They had scarcely left when a grayish-white minivan screeched to a halt at the door of Old Five's Beef Brisket Shop. Watermelon Head leapt out first, a gleaming machete in his hand, followed by four or five sturdy young men armed with iron rods and cleavers.

Watermelon Head swaggered into the shop and swept his eyes over the room, but there was no sign of Yang Ce or Wang Yanqiu. He scowled at once. Damn it, had the two of them already run off?

"Boss! Where's that pair of dogs from just now?" he barked at the owner, who was carrying a tray of beef brisket noodles.

"Brother Kong, they left long ago," the owner said cautiously.

"Left? When did they leave?" Watermelon Head asked, vexed.

"Must be five minutes ago now." In truth only two or three minutes had passed since Yang Ce and the others left, but the owner deliberately said five, stretching it a little.

"Five minutes? Damn, they run fast—like fucking rabbits." Watermelon Head knew at once he would not catch them; in five minutes a man could get a long way.

"Brother Kong, why don't you and your brothers have a couple of bowls of noodles? On the house," the owner said with a smile.

"Noodles my ass!" Watermelon Head flung out his hand and stalked out of the shop with his men in tow, sulking. He had meant to bring his crew and give that man and woman a proper lesson, but they had slipped away.

But Watermelon Head had never imagined that this trip back would be nothing short of stepping through the gates of hell. Had he not been nursing a grudge and come looking for trouble, he might have escaped disaster. But now Yang Yongjin was after him—and someone else was waiting for him too. To be continued.

845. The Middle-Aged Man

845 The Middle-Aged Man. Watermelon Head climbed into the minivan, cursing and swearing, and the van slowly pulled away from Old Five's Beef Brisket Shop. He grumbled as he drove: "Fucking coward. Didn't dare wait for me to show up, did he?"

The van turned this way and that before slipping into an alley. This was Watermelon Head's headquarters—an abandoned warehouse.

"Screech—" Watermelon Head slammed the brake to the floor, and the van jerked to a dead stop.

A middle-aged man stood in front of the van, his face utterly blank. The van had stopped right before him.

"Motherfucker, you got a death wish?" Watermelon Head rolled down the window and stuck his head out. "Get the hell out of the way! I run you over, don't blame me!"

Despite his words, Watermelon Head did not dare actually hit him. If he were going to, he would have done it already instead of stopping. Thug though he was, he dared not take a life. Thuggery was thuggery, but a dead body made things very serious indeed.

The middle-aged man stood there before the hood of the van, still expressionless. He had not moved an inch, nor said a word.

"Are you fucking deaf?" Watermelon Head shoved the door open and jumped down, reaching out to push the man.

The middle-aged man sidestepped lightly and evaded his hand.

"Well, look at you, acting all tough, dodging me now, are you?" Watermelon Head had been nursing a bellyful of rage ever since failing to find Yang Ce, and the man's move set him off again. "Boys, get out here! Let's teach this dumbass some manners!"

At his word, several underlings grabbed their weapons and leapt out of the van, eager to rough up this middle-aged man who was putting on airs before their boss. In an instant, the man was surrounded.

"Heh heh. I tell you, old man, heaven has a road but you won't take it; hell has no gate but you walk right in," Watermelon Head sneered. "I was just worrying about where to vent my temper, and here you deliver yourself to my door. If I don't give you a beating today, I'd be doing myself a grave injustice."

The middle-aged man said nothing, still standing there with that blank face.

"He's deaf, boss. No point wasting words on him. Let's just beat him into a cripple," one underling said impatiently, raising his iron rod and stepping forward to have a go at the man.

Quick as a flash, just as the rod was about to fall, the middle-aged man moved—but no one saw how. The underling with the rod went flying, rod and all, and crashed hard to the ground.

The instant he landed, the middle-aged man moved again, driving a vicious kick straight into the underling's chest. "Crack"—the sound of breaking bone. The underling gave a wretched scream, his eyes rolled white, and bloody froth bubbled ceaselessly from his nose and mouth.

Watermelon Head was scared stiff by the man's sudden violence, standing there dumbly, not knowing what to do. The underlings who had been about to jump in were the same, staring at the man in a daze. At last, someone shouted, "Run!" and they finally shook off their shock, scrambling over one another to get into the van. But the middle-aged man suddenly snatched a machete from one of the thugs' hands and, with a few casual strokes, cut down every one of them, Watermelon Head included. Blood flowed in rivers. The middle-aged man glanced at the corpses on the ground with contempt and tossed the machete aside.

"The likes of you, picking on a young lady?" The middle-aged man gave a cold snort, dragged the bodies into the van, then seated himself in the driver's seat and drove off with a roar.

In a quiet little grove, the middle-aged man took a spade and dug a large pit with astonishing speed, threw the bodies in, covered them with earth, and finally planted a small marker made of a wooden board atop the mound. There was nothing on it but two words: "Grave Marker."

Such was the middle-aged man's habit: after killing someone, whenever possible, he would set up a gravestone for the dead.

In truth, many assassins had strange habits. So it was with the middle-aged man, and so it was with Delay Man 001, the hawk-eyed assassin from Ouyang Junwei's father's organization.

Only the middle-aged man's habit was harmless. Delay Man 001's habit was what sent him to his grave. After finishing all this, the middle-aged man left the scene as if nothing had happened, took out his phone, and dialed a number.

"Butler Mu, it's me," the middle-aged man said to the other end.

"How are things? Have you found out?" the man addressed as Butler Mu asked, somewhat anxiously.

"I've confirmed it. The one who came here is indeed the young lady," the middle-aged man said.

"As expected. You did well." Butler Mu breathed a sigh of relief. "Remember, no matter the circumstances, you must ensure the young lady's safety."

"I understand." Of course the middle-aged man understood—otherwise he would not have stepped in to dispose of a few pieces of trash.

"Good. Then keep following this matter, and report to me whenever anything comes up," Butler Mu said. "Anything else? If not, I'll hang up. I still have to go make the master his coffee."

"Wait," the middle-aged man said. "There's one more thing."

"What is it?" Butler Mu asked.

"Just now, when the young lady was on her mission, she ran into danger. I meant to step in, but someone else beat me to it," the middle-aged man reported.

"Who?" Butler Mu's expression tightened as he asked.

"I'm not sure. Someone I've never seen before. But from his skill, I could tell he's in the trade too. He only used two moves, and I couldn't discern his style," the middle-aged man said.

"Where is he now?" Butler Mu asked.

"He's with the young lady." That was what worried the middle-aged man most. He did not know whether the man was friend or foe—otherwise, there were plenty of assassins in this world, and their business would be no concern of his.

"What?" Butler Mu was alarmed. "You must investigate his identity and his purpose thoroughly. Do not let anything happen to the young lady—otherwise you and I will both be offering up our heads in apology before the master!"