205, tracked

When the phone rang, Mo Lei was bending down to pull the car door, he saw that the number was the area code of Bogota, thought about it, waited for a few rings, pulled the car door and sat in the driver's seat and pressed the call button.

The call was made by Gao Bing.

"The test results were fine, cardiac arrest."

"Did you do what we said?" Mo Lei started the car, looked at the reversing mirrors on both sides, and slowly drove the car out of the roadside.

"Yes, toxicology screening, blood drawing, but gas chromatography is not used, there is not enough equipment here, and there is no time."

"Then before they, I mean to know who Ning Boyuan had been in contact with before he died? What was done? I heard Wang Yuwei say that where did the inspection reports that Ning Boyuan went to get back? What's going on? Do they have an investigation?"

Gao Bing on the phone was silent for a while, "The doctor who helped with the examination is gone, the only machine is broken, if you go to buy a new machine, it will take at least 60 days from the cycle, and it will take longer to repair." ”

"No need to check, this has been proven, it was Volks' doing. In other words, it is to extinguish the mouth. Mo Lei drove the car onto the road, he is now in the county seat of Ibagu, which is 120 kilometers away from Soacha, which is already the county seat of another province, Mo Lei was on the way to change cars, and found that someone was chasing after him, so he had to give up his plan to meet Gao Bing in Bogotá.

"At the tiger's mouth, there is indeed a very small hole, like a 25-gauge needle, but it is also difficult to identify." Gao Bing said slowly, as if trying to find the words, "But the results of the examination are disappointing, fuck." ”。

"Check again, you'll stay in Bogotá, a place with a lot of foreigners, it's better to hide. I'll definitely make a trip to Soacha and get in touch. Mo Lei walked slowly in the traffic, the small San Jose Plaza in front of him, at 12 noon it was the time when the traffic was busy, electric cars, motorcycles and buses galloping in the traffic, buses emitting black smoke like an old cow slowly, it seemed that everyone was honking the horn, shaking people's hearts anxious and angry.

Finally driving through the congested section, Mo Lei looked at the reversing mirrors on both sides, turned right at an intersection, parked the car on the side of the road and waited for two minutes, and after confirming that there was no tracking, he drove straight ahead to the intersection and then turned left. In this area, high-rise buildings and dilapidated houses coexist, technology and history are blended, the trees on both sides of the road are lush and green, and occasionally a small café spills the aroma into the air, and gets into the carriage, Mo Lei takes a deep breath, gently steps on the accelerator, and speeds up.

The clothes on my body didn't fit well, but fortunately, I washed them cleanly, and there was a smell of laundry detergent and sunshine. The two wounds on the neck were treated, and a yellow and white checkered scarf was wrapped in gauze. The injuries on his body still hurt faintly, but fortunately, it did not affect his actions, and he didn't have the heart to think about the injury now, and he was seriously analyzing the current situation in his head.

To be sure, Garner was also involved in this matter, and when Digger and Tina got out of the car, he observed that Tina was not in a state of hostage, and combined with what Digger said to himself, he could figure out with his toes that Digger was Ghana's second or third cronie.

Then, the assassination in the new district of Barranquilla would not have been arranged by Diger, but only the killer summoned by Tiggall's name. So, who will it be? Will it be Vaux? He can't borrow someone else's name, he can hunt down himself if he is upright, and the reason for avenging his nephew is justified. Who would it be if it wasn't Volks?

Who are those people on the train? Just trying to capture himself alive was a bit like Diggle's arrangement, but why did he have to go to great lengths to wait a few days before he left? You can do it right in Pereira or Angonco. Who would it be if it weren't for him?

Both the Bull Demon King and Nixon had reminded themselves that agents of the U.S. Treasury Department were also tracking down the whereabouts of the money printing template, and they were afraid that they would follow the line to find themselves. But the question is, are those agents so stupid? Confused by a fake clue? If so, why didn't anyone show up?

Regarding the Chinese community, what about the medical examination report of the elderly? The death of Ning Boyuan and the old man surnamed Qian, the damage to the hospital machinery and the disappearance of the main doctor are enough to prove that this is a conspiracy, but what is the conspiracy? It's a clue.

When he arrived in Soracha, it was close to three o'clock in the afternoon, and Mo Lei drove for nearly three hours on the 120-kilometer road. On the way, he parked the car at the gas station, ordered a hamburger, and carefully checked whether there was a tracking vehicle behind him, and only got back into the car after confirming that it was correct. I originally wanted to mix a tourist bus and sit straight to Soacha, but there were few people on the bus, and my goal was too big, so I had to find a way to change the car in Soacha.

The roads near Soachacha were intricate, and Mo Lei drove the car into a dead end several times before driving back to the same place again. He found a parking lot, pulled the car into a corner, parked it, sat in the car for a while, and then got out of the car. Walking into the residential area and walking around, he had an extra coat in his hand, he walked to the street and reached out to stop a taxi, said an address at random, and the taxi moved slowly.

