The plane touched down, and Ronan smoothly passed through customs. After completing the necessary procedures, he bought winter clothes at the airport shop and changed into them. Upon leaving Charles de Gaulle Airport, he hailed a taxi outside the terminal building.
Coming from the sweltering climate of Colombia to the cold of Paris, he felt a bit out of place.
The driver asked in French, "Where would you like to go?"
Ronan already had a destination in mind, "10th arrondissement, Paradise Street."
"Ah, Paradise Street," the driver was somewhat surprised. He thought, "Isn't he a bit hasty, going to the red-light district right after arriving? Do you not want to go to a hotel?"
Ronan opened the tourist map he had purchased at the airport and carefully studied the districts of Paris, "First, let's go to Paradise Street."
The driver didn't inquire further and immediately drove onto an elevated bridge.
During the interrogation of the French big-nosed individual, Ronan obtained a fair amount of information, but the true core information was limited.
The Obiya Group was a legitimate conglomerate in France, involved in multiple industries such as tourism, water services, and chemical raw materials. The real dirty dealings were naturally conducted in the shadows.
A few years ago, they had taken control of the Albanian Gang in Paris, responsible for discreet shipping and storage.
In case things went awry, it would naturally be the Albanians who would take the fall.
Since the turn of the millennium, Albania had acquired a nickname: "The Flower of European Sin."
This country, located in the volatile Balkan Peninsula, had suffered economic collapse due to various historical reasons. Many young people migrated to developed European countries in search of better opportunities. A significant number of them had received military training and naturally banded together, forming criminal organizations.
Their primary business was human trafficking, selling women who had been deceived or kidnapped from Eastern Europe to various organizations. They even used drugs to control these women and managed related industries themselves.
Due to their shared geographical location and basic military training, their organization was much tighter than the average criminal gang. Therefore, the Obiya Group chose to support the Albanian Gang.
The factory Ronan destroyed on the Bileina Island was just the endpoint of a vast industrial chain.
According to the information provided by the big-nosed Frenchman, this extensive chain involved shipping, storage, gang enforcers, raw material companies, cosmetics enterprises, French government departments, and many high-end clients.
The big-nosed individual was merely a minor figure in this industrial chain and had not even directly interacted with the Albanian Gang.
The information he provided to Ronan was about the 10th arrondissement, which was Paris's famous red-light district. Most of the Eastern European prostitutes there were under the control of the Albanian Gang.
As long as he had leads, Ronan could follow the trail.
The driver continued driving and said, "Over in the 10th arrondissement, there are streetwalkers everywhere. But I've got something better here—professional brokers who can customize according to your taste."
"No need, thank you," Ronan replied while looking at the map.
He found the headquarters of Obiya in the 9th arrondissement, not far from Madame Xiang's headquarters.
Regarding these two companies, Ronan's knowledge was limited, but gathering more information in Paris wouldn't be difficult.
As night fell, the taxi entered the 10th arrondissement.
This area had convenient transportation and a large immigrant population, leading to a somewhat chaotic environment. Its most famous feature was the presence of streetwalkers.
Upon arriving at Paradise Street, Ronan paid and got out of the taxi. With his proficiency in French, he had no trouble listening, reading, or writing. After glancing at the street signs, he headed east.
After crossing an intersection, the buildings grew shorter, and many heavily made-up women stood along the roadside.
Ronan zipped up his jacket, making a slight effort to distinguish among them. He then walked towards a young woman with brown hair wearing black stockings.
Eastern European faces were easily recognizable, standing out from the French locals.
As an expert translator and editor, here is the translated text:
The moment that woman saw potential business, she immediately took a few steps toward Ronan. Her eyebrows were raised high, and she opened her faux fur coat, revealing a large expanse of snowy white beneath her short skirt. With unfamiliar French, she asked, "Want to have some fun?"
Ronan brushed it off like a visit to Tijuana's red-light district was nothing significant, "How do you mean 'fun'?"
The woman leaned in closer, "30 euros, standard service."
Ronan looked around at the parked cars and people standing nearby, trying to obfuscate matters, "Standard service? What does that even include?"
"Are you in or not?" The smile on the woman's face faded, "Come with me if you're interested."
Ronan deliberately prodded, "I'd like to know what the service entails first. If I follow you and the service I'm interested in isn't available, how would last-minute price increases be handled?"
The woman's patience wore thin, "If you're not interested, just go."
Ronan retorted, "I am interested, but I'd like to know the specifics of the service before committing..."
The woman seemed exasperated. Ronan's persistence caused several potential clients to walk away without asking for prices.
Across the street, in a parked SUV, someone noticed the situation.
The driver's side door opened, and a tall and burly Eastern European man got out.
He crossed the road, came over to Ronan, and pushed him, pointing with his finger, "Are you looking to get yourself killed?"
Ronan looked at the tattoo on the man's hand - a crescent moon pattern at the base of his thumb. According to what Big Nose had told him, this was the emblem of a formal member of the Albanian Gang.
