The tram tracks in Bucharest glisten with cold light in the midnight rain.

Ferrara raises the collar of his black coat; the espresso in his coffee cup has long grown cold.

It was the fifth time he passed the Saint Stavron Cathedral when he finally noticed the tracker had made a fatal mistake—the man in the leather jacket had bought Pravda three times from the same newsstand.

He stopped at an abandoned dock by the Danube River, his right hand naturally hung at his side, ready to draw the dagger from his waist in the quickest of motions should the other make any move.

The man did not pause, he walked slowly along the cement brick road by the riverbank railing, still holding the copy of Pravda that had exposed him.

Ever since he got off the plane last night, he had realized he was being watched.

Ferrara suddenly realized that ignoring Henry's warnings to come to Eastern Europe was indeed a huge risk.

But he had no choice.

Because this time, he came for his sister Catherine.

Everyone has a weakness.

Even a man as wise and composed as Ferrara is no exception.

Ferrara's weakness is his family.

His father's early death made Ferrara realize at a young age that he was the only man left in the family and had to shoulder the burden of providing for them.

So starting from college, Ferrara naturally began working part-time to support his family.

He has a smart mind, making money wasn't difficult for him.

His sister is eight years younger than him, born half a year before their father died in an accident.

Thus, Catherine never got to enjoy much fatherly love.

For her, her brother Ferrara is just like a father.

Being depended on by his sister and mother was not a burden to Ferrara; he even felt it brought him a sense of achievement.

A few days ago, his mother called to inform him that his sister Catherine had gone missing, making Ferrara restless.

The distance between the two grew closer.

Ferrara knew the principles of tracking very well.

If the target stops, you can't stop immediately.

Doing so would make you conspicuous like a fly on a bald man's head.

The best approach is to keep walking casually, passing the tracking task to a nearby ally.

Clearly, this man had adopted this strategy.

Not long after, the man had already arrived by Ferrara's side.

He looked straight ahead, appearing as a mere passerby, without even glancing at Ferrara.

But precisely because of this, Ferrara determined that the man was indeed a tracker.

In such a sparsely populated and secluded area, a normal person passing by someone standing by the river holding coffee and staring at them would at least cast a glance.

Yet he didn't even look.

That means something's amiss.

The oil floating on the water reflected the neon lights, distorting the man's reflection into twisted patches of color.

Just as the man passed Ferrara by, Ferrara suddenly spun and flung the coffee cup.

The moment the scalding liquid splashed onto the tracker's face, his knee had already slammed into the man's abdomen.

The man, with his face plastered with hot coffee, his eyes stinging, hadn't had time to react as Ferrara's knee landed solidly in his abdomen.

"Ugh—"

He immediately bent over, doubling over as he retched on the ground.

Ferrara reached behind him and pulled out a Makarov pistol.

The wear marks on the grip indicated that the owner is left-handed; in the magazine, the 9mm bullets were all filed down to points—a torture tactic commonly used by Balkan gangs.

Gangs?

His mind flashed through the intelligence Henry had gathered for him earlier.

The intelligence indicated that his sister Catherine's disappearance might be related to the local gangs.

This time, she was in Romania investigating local gang involvement in human trafficking, intending to use it as material for a news feature.

The business of human trafficking in Eastern Europe originated in the late eighties and early nineties; before that, most local gangs were involved in smuggling activities.

Such as cars, appliances, and even cigarettes.

Back then, due to the Cold War still lingering, certain Western European goods were highly sought after in Eastern Europe's underground black markets, often fetching several times their price.

After this smuggling route was established, it gradually evolved into facilitating illegal immigration.

Gang members transformed into snakeheads.

Later on, the Cold War ended, the Soviet Union disintegrated, and the economies of many former CIS countries collapsed, casting a shadow over the nation contrasting the allure of Eastern European women.

Consequently, numerous young Eastern European girls were illegally assisted by gangs to Western Europe for prostitution.

Romania, with its unique geographical location, became a crucial hub linking smuggling channels between Eastern and Western Europe.

Until the emergence of the EU and Eastward expansion, the advent of the Schengen Visa turned smuggling into a relic of the past, causing this trade to gradually decline.

Although the smuggling business declined, the underground human trafficking business in Western Europe remains booming.

Those old European degenerates, and even wealthy people over in the United States, their twisted desires grow by the day.

