Spy game? Stop guessing, I really am an undercover agent!

Chapter 110 Sending You to the Yellow Springs

A residential building along Maoming Road in Shanghai.

After leaving Mingzhu Park, Zhao Peng went straight home.

Zhao Peng spread the note out on the table, looked at the note, and had the phone on his left.

At that moment, he didn't know whether he should make the call or not.

As a veteran intelligence officer who had worked on the intelligence front for five years, he instinctively felt that today's mission was somewhat unreasonable.

When he first entered this line of work, his superiors instructed him that, unless there was an emergency, no horizontal communication was allowed between the teams.

The situation in Shanghai is very complicated. Based on his many years of experience, the Red Party has at least six groups in Shanghai.

Intelligence groups were present in the International Settlement, the French Concession, the Chinese-controlled areas, the Japanese-controlled areas, and even the surrounding areas of Shanghai.

There are at least fifty people, or even more, in total.
But after working for so many years, apart from Fang Guohua, with whom he had a personal relationship, and the driver above him, he had almost no contact with other groups.

The contact with the Lynx occurred during the Battle of Shanghai last year, when the organization needed to transfer a batch of materials and radios to the French Concession.

The contact person was Lynx.

Today, contrary to his usual behavior, the coachman asked him to assist Qinghu in conducting a drug transaction with the special envoy.

This seems a bit illogical.
Zhao Peng first suspected that he might have been exposed, but he quickly dismissed the thought.

If he were exposed, it wouldn't be the coachman who would come looking for him, but members of the dog-catching team.

The organization still values ​​the safety of its comrades, and the fact that the driver was willing to contact him means that he still trusts him.

Then there's another possibility: because of the Lynx incident, Blue Fox now has no one available.

If this reason holds true, it means they really need our help now.

But why choose yourself?

Zhao Peng tapped his fingers lightly on the table, racking his brains but unable to come up with a reasonable explanation.

Ding ding ding, the Western clock on the wall struck eight o'clock.

Zhao Peng shook his head, picked up the phone and dialed the Special Higher Police's number: "Chief Matsui, I have something I'd like to discuss with you."

10 p.m., French Concession, Rue Albert.

The air pressed down heavily, heavy with the lingering heat of the day and the fishy smell carried by the Huangpu River.

The rain didn't stop; it was fine and cold, weaving an endless gray net that enveloped the damp streets and alleys.

The neon signs cast bizarre reflections on the slippery asphalt, which were quickly crushed by hurried pedestrians.

At the entrance of the Mantingfang Theater, Chai Dao huddled under the faded tarpaulin awning of "Wang's Car Shop," his eyes fixed on the theater gate.

He deliberately pulled his tattered felt hat down low, so that passersby couldn't see his face at all unless they looked closely.

At ten o'clock, the theater ended, and as the theater doors opened, a group of well-dressed wealthy businessmen came into view.

The rickshaw pullers around him didn't move.

Because these people won't be their guests; the next group will be.

The wealthy businessmen clasped their hands in farewell at the entrance, then got into their respective cars and left the theater one after another.

Following closely behind was a large group of ordinary viewers.

Upon seeing these people appear, the rickshaw drivers around them swarmed forward, greeting them enthusiastically: "Boss, need a rickshaw?"

In less than ten minutes, only four or five rickshaws remained in front of the theater. At this moment, a figure walked out of the theater. The person was wearing a gray shirt with the collar turned up, almost covering half of his face. He glanced habitually at the four or five rickshaws left in front of the theater, but did not get on.

Upon seeing this person appear, Chai Dao's pupils contracted slightly. Although this person tried his best to conceal his identity, Chai Dao still recognized him. This person was Matsui Yokoji.

Just as several rickshaw drivers were about to approach him to solicit business, a black Austin sedan drove up from a distance and came to a smooth stop in front of him.

Without any hesitation, Matsui Yokoji opened the back door and sat down.

The rickshaw pullers, seeing this, turned back dejectedly.

"Looks like I won't be able to pick up any passengers today, Lao Zhang, let's go get something to eat." A rickshaw driver greeted someone next to him.

The other man sighed, pulled the rickshaw, and the two quickly disappeared into the rain.

Before long, another figure appeared at the theater entrance. Before the two remaining rickshaws could react, Chai Dao pulled the rickshaws up and went to meet them.

"Guest, it's raining so hard, please take my car. This is the last trip, I'll give you a discount."

Zhao Peng glanced at the driver in front of him. His ingratiating smile and sparse stubble made him look like an honest man.

“Maoming Road,” Zhao Peng’s voice was somewhat languid, with a strange sense of fatigue.

It seems to be a feeling of powerlessness that comes after a large release of energy.

Crouching low, he squeezed into the back seat of the rickshaw, and Chai Dao thoughtfully pulled up the awning.
"Hold on tight, sir," Chai Dao instructed, then pulled hard on the cart shafts and ran forward.

Rue Albert, Rue Foch, Rue Edward...

The wheels turned into a smaller alley on the slippery street, flanked by high walls of tightly closed shikumen gates. The monotonous patter of rainwater mingled with the sound of the wheels rolling over the stone pavement.

The air was filled with the smell of sewers and burning cheap coal briquettes.

Zhao Peng, who was in the car, closed his eyes, completely unaware that the car had quietly veered off course and was speeding toward the Suzhou River.

With a screech of brakes, the rickshaw came to a steady stop in the huge shadow of the warehouse.

Just a few steps ahead was the dark Suzhou River embankment, with the murky water flowing silently in the darkness.

"Sir, we've arrived." The voice of the man with the chopping knife slowly sounded.

Zhao Peng opened his eyes, and the unfamiliar scene before him caused him to lose control of his emotions for a moment: "You bastard, I told you to go to Maoming Road, are you deaf? Where the hell are we going? You've gone the wrong way, you know that!"

The man with the chopping knife made no excuses or apologies; he simply turned away slowly.

As he turned, his back straightened inch by inch, and his hunched and weary posture was like paint being washed away by rain, instantly peeling away completely.

“That’s right, this is where you’re going…” Chai Dao’s voice, like a blade chilled to ice, pierced through the rain and pierced straight into Zhao Peng’s face, which was twisted and deformed with anger.

"Uh," Zhao Peng was startled, instantly realizing that the rickshaw driver in front of him could be...

"Spare me, spare me, I can give you money, lots of money." Zhao Peng trembled as he pulled two small yellow croakers from his pocket.

This was given to him by Yokoji Matsui when they met.

It's about to be given away before it's even had a chance to warm up.

However, he doesn't have time to dwell on these things now. As long as he can survive, money is just an external thing.

“Shameless,” Chai Dao said coldly, “Not everyone is as shameless as you.”

"Take your money and hit the road..."

(End of this chapter)