Under the night sky, London welcomed its first snowfall of 2004. Fluffy snowflakes blanketed the Kensman Manor in the suburbs, as a black car left long tracks on the white carpet, driving through the snow and stopping in front of the main entrance of the grand red-brick house.
Ilsa stepped out of the car. Her long hair was neatly tied in a ponytail at the back of her head, revealing her cold and delicate face. She lifted the navy blue overcoat with her left hand and tucked it into the pocket of her black trousers. Stepping onto the steps with her brown leather boots, she entered the main hall of the mansion.
A fire was burning in the fireplace, casting a warm glow.
In the hall, there was a huge round table with thirteen wooden chairs around it.
Seated on one of the chairs was an old man with glasses.
"You've arrived," the old man put down the documents in his hand and took off his glasses, "Have a seat."
Ilsa wasn't entitled to sit at the round table, so she went to the bench behind and nodded in acknowledgment, "Arthur."
The old man, named Arthur, poured himself a glass of wine and said, "I've reviewed the evidence and reports you sent. You've done an excellent job. I will inform the others and formally initiate your knight's trial."
A hint of pride appeared on Ilsa's stern face, "Yes!"
Arthur lifted his wine glass and took a sip, "Obiha Group's idea is quite unique, creating cosmetics in this manner."
Ilsa, being British, replied, "Because they are French."
"Exactly, exactly! They are French!" Arthur fell into some habitual emotion, "They can surrender when the war starts and let others win the war for them..."
He stopped himself in time, "I'm getting old, always reminiscing about the past."
Ilsa completely understood Arthur's sentiment. After a momentary pause, she asked, "Should we initiate pursuit or investigation against Obiha Group?"
Arthur shook his head, "No! There's no need! The evidence for this matter is sufficient. You don't need to investigate further."
Ilsa recalled the images of the furnace she had seen, "Many people died, and the French used young girls to make perfume..."
Arthur said very seriously, "Yes, this matter is extremely sinister. The French have misused their minds. We must correct and punish them!"
Confusion flickered in Ilsa's eyes.
Arthur, particularly valuing candidates for knighthood who were likely to pass, explained, "This matter is not only about justice and evil, but also about the relationship between England and France. Without the shelter of the French government, Obiha Group cannot operate."
He tapped the documents that Ilsa had faxed over while on the plane, "These are enough to give us an absolute advantage in negotiations with the French. We can make the French concede in many aspects, especially regarding EU negotiations."
Ilsa, who had witnessed firsthand, felt a bit dissatisfied and attempted to negotiate, "There should be an explanation to Her Majesty."
"That's also what Her Majesty meant." When mentioning the figure from Buckingham Palace, Arthur's expression turned respectful, "Her Majesty says that national interest comes first."
Ilsa didn't say more.
Arthur took out a document and placed it on the side closer to Ilsa, "This is your trial task. A secret organization has emerged on the European continent in recent years. Find a way to infiltrate and uncover their roots."
...
The outskirts of Paris, located in the 93rd department, was the Havilland Freight Station.
This was a nearby cargo storage center close to the Charles de Gaulle Airport.
Starting from the late 1990s, a large number of immigrants from Eastern Europe flooded into the 93rd department, competing with the "Black Uncles" from former French colonies for territory.
The Black Uncles were strong and hot-tempered, but lacking in some mental faculties. Due to historical reasons, Albania had almost become a nation of soldiers. In the face of the Albanian gang with basic military training, the Black Uncles were no match.
With support from a capital group, the Albanian gang easily took control of the Havilland Freight Station and its surrounding areas.
Murad was the head of all Albanians in Paris.
This fifty-something-year-old gang leader was robust in build and full of energy.
In the office building of the station, Murad sat at a table, looking at the trembling fourteen-year-old girl across from him.
With one hand touching his stubble, the other hand holding a whip, the smile on the corner of his mouth made his chubby face look extraordinarily ferocious as he gave an order, "You, come here!"
The girl was like a frightened quail, huddled up and afraid to move.
Murad released the whip, letting the whip dangle into a water bucket on the table.
The girl was extremely frightened, "Please, spare me. I'm Albanian. My hometown is Tirana, the capital. We are compatriots."
Snap—
Murad swung the whip, making a crack in the air, "Of course, not only are we compatriots, but we're also father and daughter. Come on, call me 'Daddy'..."
Tears welled up in the girl's eyes due to fear. This shouldn't have happened like this. When she was in Tirana, they had agreed she would come to France to work and earn money to support her younger siblings...
