Conan: Begins to collaborate with Miss Bayonetta and become famous

Chapter 779 Is this mission related to nuclear bombs again?

Nils Debrook's appearance was imprinted on the mottled wall by the light. He had long brown hair that casually fell on his shoulders. His facial lines were strong, his eyebrows were thick, and his brown eyes were hidden under his eyelids, revealing a sharp aura. Under his high nose bridge were clearly defined lips.

It gave people a cold and mysterious feeling. Baijiu looked at this face, and a strange sense of familiarity slowly rose from the bottom of the abyss of memory like a shipwreck. The feeling became clearer and clearer, with a rusty smell, as if he had looked up at this face countless times in some long-faded afternoon in his childhood.

His head buzzed, as if the fog was split by lightning. He clapped his hands, shook his head and smiled.

"I was wondering...why does he look so familiar?" Isn't this man the tough, bare-faced version of Uncle Depp from "Pirates of the Caribbean"?

The robotic male voice continued, "Dr. Debruk's security clearance was revoked after he made strong anti-religious remarks."

The close-up of Debrook's stern face silently shrank and retreated to the side, and several file photos appeared on both sides. He was wearing a suit, holding documents in his arms, walking on the street.

There was always a layer of alienation in his eyes, and that coldness seemed even deeper under the cover of his long, drooping hair.

Baijiu continued to listen to the intelligence from the mechanical male voice: "At the same time, the apostles have been in contact with the underworld members in Eastern Europe. These underworld forces have three -"

"Plutonium cores stolen from a missile base in eastern Russia." An image was projected onto the wall. Inside an open metal box, three dark, round cores were arranged in a triangle.

"This means that John Lark and the Apostles are collaborating to try to obtain usable nuclear weapons, and there are members of the Nuclear Emergency Support Team within the organization."

"According to his estimate, with Debruk's theoretical level and using existing materials, he could build three nuclear weapons in just seventy-two hours."

On the right, there is a complex three-dimensional nuclear weapon design blueprint with dense lines. In an instant, Baijiu felt as if he was on the scene, vaguely feeling the cold technological luster emanating from the blueprint.

"These devices can be carried around and deployed around the world overnight." As he spoke, the silhouette of an adult male was projected on the left wall as a reference, only half the height of the device.

The heavy pressure weighed on Baijiu's shoulders like a physical object.

This mission is unprecedentedly difficult.

"In the hands of John Lark's apostles, these weapons will pose an unprecedented threat to millions of people."

Then, familiar lines streamed from the speakers. Baijiu sat still, unmoved, unbothered, the surrounding darkness enveloping him like an impenetrable cocoon.

Baijiu's brows were slightly furrowed, his face half showing determination and half examining the task.

"You can choose whether to accept the following mission. Your group will stop the Apostles from obtaining the plutonium core, by any means necessary. If you or any member of your group is captured or killed."

"The Minister of Operations will claim to have no knowledge of your actions."

"Good luck, Baijiu."

"This message will automatically be deleted in five seconds."

The moment the words fell, the metal wheel of the film device stopped abruptly, and the cold and hard light it emitted went out. Baijiu sat upright in his seat, his body frozen, and did not move for a long time.

White smoke suddenly rose from the device disguised as a book, instantly enveloping the white wine.

He closed the book, his knuckles resting briefly on the hardcover before picking up his phone. The cold light of the screen illuminated his calm profile. His fingertips flicked through the address book, finally settling on that name.

Baijiu closed the book, thought for a moment, made up his mind, picked up his phone, opened the address book, dialed the number, and called that person.

Day 2, Berlin, Germany, night.

The night was like a huge black cloth, covering the night sky of Berlin. In the dim underground tunnel, a few lonely lights on the ceiling cast a faint halo of light, barely tearing a few weak gaps in the sticky darkness.

Looking at the tunnel arch, it looks like a door to a mysterious world.

In this inky night scene, two figures stood in the hazy light.

In front of him, the silhouette of a man in a suit exuded a rock-like calm in the dark night—it was Baijiu. Behind him, his companion's figure was slightly blurred, only his tall silhouette wrapped in a dark windbreaker could be seen.

The owner of the windbreaker, Macallan, was also the person who drank liquor in his dream last night.

McCarron's voice trembled a little: "He is late. He is never late."

Baijiu retorted, saying firmly, "He will come."

Macallan laid his cards on the table: "But... Baijiu, I have a very bad feeling." His pace unconsciously quickened, and he was already in front of Baijiu.

"I don't know why...that guy gives me a creepy feeling." McAllen's Adam's apple rolled, his eyes fixed on the depths of the tunnel in front of him that was so dark that it could swallow up the light. A chill ran up his spine, and his body shuddered uncontrollably.

He suppressed his palpitations, but his gaze betrayed his will and suddenly swept upwards - two rows of pale light tubes above his head cut the thin light into hanging, cold blades with a green glow.

The hem of Macallan's windbreaker swept through the dust, and the fine beads of sweat on his forehead condensed into a cold light in the dim light.

Baijiu noticed Macallan's nervous expression and said in a deep voice, "Relax."

"I'm relaxed," McAllen said in a short, abrupt rebuttal.

Baijiu tilted his head, a faint arc passed across the corner of his lips: "Your voice is trembling."

"Blackie," he called into the headset. "Does he sound relaxed?"

At the other end, in the dim carriage, light and shadow carved furrows through the deep wrinkles on Old Black's face like a chisel. He was dressed in a dark red shirt, leaning slightly, a smile almost kind on his face, his voice warm and amused, "He's about to piss his pants listening to this."

"Please, I'm not frightened." McAllen's voice suddenly rose.

Lao Hei smiled faintly, shook his head slightly, turned around and crossed his legs. He stared at the three screens in front of him, which showed real-time surveillance images inside the tunnel.

The screen glowed with a cold light, reflecting two blurry figures in the tunnel. They were Baijiu and Macallan. Old Black held his chin with his hand, staring at the screen quietly.

McAllen rubbed his hands together and said, "I just have a bad feeling."

Lao Hei couldn't hold it in and laughed out loud: "Didn't you just say you were very relaxed?"

Baijiu also smiled, while Macallan spread his hands and explained to the two of them seriously, "It's entirely possible to be relaxed and extremely uneasy at the same time."

"How is that possible?" Baijiu teased.

Macallan's brows knitted slightly, wrinkles forming on his forehead. He stared directly at the liquor and said in a serious tone, "You're always like this."

"I didn't." Baijiu leaned back subconsciously, directly denying Macallan.

"You are." McAllen said seriously.

Lao Hei looked at the two people on the screen, like elementary school students arguing about a reading mistake.

Listening to the loop of "You are" and "I don't", Lao Hei sighed silently and was forced to play the role of "class teacher" and make adjustments.

"No, there is no white wine." said Lao Hei.

Baijiu and Macallan looked at each other. Looking at Macallan's serious expression, Baijiu suddenly imagined Maomao. Yes, it was the monkey.

His aloof image collapsed in an instant, the corridor was filled with Baijiu's laughter. He tilted his head, the corners of his mouth raised to his dimples, and the veins on his neck were clearly visible.

McCarron took advantage of this gap to quickly wipe the cold sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.