Inside the guesthouse, four enemy agents glided into the room like phantoms. The leader, dressed in a grey-green long-sleeved shirt and smoke-grey trousers, gestured cautiously to his men behind him: The target was supposed to be three people; why were there fewer?
Another middle-aged man, wearing a grey long-sleeved shirt and black trousers, placed a finger to his lips. Moving with almost no sound, he crept toward the bathroom door.
His calloused palm brushed against the slightly rusted handle, and he suddenly swung it open. On the porcelain-white tiles, Zhou Mingzhu lay limp like a puppet with cut strings, her hair soaking in a puddle of water, the veins in her neck clearly visible.
Chapter 93