chsdbacks Chapter 950 Reunion of Old Friends
Chapter 950 Reunion of Old Friends
The old-fashioned orange sedan, like a rusty, dull knife, sliced through the sticky noise at the edge of the square.
McClane gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white from the force, and the car accelerated down the deserted streets, leaving the waving arms and angry shouts behind, crushing the scattered flyers on the ground.
The tall buildings outside the window began to appear shorter, and the sky was fragmented by the crisscrossing viaducts.
The car veered sharply and plunged into a huge culvert that looked like the gaping maw of a monster.
The light was instantly absorbed by most of it.
The tunnel is another world.
A damp, chilly atmosphere enveloped us, carrying the smells of rust, engine oil, and years of accumulated dust.
On the elevated railway tracks running parallel to each other on the left, high-speed trains occasionally roared past, their stark white lights like the gaze of death, sweeping over the silent profiles of the two people inside the train time and time again.
The light illuminated McCallum's tightly pursed lips and the unfathomable stillness in Baijiu's eyes, only to quickly plunge them back into deeper darkness.
The roar was distorted and amplified in the tunnel, making one's heart tingle, before returning to an even more suffocating silence.
The car finally stopped at the end of a narrower side road, in front of which was a mottled cement wall with a large exclamation mark and blurry French warnings painted in glaring red paint.
The engine is turned off.
The world suddenly fell silent, with only the monotonous "drip-drip" of water coming from somewhere, pounding against my eardrums.
The two got out of the car, the door closing with a muffled thud that echoed briefly in the tunnel before being swallowed up.
The real chill came from deeper into the tunnel; it was a draft carrying the distinctive electrical smell of subway tracks that instantly pierced through the thin clothing.
Without a word, they walked one after the other into the darkness.
On the other side of the low fence is the deep subway main tunnel.
Suddenly, two dim yellow lights appeared in the distance, rapidly approaching and transforming into a blinding white light, accompanied by the crushing roar of steel and violent air currents—
A subway train, with the force of death, roared past them just a few meters away!
The car windows formed a blurry band of light, vaguely reflecting a few tired and numb unfamiliar faces that appeared and disappeared in an instant.
The violent airflow almost knocked people over, carrying the acrid smell of burning rails and the strong wind that slapped hard against their faces.
The tinnitus lasted for quite a while.
In the midst of this dizziness, McCallen spat out a non-existent saliva, braced herself with one hand, and deftly flipped over the waist-high, cold, slippery railing, jumping down to land on the subway track base below, which was covered in oil and gravel.
The liquor followed closely behind, moving nimbly and landing silently.
Beneath my feet were rough sleepers and cold rails, and a strong, pungent smell of rust, ozone, and stale sewage assaulted my nostrils.
At the top of the tunnel, the emergency lights, spaced far apart, cast a dim, blurry yellow glow, illuminating only a small circle below, while most of the area remained shrouded in creeping darkness.
The light slanted down on the two men, casting long, twisted, and swaying shadows on the wall covered in a mess of graffiti, like silent ghosts following them.
After walking about a hundred steps, McCallum stopped in front of a recess in the wall.
There hung a large, heavy, dirty plastic woven cloth, its original color obscured, like a tattered curtain, swaying slightly in the cold wind.
He took a deep breath, which condensed into a small cloud of white mist in the cold air, and then used his arm to push aside the thick plastic sheet.
A more murky smell emerged—a musty smell, the smell of dusty engine oil, and a faint, slightly acidic odor, similar to chemical reagents.
McCallen squeezed in sideways.
Baijiu's eyes narrowed slightly, but without hesitation, he lowered his head and followed.
The plastic sheeting fell behind, blocking out most of the echoes and wind noise in the tunnel, replacing them with an absolute, oppressive silence.
This place resembles a forgotten equipment room, piled with dark, unrecognizable pieces of waste.
The only light source came from deep within the room, on a crooked wooden table, where a camping lamp, powered by batteries, shone dimly and sickly, flickering and buzzing softly.
In the center of that flickering, dim yellow light that seemed ready to go out at any moment, a person sat with their back to the door on a worn-out folding chair.
like a statue.
It's Old Black.
He sat on a creaking folding chair, his back slightly hunched, like an ancient craftsman, immersed in a world undisturbed by anyone.
He wore a pair of unusual, dark-colored special sunglasses that almost covered half of his face. The lenses had a dark, emotionless color in the dim light, designed to filter strong light of a specific wavelength.
His hands, clad in close-fitting thin anti-static gloves, were as steady as iron clamps welded into the air.
His right hand was controlling a palm-sized, high-density micro-sculpting instrument with sharp lines and a sense of precise mechanical beauty.
At the front of the instrument, a beam of extremely concentrated, cold blue light, barely visible to the naked eye, extends out. It is as thin as a hair, yet carries a sharp sensation that slightly stings the skin.
That deadly beam of cold light was focused on a simple metal stand in front of him.
In the center of the support, there is a transparent chip smaller than a fingernail and as thin as a cicada's wing.
On the surface of the chip, under the precise etching of cold blue light dots, extremely complex, nanoscale three-dimensional circuit patterns are emerging at a speed that is almost impossible for the naked eye to follow.
Sizzle...whoosh..."
The instrument emitted an extremely faint but very high-frequency beeping sound, like some kind of electro-loving metallic insect gnawing at something.
Old Hei's head was tilted slightly, and his eyes were hidden behind sunglasses. Only his taut jawline and lips pressed into a straight line showed an extraordinary, absolute focus that had abandoned all distractions.
"Hey, baijiu." Old Hei took the initiative to speak, but his voice became much weaker.
"Old Hei..." Baijiu's voice trembled slightly. Old Hei's condition had worsened since the last time, and he could not be weaned off the ventilator and IV drip at all.
"Please bear with the basic conditions; all the luxury hotels are fully booked," Old Hei joked.
Baijiu naturally picked up where Lao Hei left off: "I don't think it's that shabby, at least there are curtains, a few cushions, and..."
“Yeah,” McClane smiled, pointing to the side, “At least there’s the mini-fridge, and the place where the four of us used to play together…”
McCallen and the white wine exchanged glances, and then the three of them spoke in unison.
"Millionaire".
The three chuckled softly.
Old Hei turned off the light and then took off his glasses.
“Brother…” Baijiu and Lao Hei hugged each other and patted each other on the shoulder.
They hadn't seen each other since the last time they took the train.
Seeing this, McClane was inexplicably moved, her lips involuntarily drooping downwards, and a tear glistening in her eye.
"Seeing that you're still alive, I'm already more than satisfied." Old Hei looked into Baijiu's eyes.
"I'm worried that you're working too hard."
“You never need to worry about Lao Hei.” Lao Hei patted Bai Jiu on the shoulder meaningfully.
"Okay." Baijiu nodded with a smile.
“So…” McClane interrupted the warm atmosphere and asked, “What did you find out?”
“Quite a few,” Baijiu said succinctly.
He pursed his lips: "More than I expected."
"So what's the plan?" McCallum asked.
“First,” Baijiu raised his voice, “we need to find Rum.”
"Then how can we find him?" Old Hei asked.