Upon hearing commotion from the upper floor, the members of the gang on the first floor and in the courtyard grabbed their weapons and rushed upstairs. Mu Rad's son, Marco, who had recently been transferred from Province 93 to oversee the entire district's operations, was responsible for the area. In case of any unexpected situations, these individuals wouldn't get away unscathed.
Castor led the charge, shouting from the stairs, "Marco! Marco! What's going on?"
No response came.
It was certain that something had happened. Castor waved his hand behind him, urging everyone, "Quick! Quick! Quick!"
He dashed ahead and as he turned into the corridor, his feet suddenly slipped from under him. He fell with a thud, struggling to get up. His companions who were coming from behind toppled onto him, pushing him back to the floor.
Several gang members, including the first seven or eight charging at the front, all ended up on the ground.
Ronan aimed his gun in that direction and without hesitation, he fired.
Crack! Crack—
The pistol fired in rapid succession, bullets penetrating one head after another. At such close range, Ronan's shots were true; each bullet shattered a skull.
Discarding the empty pistol, he drew his USP and charged out!
A dozen or so bodies lay in the corridor, and the sound of panicked footsteps echoed up the stairs.
These were gang members. Even though they were well-organized, with more than half of them dead, the resolve of the survivors had already crumbled.
Ronan leapt down from the stairs, spotting several fleeing figures and picking them off one by one with bullets.
The last four individuals, unable to reach their car, were all shot down by Ronan.
He checked the rooms on the first floor one by one. Similar to the second floor, some of the rooms held young girls, a few of them possibly not even sixteen.
These girls seemed to have just been injected with something, most of them in a haze.
Having encountered countless drug addicts, Ronan could easily judge their condition. By this stage, their brain neurons had suffered irreversible damage. Saying that their lives were ruined was not an exaggeration at all.
Drugs truly were demons of this world!
Returning to the second floor, Ronan moved the two dazed girls to different rooms and tied up the remaining three individuals in separate rooms. After a brief interrogation, he confirmed that the man with long hair was Marco.
Additionally, he obtained valuable information from the man with the crew cut—Marco was the only son of Mu Rad, the leader of the Albanian gang!
Once these two individuals yielded no more information, Ronan mercifully sent them to meet their maker.
Then, he returned and sat across from Marco, holding a knife.
Marco cried out in pain, "Stop! Stop! Please, stop!"
Ronan ceased twisting the knife and reached into his pocket to press the recording button on a recorder.
Taking a breath, Marco hurriedly said, "What do you want? I'll give you anything! There are plenty of girls here! Plenty of merchandise! There's money in the safe behind! I'll give you everything! Please spare me!"
Ronan asked, "I heard you had dealings with the Obia Group?"
Marco's face changed instantly. "No, we're a gang involved in drug trafficking, human trafficking..."
Ronan tightened his grip on the knife, causing Marco to howl in agony again.
"No! It's true!" Marco's forehead veins bulged. "The French don't even regard us highly!"
Ronan noticed an electric coffee pot at the back and immediately switched it on, glancing at his watch. "We have the whole night."
Marco shifted his approach. "If you kill me, the entire Albanian gang will seek revenge on you!"
Ronan waited for the coffee to heat up.
"I don't know who you are, or what you want. If you let me go now, I promise the Albanian gang won't come after you, nor will they pursue you!" Marco believed that the only way to survive was to appeal to the Albanian gang's influence. "If you kill me, every Albanian in Europe will hunt you down. They'll find you and kill you! Kill your whole family! Kill all your friends!"
Ronan remained unmoved. The coffee pot quickly boiled, and he lifted it, pouring the scalding liquid onto the table.
"Yes! Yes!" Marco yelled, "We have dealings with the Obia Group!"
Ronan inquired, "Where are the people brought from Birena Island hidden?"
Shock was evident on Marco's face. How did this man know about Birena Island?
While pouring the coffee, Ronan continued, "Where are the latest girls brought from Birena Island hidden?"
"Ah..." Marco's pain was almost unbearable. "Province 93! In Province 93! We receive shipments from Birena Island at the airport, and then they're sent to the storage area in Province 93. I came to the city to oversee things about a month ago and haven't been involved with what's happening there. I don't know where the recently arrived people are hidden, but they're usually kept at the Javier Depot in Province 93."
Seeing Ronan about to pour more coffee, Marco pleaded, "These operations are personally handled by my father. I don't know much about it, really!"
Ronan noted the name "Javier Depot." "Who is Master Grenoye?"
"He's the one in charge of the girls brought in. In the past, when people were brought from Birena Island, he would send his people to the depot. They would first prepare the girls and then inspect the goods."
Ronan asked again, "Where does he live?"
Marco shook his head. "I don't know! Truly, I don't! His people only contact my father when they come. I think the name Grenoye might be fake, just a code name! I suspect he might be a high-profile figure in the fashion industry. But I can't be certain! I haven't had any direct contact with them!"
