859: Chapter 854 A Man Who Truly Relies on His Fists

"In addition, help me check a Soviet named Igor Volkov. I want all the information on his life, including what brand of vodka he liked to drink and what color cat he kept."

"Searching..."

The light spots on the screen flashed crazily, and countless data streams brushed past like a waterfall.

"Search complete. The information has been sent to your encrypted terminal."

"Sir, according to big data deduction, the risk factor for your trip to Zurich at this time is 85%. It is recommended to carry heavy-duty security."

The voice of "asking heaven" seemed to have a hint of human-like fluctuation.

Shen Yan adjusted his cufflinks and looked at the constantly rotating vortex on the screen, the corner of his mouth curling into a playful arc.

"Risk?"

"In this world, the biggest risk is not bleeding, but when you stand in front of a mountain of gold, you don't even have a shovel in your hand."

"This time, what we're going to dig up is your future 'heart'."

Two hours later.

Jinghai City Nanyuan Private Airport.

The tarmac in the early morning was freezing, the cold wind making people's trench coats rustle.

A gulfstream g650 had already completed its pre-flight checks, the roar of the engines echoing on the empty runway.

Chen Guangke stood at the boarding gate with four burly, fierce-looking men, each carrying a black tactical bag.

Lin Zhiyuan was wrapped in a thick down jacket, tightly clutching the silver metal box in his arms, shivering from the cold, but his eyes shone with excitement.

He didn't know where he was going or what he was going to do.

But he knew that as long as he followed Shen Yan, whatever happened next would definitely go down in history.

A black maybach sped over and stopped steadily in front of everyone.

Shen Yan pushed the door open and got out of the car. He had changed into a black cashmere coat and was wearing leather gloves. He looked like an unsheathed black blade.

"Brother Yan, everyone is here."

Chen Guangke stepped forward and opened the car door for Shen Yan.

"These guys are all people I've been through thick and thin with in Syria before; they're tight-lipped and ruthless."

Shen Yan glanced at the bodyguards.

They were also sizing him up, their eyes filled with scrutiny and rebelliousness.

After all, in the eyes of these people who lived on the edge, there were plenty of rich bosses, but not many who could earn their respect.

Shen Yan didn't speak; he just took a thick stack of envelopes from his coat and tossed them to the leading Scarface.

"This is the deposit, in US dollars."

"When we get there, I won't ask about the process, only the results."

"If anyone messes up, this isn't settlement money for your family, it's money to buy your life."

His tone was as casual as if he were discussing the weather, but the pressure of a superior radiating from his bones made the rebellious mercenaries instantly put away their contempt.

Scarface pinched the thickness of the envelope, his eyes narrowing. He snapped to attention and gave an extremely standard military salute.

"Don't worry, boss. As long as the money is right, even if God comes, He'll have to take off His shoes at the door."

Shen Yan nodded and walked straight up the ramp.

The cabin door slowly closed, sealing out the cold wind.

With a strong push against their backs, the plane soared into the clouds, leaving the sleeping city beneath its feet.

Shen Yan sat by the window, looking down at the chessboard-like tiny Jinghai City, gently swirling the red wine glass in his hand.

The red liquid left blood-like streaks on the glass.

Switzerland, Zurich.

It was a paradise many dreamed of, and a hell where countless sins were buried.

And in 48 hours, it would become his hunting ground.

"Everyone."

Shen Yan turned around, his gaze sweeping over everyone in the cabin.

"Get some sleep."

"When the sun rises, we will be in another world."

"A world that truly relies on fists and money to speak."

Morning in Zurich was not as tender as in travel brochures.

The biting cold wind, mixed with snow from the Alps, flew along the hard stone pavement of Bahnhofstrasse.

This was the blood vessel of global wealth; it was as if gold coins with a fishy smell flowed beneath every paving stone.

Shen Yan fastened the last button of his cashmere coat and stood before the heavy brass revolving door.

Chen Guangke followed half a step behind him, his eagle eyes, trained in the desert, silently scanning the old man selling newspapers on the street corner.

Four mercenaries, wearing expensive suits that couldn't hide their bandit-like aura, were scattered around, protecting Lin Zhiyuan like he was a precious treasure.

Lin Zhiyuan clutched the silver briefcase tightly in his arms, his knuckles turning white from the force, and his teeth chattered uncontrollably.

It wasn't entirely from the cold; it was mostly from fear.

Just ten minutes ago, Shen Yan told him that if they failed this time, they might have to swim back across the Pacific.

"After we go in, keep your mouth shut, watch the show, and do your job."

Shen Yan didn't look back, just whispered those eight words.

He pushed open the heavy revolving door, as if stepping into another dimension.

The lobby was filled with the smell of old cigars and the ink scent of fermented banknotes.

There wasn't a single extra noise; even the sound of high heels on the marble floor was swallowed by the expensive sound-absorbing carpet.

A white manager in a tailcoat, his hair slicked back, immediately came forward.

His name was Hans, a senior partner of this private Bank, his grey-blue eyes filled with professional arrogance and scrutiny.

Hans glanced at this strange group: a cold Asian youth, a middle-aged man so nervous he looked like he was about to wet his pants, and several bodyguards radiating the smell of gunpowder.

"Gentlemen, I think you may have come to the wrong place. This is a member-only, appointment-based establishment."

Hans raised his chin slightly, his tone polite enough to be faultless, yet keeping them at a distance.

Shen Yan didn't speak, he didn't even look him in the eye.

He walked straight to the Louis XIV mahogany reception desk and took a black magnetic card and a wax-sealed document from his coat.

That was the perfect identity forged for him by the system—the distant grand-nephew and sole legal heir of Igor Volkov.

There was a soft "clack."

The magnetic card was tossed onto the table. The sound wasn't loud, but it was like a slap to Hans's face.

"Get the person in charge of safe deposit box number 7734. I want to go down now."

Shen Yan took off his leather gloves, his movements slow and deliberate, his tone as flat as if he were buying two pounds of pork at a wet market.

Hans's eyelid twitched violently.

Of course he knew about number 7734.

That damn Soviet legacy that was going to become ownerless in just two hours.

There were at least three groups of people watching this box, and CIA agents were drinking terrible American coffee in the cafe across the street.