Keeping sex slaves has always been a private penchant among Western elite circles, as intoxicating to them as drugs.

Where there is demand, there is market.

When the number of Eastern European girls willing to work in this trade decreases, the consequent inevitability is deceit and abduction.

Karinna came to investigate this news topic.

To disguise her identity, she even took a job at a suspicious modeling agency—behind these so-called agencies were actually criminal organizations. They used scout agents to target naive Eastern European girls, enticing them with the promise of becoming professional models, only to easily deceive and secretly traffic them around the world.

But clearly, Catherine wasn't careful. According to her mother, she lost contact with her within three days of arriving in Romania.

Initially unaware that her daughter had been kidnapped by criminals, her mother received a mysterious message a few days later, revealing that her beloved daughter had fallen into the hands of villains.

She reported it to the police, but the Italian authorities informed her that such international cases required a lengthy wait. In bureaucratic Europe, coordinating law enforcement across different countries to solve a kidnapping case was as challenging as climbing Mount Everest.

Expecting the Italian police, who couldn't even handle pickpockets around the Roman Colosseum effectively, to solve such a case was less reliable than praying to God in a cathedral.

In desperation, the mother could only seek help from Ferrari.

Although she hadn't seen her vagabond son for several years, every month he would wire money from some corner of the world to her account—he still cared about his mother.

When Ferrari smashed the man's right ankle with the butt of his gun, the scream startled a flock of pigeons hiding in the shadows.

"Speak, who are you?! Why are you following me?"

Ferrari pressed the deformed warhead into the wound, making the man twitch and scream.

"I'm with the Skull Gang. I don't know why I'm following you; I was just following orders. Our boss told me to tail you."

Perhaps the pain was too much, and the man spilled everything like beans from a bamboo tube.

Ferrari sneered.

Against a professional mercenary like himself, the endurance of petty gangsters was as flimsy as wet tissue paper, collapsing at the slightest touch.

"Who told you my whereabouts?"

Ferrari continued interrogating.

"I don't know, I don't know. I'm just a small fry. I only know you're here for a rescue..."

Sweat poured from the man's forehead, unsure if it was fear from the gun pressed to his head or pain from the warhead lodged in his wound.

Ferrari believed the man was telling the truth.

Low-level gang members only acted on orders, handling menial tasks.

They wouldn't know any high-level secrets.

"One last question. If you lie, I'll blast your head open with a bullet and dump your body in the river to feed the fish, understood?"

"Understood..."

"Where is my sister currently being held?"

"..."

The man hesitated, his eyes darting, not answering immediately.

He quickly realized the consequences of lying.

Ferrari started to press the bullet harder into the gunshot wound.

"Ow—I'll talk! I'll talk! Warehouse 17 at Constantine Port District. She's probably there! I'm just guessing; usually, girls are kept there!"

This answer made his pupils contract slightly; it was a restricted area where the gang's smuggling ships unloaded.

Ferrari confirmed the man wasn't lying, then swung the butt of his gun into the man's temple.

The man immediately slumped into unconsciousness, his body collapsing sideways without moving.

Ferrari quickly searched the man's body, taking any ammunition and snapping photos of his ID with his phone using the man's wallet.

Now he knew a possible location where his sister might be held.

But he needed help.

He wasn't Song Heping.

If Song Heping were here, he'd dare storm the gang's headquarters and neuter their boss alone.

As for himself...

Ferrari chuckled bitterly.

For the first time, he felt somewhat powerless.

Back at the company, he always prided himself on his clever mind, making a living with his brains.

But this time, he suddenly realized that strong limbs were quite useful too, that formidable military skills were more effective than a smart brain in certain situations.

Gathering his things, Ferrari got up and left quickly.

He needed to find the liaison now.

Tonight was the scheduled meeting time.

This liaison was arranged by Henry, and if everything went well, he could provide him with weapons and even mercenary services, enlisting skilled personnel.

He glanced at his watch.

It was half past eight.

The scheduled time was at half past ten.

Now, Ferrari needed to find the liaison immediately.

Catherine had been missing for almost a week now.

A girl in the hands of a gang...

Ferrari couldn't bear to think further.

As he walked a bit further, bright headlights beamed from behind.

He turned to see it was a taxi, quickly waving it down.

"To 172 Luke Street."

Ferrari pulled up his collar to conceal half of his face, glanced at the rearview mirror, and gave the driver an address.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by lotustale.com