Ronan continued his interrogation, asking about the situation at the Javier Depot, the cooperation between the Obia Group and the Albanian gang, and more.
He kept questioning until he had extracted everything from Marco's mind.
The operations between the Albanian gang and the Obia Group were orchestrated by Marco's father, Mu Rad. Except for Mu Rad, the gang's leader, and their advisors, nobody else knew the specifics of the operations.
Marco was privy to some information because he was Mu Rad's son. Mu Rad planned to retire in a few years and hand over these responsibilities to him.
Ronan turned off the recorder, pulled out the knife, wiped the blood on Marco's clothes, and sheathed it.
Enduring the pain, Marco remained silent.
He could tell that this man was ruthless and didn't fear the Albanian gang at all.
Ronan opened the safe, revealing several thousand euros in small denominations. He packed the money into his hidden compartment along with the recorder. There was nothing else of value.
He took out a cellphone and put it in his pocket.
Then, he looked at Marco. "I'll give you one last chance. Is there a high-ranking official from any French department behind your operation?"
"I don't know! I really don't." Tears and snot streamed down Marco's face. "My father handles those connections. Please, you have to believe me, I truly don't know..."
"I believe you."
Ronan nodded, tying Marco's hands behind his back and escorting him outside.
Activating his extrasensory perception, he harvested the fragments of these gangsters' souls, all yielding Soul Fragments +1!
A piece of information flashed through his mind.
Fluent in Albanian: This gang member only speaks Albanian.
Dropping his gun, he reached the first floor where a slightly more conscious girl had heard the gunshots. She struggled to the doorway to assess the situation.
Ronan entered the French emergency number on his phone's keypad and handed the phone to her, asking, "Call the police, understand?"
The girl nodded.
Ronan didn't say more, walking toward the main entrance.
Outside, Soma had just regained his senses, staggering down from the car. He approached the red gate and pounded on it, shouting, "Open up! Open up! Let's go kill that bastard!"
The door opened from the inside, revealing a familiar face.
Soma froze, "How... why is it you again?"
Ronan grabbed Soma by his collar, pulled him inside, and snapped his neck.
With Marco securely bound and placed in the trunk, Ronan returned to the SUV, retracing his route.
Le Bourget Airport was in Province 93, and the Javier Depot wasn't too far from Le Bourget.
Having taken a taxi there, Ronan had memorized the route.
As he turned onto a street, the sound of sirens echoed on Paradise Street. It seemed like quite a few police cars were dispatched.
French police were much quicker than Mexican police.
Ronan accelerated the car and kept an eye on the rearview mirror. There was no immediate tail.
............
Sixteenth arrondissement, a private club near the Seine River.
Assistant Director of the Security Bureau, Jean-Claude, walked solemnly through the corridor, heading towards the innermost meeting room.
Before he reached the door, it swung open, and Luc Obiá greeted him with a handshake.
No pleasantries were exchanged. They entered the meeting room together, nodding to Karl Otto, the Art and Technical Director of Parfums de Paradis.
Karl Otto's gray hair was tied into a ponytail at the back of his head. He wore all-black sunglasses on his nose bridge and exuded an artistic aura from head to toe.
The door closed behind them. Luc Obiá got straight to the point, "Something happened at Birena Island. A worker who escaped just called. The factory has been blown up."
Karl Otto asked, "Who did it?"
Jean-Claude frowned, "I've been reminding you repeatedly to be cautious to the extreme!"
Luc Obiá said, "This is unexpected! According to surviving workers at the factory, it was done by a man and a woman. Their identities and motives are currently unknown."
Jean-Claude's professional sense made him wary. "Slow down for a while. This isn't ordinary."
"It'll be fine," Luc Obiá responded. "We've been doing this business for years. How many times have we encountered danger without mishap?"
Karl Otto agreed, "Our high-end clientele has given us excellent feedback on our skincare and perfumes. They've been urging us for more products. Our new factory just started production. What would stopping entail? How do we justify it to the shareholders? Remember, most of France's luxury companies have invested in us! Failing to deliver on our promises would make us their enemy!"
This high-end brand combined the strengths of France's cosmetics and luxury industries, with significant financial investments.
There was no turning back!
Jean-Claude still felt uneasy, "Paris is about to host the environmental summit. Many political figures will attend. Keep a low profile for now, and ensure the security of your raw materials."
Luc Obiá looked at Karl Otto, who smiled and said, "Rest assured. I've properly handled the new batch of girls. The master heeded my advice. This batch won't be used for making perfumes. Tomorrow night, I'll send them to the villa in the sixteenth arrondissement for hospitality. William Crève is being promoted and is soon returning to Washington for a significant position. I plan to invite him, along with a few other old friends who cooperate with us, for a private party."
In the world of politics and business, there was no clear boundary.
Jean-Claude offered a reminder, "Luc, give a warning to that Albanian dog you're keeping. Tell him to behave lately."
Suddenly, his phone rang. After listening for a while, he said, "One of the Albanian gang's bases has been wiped out!"
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