Staring at Ronan, the man scowled menacingly, "Believe me, I could end you!"
Ronan quickly raised his hands, trying to avoid looking like he was about to get beaten up, "No! Don't lay a hand on me!" He glanced around, seeing people watching their exchange. In a hushed voice, he continued, "I'm leaving, okay?"
The man with the crescent moon tattoo grabbed Ronan's collar, "Leaving? You need to compensate me."
Ronan gestured to his left and right, "Let's discuss this privately, in private..."
The man with the crescent moon tattoo tugged at Ronan and walked towards the SUV. He opened the front passenger door, pushed Ronan inside, closed the door, and got into the driver's seat. "Compensation is a hundred euros."
The man's sentence was cut short when he saw Ronan's USP pistol pointed at him, "Name."
The man remained composed, "Somer."
Ronan nodded, "Somer, I want to talk to your boss."
Somer smirked darkly, "You better let me go."
Ronan didn't waste words, grabbing Somer's pinky finger with his hand and snapping it with a sharp crack.
Somer let out a pained cry and tried to move.
Ronan's pistol was aimed between his legs, "I'll count to three."
Before Ronan could even start counting, Somer started the car, turned the steering wheel, and drove westward along Paradise Street.
At this point, there were more than twenty of his brethren stationed around. Once they dealt with this presumptuous youngster, they'd go on as usual!
Ronan inquired, "What's your boss's name?"
Somer answered promptly, "Marko! Haven't you heard of him? Marko from Shkodra!"
The car hadn't gone far before it stopped in front of a red door.
Somer said, "Marko is in there."
"Good." Ronan suddenly pressed his head, causing it to collide with the steering wheel.
Getting out of the car, using the cover of darkness, he jumped over the wall.
Behind the red door was a spacious courtyard. Several cars were parked within it, and four individuals were playing cards under the lamplight. Ronan's figure blended into the darkness of the night. Even though he faced the person on this side, he hadn't noticed that there was now an additional person on the wall.
Behind the courtyard was a two-story building with brightly lit windows, laughter, and music seeping out.
Ronan performed a series of leaps along the wall, surveyed the terrain, and leaped up to the second floor. He found an unlit room, levered the window open, and slipped inside.
Inside the room was a single bed, and a naked girl lay upon it. Seeing her deep brown hair, Ronan quickly looked at her face. The girl's pupils dilated, her face ashen.
It wasn't Anna.
Ronan activated his clairvoyance. A green humanoid halo floated above the girl; she was already lifeless.
Beside the window lay a few syringes, and there were needle marks on the girl's forearm.
The cause of death was evident.
Ronan opened the room door. The door across from his was ajar, and beneath the table lamp, a blonde girl lay back on a single bed, her head tilted to the right.
In his clairvoyant view, a green humanoid halo floated above her too.
Ronan deactivated his clairvoyance, not dwelling on it for the moment. He drew his waist knife and heard sounds from the adjacent room. He quietly manipulated the doorknob.
The room was brightly lit, three Eastern European men were drinking and laughing heartily.
Across from them, two entirely naked girls swayed their bodies in a daze, seeming somewhat groggy.
Ronan pushed the door open, whispered the Steel Claw spell, and charged forward.
"Who...?"
One of the burly men hadn't even finished speaking when Ronan's iron fist slammed into his face. Most of his teeth scattered from his mouth, and he went dazed from the blow.
Ronan didn't know which one was Marko, so he didn't go for the kill.
A long-haired man on the other side tried to reach for a gun on the table, but his hand barely extended when a knife dropped, impaling his palm, pinning it to the table!
Ronan's left hand struck simultaneously, his steel-like hand's edge cutting across the burly man's neck. This man had no chance to react before falling to the ground, unconscious.
The long-haired man's other hand went for the gun, but Ronan was far quicker. He seized the hilt of the knife with his right hand and twisted it forcefully.
"Ah—"
The long-haired man screamed in agony!
Ronan asked, "Who's Marko?"
The long-haired man, sweating profusely from the pain, looked around anxiously. Ronan picked up the gun and glanced at the bullets, "I'm keeping Marko alive!"
"I'm Marko!" The long-haired man shouted, "It's me!"
Ronan heard footsteps outside. He slammed the long-haired man's head onto the table, causing him to be disoriented, unable to discern directions.
Footsteps were nearing the second floor. Ronan walked towards the doorway, simultaneously giving a swift kick to the struggling burly man, knocking him down.
Amidst all this, the two girls were still writhing.
Their arms were riddled with needle marks; who knew how many times they'd been injected. They might be crippled now.
Ronan stood by the door, against the wall, affording him a view of the corridor.
Footsteps grew dense; there were quite a few coming up.
With his left hand, Ronan pointed down the corridor and silently chanted "Grease Technique"! Three soul fragments were consumed, and the corridor floor gained a nearly imperceptible, slippery coating.
Over a dozen people carrying weapons thundered up the stairs from downstairs.
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