Suddenly, a cellphone rang loudly. Murad frowned, took out his cellphone to answer the call. After just a couple of sentences, his eyes widened, "What? Heaven Street was attacked? Where's Marco? My son? Aren't you the police? Aren't you the security bureau? How could you not know? Joseph, you took the money, at least do something! I want to know who did this, and where's my son?"
Murad hung up the call, devoid of any enthusiasm, only a lingering cruelty remained. He swung the whip and lashed out.
Having only dealt two lashes, amidst the girl's miserable cries, the phone rang again. He picked it up, "Marco was kidnapped? What those girls said? Bastards! They dare kidnap my son? I'll butcher them!"
...
Driving in the 93rd department, Ronan braced himself. This was the most chaotic area in Paris.
As he approached the Havilland Freight Station, large trucks were shuttling at the intersections, and Ronan had to stop his car to let the big trucks pass.
As soon as the car stopped, six or seven Black men suddenly emerged from the roadside, holding iron bars, baseball bats, and stones, running toward the car.
They were going to smash the car and rob him!
Ronan didn't waste any words. He pulled out his gun and shot at the leader of the group. A loud bang sounded, and the leader immediately fell down, wailing. The others saw the barrel of the gun and turned to run back.
A car behind him got surrounded.
As the convoy of large trucks passed by, Ronan pressed the accelerator and moved forward. Through the rearview mirror, he could see that the windshield of the car behind him had been shattered.
Even the law and order in the Burma-China border region in the original world was better than here.
It was said that the French authorities had long given up on the 93rd department, where gangs were engaging in large-scale warfare without any police presence.
Approaching the Havilland Freight Station, there were numerous vehicles coming and going, and the area was brightly lit.
Ronan drove the car into a shadowy area, parked, and opened the trunk, removing the tape from Marco's mouth.
Marco was weak and feeble, "Please, spare me."
Ronan asked, "Is there something that can make your father believe it's exclusively yours?"
Marco, desperate to stay alive, said, "A ring! A ring!"
On his uninjured hand, he was wearing a signet-style gold ring.
Ronan took it off, put it in his pocket, and then took out the items he might need. With extensive experience dealing with various gangs, he found that a straightforward approach often worked best.
Considering that Anna might be in the hands of Marco's father, Murad, Ronan temporarily refrained from killing Marco. He re-taped his mouth shut, locked the car, and walked towards the freight station.
On the way, he took out Marco's wallet, which contained a photo of Murad and his son.
The freight station wasn't very large, and its walls were only a little over two meters high.
Ronan avoided the main entrance, found an unattended spot, and jumped over the wall into the warehouse.
Not far away, a worker in a uniform and a hat was heading towards the restroom.
Ronan quietly waited in the shadow ahead, blending in with the night.
The disguise seemed to work, as if the person couldn't see Ronan. Ronan easily knocked him unconscious, put on his uniform jacket, and hat, and then tossed him into a corner filled with discarded goods.
After a quick examination, he spotted the office building and a few of the largest warehouses that Marco had mentioned.
With a dagger in his hand, just like the workers here, Ronan walked along the paths between the warehouses towards his destination.
On the way, he heard almost exclusively Eastern European accents.
Someone greeted him, and Ronan adeptly responded in the recently acquired Albanian language, smoothly passing by.
Passing by a truck, several workers were loading cargo into it.
With years of experience from the original world, Ronan caught the scent of drugs.
Near the small building's warehouse, there seemed to be a whiff of gun oil.
This freight station was handling and storing things that were far from normal goods!
"Why did you take so long to come back?"
By the entrance of a large warehouse, a minibus was parked, and a young-looking guy waved Ronan over, "Hurry up and come here! Go to the restroom, but don't leave the key!"
Ronan heard sobbing from inside the vehicle.
Moving a few steps forward, a large truck with its headlights on came into view. The light illuminated the minibus's interior, and through the window, Ronan saw seven or eight young girls with different skin tones and hair colors sitting inside.
They were tightly bound and their mouths were taped shut.
The young guy continued talking, "Are these rich country girls so well-off that they don't even have a hint of caution? A few handsome guys approach, and they're easily hooked. Easier than catching a chicken! But alas, this batch is not virgins, so they're not worth much!"
Another worker in work clothes chimed in, "We'll get them addicted to drugs first, then we'll have control over them. Spread their legs, and we'll make money..."
"Haha..." The young guy laughed, "Based on what you're saying, they're quite valuable!"
A burly man peered into the vehicle, "Once we unload the truck, can we start?"
Several more people were coming from a distance.
Ronan quickened his pace, swiftly approaching the minibus.
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