Conan: Begins to collaborate with Miss Bayonetta and become famous

"Don't fall for it."

Vodka remained silent, glancing tactically at the unconscious Cava beside him.

“He’ll be fine.” Baijiu noticed Vodka’s worry.

"Please, vodka," Baijiu continued in a low voice.

McClane also gestured to lower his head and said in a low voice, "Please help me."

Vodka moved the muzzle of his gun, signaling Gil to put it down first. Baijiu turned his head to look at Gil, who was standing still behind him, and signaled her to put down the muzzle of her gun.

But as a seasoned veteran within the organization, how could Kiel so easily lower his gun?

Baijiu frowned, pondered for a moment, then turned to look at the relatively wise but foolish Vodka, trying to find a breakthrough by targeting this idiot.

Vodka did exactly as instructed.

He took a deep breath and slowly moved the muzzle of the gun downwards.

However, he still left himself a way out, only moving the muzzle of the gun down slightly by half a step, not lowering it completely, so that he could still fire at any time.

McClane tilted his head back to indicate, "We are friends."

Vodka flared his nostrils, remained silent for a few seconds, and then lowered the gun barrel completely.

Then, at the urging of Baijiu and McCallum, Kiel also lowered his gun.

The four people present all breathed a sigh of relief.

“Rum…” Baijiu took the pistol from Kiel, looked into her cat-like eyes, and asked, “Where is he right now?”

London, 9:47 p.m.

The U.S. Embassy on Grosvenor Place was brightly lit in the night, like a diamond embedded in the heart of Mayfair.

The classical-style white stone building appears solemn and aloof under the landscape lighting. Outside the black cast iron fence, uniformed security guards and officers from the Metropolitan Police form a silent cordon.

Inside the embassy, ​​on the second floor, there is an arc-shaped corridor.

The liquor stands in front of a tall floor-to-ceiling window. The window glass has been specially treated so that the brightly lit banquet hall below can be clearly seen from the inside, but from the outside it is just a mirror reflecting the night sky.

He was dressed in a perfectly tailored black tailcoat, a white wing-collar shirt, and a black bow tie that was tied meticulously.

His attire made him look like a low-key European nobleman or a young director of a multinational bank.

Her hair was neatly combed back, revealing a face with hard lines, but which appeared softer under the banquet lights.

He held a glass of champagne in his hand, the golden liquid swirling slightly in the glass, reflecting the flowing light and shadow of the banquet hall below.

But he didn't drink.

His gaze, through the glass, calmly swept across the hall below.

Under the crystal chandelier, about two hundred guests were conversing elegantly.

Men were dressed in formal attire, women wore jewelry, and the air was filled with the sounds of Debussy playing a string quartet. Waitstaffs carried silver platters through the crowd.

A typical American diplomatic banquet, filled with deliberate friendliness and implicit hierarchy.

His gaze finally settled on the east side of the hall against the wall.

In Baijiu's ear, a faint electrical buzz came from the miniature receiver, followed by Macallan's voice, lowered to its limit but still revealing anxiety:

“Baijiu, I’ll say it again—there are no reinforcements. The embassy’s security is jointly handled by the Diplomatic Security Service and MI5, with a rapid response team from the Metropolitan Police on the perimeter. I couldn’t even squeeze in a fly. How on earth did you get the invitation and sneak in?!”

"And why did you go in alone!"

The corner of the baijiu's mouth curved upwards almost imperceptibly by half a millimeter. He didn't answer immediately, but instead brought the champagne glass to his lips, making a sip motion, but actually didn't touch a drop.

“McCarlan.” His voice was as steady as if he were discussing the weather, his lips barely moving, the sound coming through a tiny microphone beneath his bow tie. “Alright. We can handle this.”

"Can we handle this?" McClane's breath came through the earpiece, as if he was trying to suppress his anger. "'We'? Who are we? You're a man, wearing a fucking black bow tie, standing among maybe thirty armed security personnel! And the target has at least two bodyguards with him. I've seen the files; they're elite members of the Diplomatic Security Service, they've fought in Iraq and Afghanistan! This is what you call 'handling this'?"

"And what kind of lousy idea is this?" McCallen felt increasingly overwhelmed.

"Don't worry about it," Baijiu replied calmly.

“Baijiu!” McCallen said in a low voice, glancing warily around. “Top agents are everywhere here.”

“You need to leave now.” McCarran wiped the cold sweat from his forehead.

“I see them.” Baijiu’s gaze was drawn to two men not far away. “It’s alright, don’t panic, McCarran.”

“How could Rum possibly risk going to this party?” McCallum selectively ignored Baijiu’s words and spoke quickly, “Let’s get out of here.”

"No." Baijiu shook his head: "Let's all calm down first."

"He's definitely here." Baijiu squinted. "He's definitely in the vicinity."

“Baijiu (Chinese liquor).” McCallen practically knelt down: “Don’t rebel now! You can venture out anytime, just not now!”

"Please, retreat quickly." McCallen was on the verge of tears.

"There's always a way." The two continued chatting amongst themselves, while Baijiu murmured to himself, glancing at the person beside him, "It's not a big problem for now."

But just as he turned around completely—

Beneath the archway of the corridor, two figures seemed to emerge from the shadows, blocking the way ahead.

The air was instantly sucked away.

The man on the left, with his meticulously combed blond hair, a black tuxedo that accentuated his sharp shoulders, and an impeccable social smile on his face—it was Bourbon. But at this moment, that smile was like a mask suddenly tightening, the astonishment and cold scrutiny that exploded deep within his pupils almost piercing through the facade of gentleness.

The taller man on the right, with dark brown hair and an old scar on his lip that looked even more menacing in the dim light, was Jäger. His reaction was more direct—his pupils shrank to pinpoints, his right hand flashed to his lower back, and his entire body arched like a startled beast, his murderous aura exploding instantly!

Three people, six pairs of eyes, collided without warning in the embassy corridor, which was covered with dark red carpets and hung with classical oil paintings.

Time seemed to be choked, frozen for at least two seconds.

The distant string music from the banquet hall was faint and indistinct, while nearby, only the low hum of the ventilation system and the strained, almost snapping sound of something invisible rapidly tightening between the three people were heard.

Why is he here? !

The question mark, carrying a chilling aura, exploded in the minds of the three simultaneously.

"Stand still," Bourbon whispered.

"Don't move, Baijiu," Bourbon said calmly.

"Are you really sure this man in front of you is me?" Bai Jiu asked the two men with utmost composure.

Jäger paused for a moment, then slowly turned his gaze to Bourbon beside him. Bourbon was also deep in thought; in his memory, traces of baijiu could not have been so obviously exposed.

Regardless of whether it's true or false, it's better to arrest the wrong person than to miss one!

The two men stared at each other as Bourbon pulled out his walkie-talkie.

A woman walks between Bourbon and Jäger.

But Bourbon's attention was completely off the woman; he kept repeating in a low voice, "Repeat, I've found the liquor. Requesting support from the organization."

“They can’t hear me,” the woman said slowly.

She gave Bourbon a charming smile.

"Long time no see, my two old friends." She then held the two walkie-talkies in her hands.