Deep in the alley, a hunched figure stood under the only lit streetlamp.
A yellow raincoat glowed eerily in the dim light.
Jack took a deep breath, adjusting to John's "combat breathing" rhythm: inhale for four seconds, hold for four seconds, exhale for four seconds.
He could feel his heart rate gradually drop from 120 beats per minute to 80.
Only with calmness could he make a clear judgment of everything around him.
"John sent me."
Jack stopped five meters away, a distance sufficient for him to react to any sudden situation.
His right hand hung naturally at his waist, his thumb having already quietly unlatched the holster's safety catch.
The yellow raincoat slowly turned.
Under the streetlamp, a face full of wrinkles was revealed, with cloudy eyes sunken deep in their sockets.
The old man held a brown paper package in his left hand and leaned on an ebony cane with his right, the age spots on his knuckles clearly visible.
"Password?" The old man's voice sounded like sandpaper rubbing against wood.
Jack's pupils contracted slightly.
John hadn't mentioned any password.
His gaze quickly scanned the old man's stance; his weight was evenly distributed on both legs, and the cane merely touched the ground lightly, not like an old man who needed support.
Even more suspicious was the abnormal wear and tear on the cane's handle, as if it was frequently… "What password? I'm here to pick up a package."
Jack kept his voice steady, while quietly shifting his weight to his back foot, "He just told me to pick up a package."
At this moment, Jack's vigilance had reached its peak, and he could vaguely sense a feeling of danger.
Something was wrong!
A glint of sharpness suddenly flashed in the old man's cloudy eyes.
In that instant, Jack saw the muscles in the old man's right hand tense.
The brass ornament at the top of the cane suddenly sprang open, and a twenty-centimeter-long, thin blade shot out like lightning, aimed at Jack's throat!
At this moment, Jack's trained instincts took over his body.
His left arm whipped up like a lash, the outside of his forearm precisely striking the middle of the cane, while his body tilted to the right and back.
The blade grazed his carotid artery; he could feel the cold touch of metal.
"Fuck!!"
His right hand had already completed the draw, the muzzle of the Glock 19 just pointing at the old man's chest, when a burly man in a ski mask burst out from the shadows on the left.
This man held a serrated hunting knife, its blade glinting blue under the streetlamp.
Jack's index finger was already on the trigger, but his training in the Mozambique Drill made him forcefully change his target.
Shoot whoever poses the greatest threat!
Bang!
The first shot pierced the knife-wielder's right knee.
A spray of blood mist erupted as the bullet passed through the kneecap, and the burly man let out an inhuman shriek, his body toppling forward.
But the crisis was far from over.
A second figure suddenly darted out from behind the dumpster on the right; this time it was a tall, thin man, holding a specially made triangular bayonet.
Jack immediately adjusted his aim, but the tall, thin man's movements were astonishingly fast, the triangular bayonet already slashing towards his wrist.
Bang!
Bang!
The first shot missed, the bullet sparking against the brick wall.
The second shot hit the tall, thin man's left shoulder, the bullet tearing through the deltoid muscle and exiting his back with shattered bone fragments.
"Damn!"
But the opponent seemed to feel no pain, the triangular bayonet continuing its thrust forward.
Jack had no choice but to abandon his firing stance, executing a tactical roll to dodge to the left.
Dodge!
Exciting!
It was so * * * exciting!
His right shoulder hit the damp ground, and sewage soaked his shirt.
When the roll ended, he was already in a kneeling position, holding the gun with both hands pointed at the tall, thin man.
Bang!
Bang!
This time both shots hit the chest.
The first bullet was blocked by the bulletproof vest, but the second accurately hit an unprotected spot below the sternum.
The tall, thin man stumbled back two steps as if struck by an invisible heavy hammer, and the triangular bayonet clattered to the ground.
Turning to look for the old man in the yellow raincoat, he had already dropped the package and was fleeing deeper into the alley at a speed completely inconsistent with his age.
Jack was about to give chase when he suddenly heard the crisp sound of metal hitting the ground behind him.
The burly man, shot in the knee, had not yet lost consciousness; he was trembling as he pulled an M67 grenade from his jacket, the safety pin already bitten off by his teeth!
Jack's pupils instantly dilated!
"Are you f*cking kidding me?!"
Jack's adrenaline instantly spiked to the maximum.
Time seemed to slow down; he could clearly see the burly man's thumb releasing the safety lever, see the trajectory of the grenade as it was about to be thrown, and even calculate the 3.5-second countdown before the explosion.
Damn it!
No time!
Three rapid shots, two hitting the burly man's chest, erupting in a spray of blood, the third passing directly through his skull.
A mess of red and white exploded from the back of his head.
The dull thud of bullets piercing the chest, the clinking of spent casings hitting the ground, and the metallic scraping sound of the grenade rolling all intertwined.
Jack had already dived for the nearest cover, the overturned dumpster.
Boom!
The shockwave of the explosion rattled his internal organs.
The sound of countless fragments hitting the dumpster was like an iron rain.
A sharp shrapnel flew past his cheek, leaving a stinging wound.
Feeling a bit dizzy, Jack staggered to his feet once the ringing in his ears subsided slightly.
The alley was filled with the pungent smell of gunpowder mixed with blood and flesh.
"Ugh…"
A groan came, it turned out the thin man was not dead yet, but he had no intention of wasting words with him, and simply raised his hand and fired another shot.
Through the skull!
Two bodies lay in pools of blood in different poses, the brown paper package resting quietly at the edge of the bloody water.
As he bent down to pick up the package, he noticed half a phone sticking out of the pocket of the first burly man killed.
Professional habit made him pull it out to check; the lock screen photo showed three young men standing at a shooting range, the one in the middle, though twenty years younger, had eyes that he would never mistake—it was the old man in the yellow raincoat.
And the faintly visible logo on the background wall was clearly the KH emblem!
"Is this a test or a murder?!"
The sound of police sirens came from a distance.
Jack quickly planned his escape route: through the junkyard on the left, using the stacked cargo containers for cover, then detouring through the underground drainpipe to a car repair shop two blocks away.
This route would avoid all major street surveillance.
Fifteen minutes later, Jack, soaking wet and smelling of sewage, emerged from the back door of the car repair shop.
He hailed a taxi, specifically asking the driver to go halfway around the city, changing cars twice along the way, before finally returning to John's villa.
"You f*cking didn't tell me there would be three professional killers ambushing me! And one got away!"
Jack slammed the blood-stained and sewage-soaked package onto the coffee table in front of John, cracking the glass on the mahogany tabletop, "I saw the KH logo!"
John slowly unwrapped the package, his movements as elegant as if he were opening a Christmas present: "So this is your first lesson, don't trust anyone."
Inside the package was a wooden box containing an antique brass key and a yellowed photograph.
The photo showed a 20th-century style bank, and on the back, written in faded ink: "Vault V.72, Brooklyn Trust Bank."
"Including you?"
Jack's voice was somewhat incredulous.
He ripped open his shirt, revealing the wound on his waist, which had been gashed by the triangular bayonet during the melee, the blood already congealed into a dark red scab.
"Of course." John smiled, a rare sight, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes smoothing out: "Especially your teacher… me."
Jack suddenly understood something.
He grabbed the key, pointing at the bank in the photo: "Is this my next 'test' location?"
"Tomorrow morning at ten."
John sipped his black tea, "Remember to wear a bulletproof vest."
"To hell with your bulletproof vest!"
Jack tore open his jacket, revealing his empty holster and scarred waist, "Do you know how close I was to death just now? That triangular bayonet was two centimeters away from piercing my kidney!"