Chapter 1775 - 1366: Eyes in the Shadows (Part 2)

This is the posture of someone ready to draw a gun at any moment.

It really looks professional.

Damn!

Doesn't seem like a killer though!

That demeanor...

Both of them have short hair and lean builds.

One heads towards the elevator, while the other patrols the parking area, eyes scanning beneath each vehicle and into every gap.

A professional reconnaissance formation.

As the latter came within ten meters of Song Heping's hiding spot, Song Heping suddenly moved.

He shot out from behind the column like a cheetah, producing no footsteps, only the sound of air swishing from the movement of his clothing. He lunged at the man in black from the side and slightly behind, covering the man's mouth with his left hand and striking precisely at the man's temple with his right elbow.

It wasn't a lethal force, but enough to make one dizzy.

At the same time, his left hand clamped down on the opponent's gun-wielding wrist. With a twist and a snap, the gun was now in his hand.

A Chinese Type 92 pistol.

Suddenly, it was as if he realized something.

They're part of the system!

"Don't move."

Song Heping whispered, the muzzle pressed against the man's waist.

Hearing the commotion, the person in the car rushed out, holding a gun as well, but didn't dare fire. Instead, they spoke in a low voice, "Let him go! We're from the National A Department!"

"Proof of identity."

Song Heping didn't let go, simply gazing coldly at the other person.

Under the dim parking lot lights, his gaze was like ice.

The second man in black took out credentials, the black cover with a golden national emblem gleaming slightly under the light.

It was indeed credentials from the security system that Song Heping had seen before.

"Mr. Song Heping, please come with us." The credential-holding man in black spoke seriously but courteously, "We mean no harm, just routine questioning. Please cooperate."

"Reason?" Song Heping asked, not letting go.

"Involves national security. Details will be given at the location."

Song Heping remained silent for two seconds, assessing the situation.

There were two of them, and only him.

The parking lot had cameras; although this corner was a blind spot, the earlier action might have been caught by other cameras.

They were from National A, not a gang, so resisting was futile.

Besides, he wanted to know how much information National A had on him.

"Okay." He nodded, releasing his grip, but didn't return the confiscated gun: "But I need to call my younger brother first and tell him I'll be back later."

"We'll talk about that when we arrive." The man in black put away his credentials and gestured at him to get in the car.

Song Heping removed the magazine from the Type 92, unloaded the chambered bullet, and returned the empty gun to the person he had attacked.

The moves were smooth and seamless.

The two men in black exchanged a glance, their gazes growing more wary.

The three got into the car, and the black SUV left the parking lot, merging into the night traffic.

The one who showed the credentials drove, while the other sat beside Song Heping, watching him warily.

The vehicle did not head towards the public office locations of the GA Bureau or National A Bureau, but drove towards the outskirts of the city.

Song Heping looked out the window.

The roads became increasingly desolate, streetlights increasingly spaced out, eventually disappearing entirely.

The car turned onto a small road flanked by farmland, with specks of farmstead lights in the distance.

After about twenty minutes, a courtyard appeared ahead.

The courtyard walls were high, over three meters by estimation, with barbed wire on top.

The gate was a heavy iron door that opened automatically as the car approached, closing automatically once they were inside.

Inside the courtyard stood a three-story building with a plain exterior, resembling old office buildings from the seventies or eighties.

But Song Heping noticed that the windows were one-way glass, the outer walls had concealed cameras, and there was an antenna array on the rooftop.

These weren't ordinary antennas but satellite communications and signal interception equipment.

To arrange such a professional temporary site, these weren't local National A operatives, but from elsewhere, and of high rank.

Damn!

Such a big setup, just for one person like me.

What an honor...

To be deemed worthy of such a mobilization.

Soon, Song Heping was taken into the building and led to a room on the second floor.

The room was simple, even somewhat crude: a metal table, two metal chairs bolted to the floor.

There was a surveillance camera in the corner, its red indicator light on.

The walls were light gray, made of a special material with a dull sound when knocked, likely soundproofing material.

The ceiling had integrated paneling, with vents in each corner, not large enough for a person to fit through.

There were no windows.

A standard interrogation room, or "interview room."

"Sit," the man in black who had brought him in said, "Wait a moment."

The door was closed and locked from the outside. The lock was electronic, emitting a faint "beep" sound.

Song Heping sat in the chair, its metal surface cold.

He surveyed the surroundings, assessing the environment. The room was about fifteen square meters, with nothing but the table, chairs, and camera.

The air conditioning outlet above his head sent out cold air.

The lighting was LED cool white, even but glaring, tiresome to the eyes if stared at for a long time.

After about twenty minutes.

He silently counted his heartbeat, approximately two thousand four hundred beats, with an error margin of no more than thirty seconds.

The door opened.

Three people entered.

Leading was a middle-aged man in his forties, square-faced, with a crew cut, wearing a dark blue jacket, white shirt, no tie. His demeanor was steady, eyes sharp but not overly intimidating.

This was the kind of experienced insider who's worked in the system for twenty years, worldly, and handles affairs with tact.

The second was a woman in her early thirties, short hair, bare-faced, in a gray business suit, with a serious expression and holding a tablet.

Her gaze lingered on Song Heping for two seconds, like a scanner.

The third was an elder in his fifties, graying hair, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, holding a folder.

He walked in last, carefully closing the door, his movements unhurried yet precise in every detail.