The roads in this area are narrow, lined with historic stone houses, ranging from dilapidated buildings to large trudging mansions, and the streets are uneven, with taxi sites scratching against paved cobblestones. Pedestrians walk indifferently in the middle of the road, ignoring the vehicles behind them as if they were nothing, and the driver honks his horn hard, curses loudly, and occasionally looks at the guests in the back seat through the rearview mirror.

The narrow road was quickly left behind, and the taxi reached Soacha's main street, which was lined with imposing sloping stone houses and rows of buildings paved with stone tiles. Taxi to a spacious cobbled square, in the center of Simon. President Bolívar wielded a machete on horseback, brass glistening black in the sun. An old Gothic church stands next to it, and there are not many people in the square, but the performers are still meticulously dancing and singing.

Across the square from the church is a 17th-century manor house with a stepped gable roof and a wooden sign at the door indicating that it was a restaurant called 'Bolívar', which seems to have been chosen by the owner at will. The building looks a little newer than the other houses in the surrounding area, with light streaming in through the small windows of the bar, where you can eat and drink, sit and think, and only three blocks from the street you want to go to, and you can reach it by foot.

Mo Lei stopped the taxi near the exit of the square, and the driver muttered a few words dissatisfied, but when he saw the large amount of money handed over by Mo Lei, he wisely closed his mouth and turned around to show a smile that was far from innocent. Mo Lei didn't care, let alone let the other party give change, pushed the car door and walked to the 'Bolivar' restaurant.

The room is cool and cozy, and the smell of wood, fried onions and barbecued meat wafts through the air. It looks like a traditional old-fashioned restaurant, with all sorts of people sitting on rectangular wooden tables, and even though it's past lunchtime, people still drink beer and play poker. There were five or six men sitting at a table, all of whom looked like migrant workers and workers, who glanced at Mo Lei with hostility and suspicion, then turned their heads and continued to play cards.

Mo Lei only realized how hungry he was at this time, and he looked around, looking for hospitality, but found nothing. So he sat down at an empty table, and waited for two or three minutes before a short and fat man in his early thirties with an apron came over, threw a greasy recipe on the table, and stood there staring at Mo Lei without saying a word.

Mo Lei ordered some typical Colombian meals, which can satisfy his hunger and taste not too strange. The short and fat man waited more than ten minutes before coming out of the back kitchen, several plates on his arm. Mo Lei thanked him and asked him in English, "Are there any good hotels nearby where I can spend the night?" ”

The short and fat man frowned and silently put down the plate, pushing aside the ashtray and red matchbox with Pepsi commercials printed on the table, and then shook his head, indicating that he didn't understand what Mo Lei was saying. Mo Lei asked again in Spanish, and the man told him that there were many good hotels in the vicinity, and gave examples of how one hotel could feel at home, and showed Mo Lei directions.

After thanking the hostess, Mo Lei began to pounce on the food on the table, the roasted corn was just right, and the roasted meat was very delicious with onions. He swept through his meal as he peered out through the glass from time to time. He deliberately asked the stocky waiter for directions in English, which was actually a way to confuse his eyes - when asked, the waiter's first instinct would be to tell the person that the outsider was looking for a hotel, and he would tell someone that the outsider would go to such and such a hotel.

After eating all the food in a short period of time, Mo Lei looked around for a waiter and asked for a cup of black coffee. Suddenly, the uncomfortable feeling of being watched came back again, but it quickly disappeared. He turned his head to the right, and most of the old wooden tables were empty, but there were a few people in the dark cubicle, next to a long, richly decorated wood-carved bar counter, with no people sitting at the bar and an old-fashioned turntable telephone on the countertop.

There was a man sitting alone in a cubicle, drinking coffee and smoking. The middle-aged man wore a worn brown short jacket and his long hair tied into a ponytail. But when Mo Lei came in, he found that he was already sitting inside. There were also two men sitting in the compartment by the entrance, Mo Lei could only see the back of one person, and the other man inadvertently propped up the table with one elbow, leaned forward, and rested his head on the outstretched palm, which blocked half of his face.

When did they come in? If you're tracking yourself, why don't you do it? A killer who has no problem shooting on the street in broad daylight, why does a small restaurant in a county town start to hesitate?

The short and fat man appeared in front of the bar, Mo Lei raised his hand and waved at the waiter, and the other party walked over hesitantly, with a questioning face.

"Can you give me a cup of coffee?"

"Yes." The waiter nodded.

"Where's the bathroom?"

The waiter pointed to the dim corner on the left side of the bar, where there was a small corridor that was difficult to see, and Mo Lei also pointed to the small corridor, making his movements as big as possible, deliberately making people discover their actions.

Book Keju Reading Website: