But then he quickly realized it was impossible for American agents to be tailing him. First of all, he wasn't an agent himself, so he wouldn't be on any official watchlists. Second, aside from the Head of State and a handful of top leaders, almost no one knew about his trip to the U.S., so there was no chance his movements had been leaked.
That meant the only possibility was that the people being watched in the car behind them were either Cynthia Murong or Faye Shangguan.
With a thought, he activated his Clairvoyant Vision.
He focused on the trailing Chevy behind them. Inside were just two people: a stern-looking middle-aged white man and a tall, muscular young black man.
His gaze went straight through their suits and saw the IDs tucked in their pockets.
"They're CIA agents."
CIA stands for the Central Intelligence Agency, one of America's three major intelligence organizations. Its main job is to openly and secretly collect and analyze intelligence about foreign governments, companies, terrorist groups, individuals, politics, culture, technology, and more, coordinate with other domestic agencies, and report all findings to various branches of the U.S. government.
The CIA has enormous power—sometimes even the President can't interfere with their operations.
Ian Song withdrew his gaze and quietly studied Cynthia Murong and Faye Shangguan.
Cynthia Murong's expression was perfectly normal.
Faye Shangguan, on the other hand, kept sneaking anxious glances at the rearview mirror, her eyes showing a hint of agitation and unease.
At this point, Ian Song was almost certain—the two CIA agents tailing them were after Faye Shangguan.
Why would CIA agents be tracking Faye Shangguan? Was she some kind of foreign operative or intelligence officer?
Thinking of this, Ian Song activated his Clairvoyant Vision again and looked toward Faye Shangguan's knee-high leather boots.
Inside her left boot was a sharp combat knife; inside her right, a compact handgun.
Now Ian was completely sure—Faye Shangguan was no ordinary person. She was most likely an agent or an intelligence officer, though it was unclear which country she served.
Ian Song was in the U.S. on a special mission. Since Faye Shangguan had already caught the CIA's attention, his best option was to distance himself from her as soon as possible to avoid unnecessary complications.
Half an hour later.
Faye Shangguan drove Ian Song and Cynthia Murong to a Chinese restaurant in Chinatown and parked outside.
"Don't be fooled by the small size of this place—the dishes here are super authentic! It's hard to find food this good even back in China!" Faye Shangguan said, introducing the restaurant to Ian Song and Cynthia Murong.
"Really? Then I’m going to eat until you’re broke!" Cynthia Murong said, playfully waving her fist. Back in China, she always had to keep up her public image, but here in the U.S., she finally felt relaxed—no more masks, no more pretending.
"You’re a celebrity—aren’t you worried about getting fat?" Faye Shangguan teased.
"Not at all! I have a special constitution—no matter how much I eat, I never gain weight," Cynthia Murong replied proudly.
Chatting and laughing, the three of them walked into the Chinese restaurant.
The two CIA agents who had been tailing Faye Shangguan parked nearby and headed toward the restaurant.
So bold and open—they must have enough evidence against Faye Shangguan and were ready to make the arrest.
Thinking this, Ian Song glanced at Faye Shangguan. Sure enough, her face was growing even more anxious and uneasy.
"Miss Shangguan, you’re here! Please, come inside!"
A middle-aged man wearing a chef’s hat greeted them warmly. His accent had a distinct Minnan flavor—he must have come from southern Fujian.
Faye Shangguan smiled and said, "Old Zhou, these two are friends visiting from China. You have to show them your best dishes!"
"Of course, of course!" Old Zhou nodded eagerly, then smiled at Ian Song and Cynthia Murong. "Welcome to Los Angeles, fellow countrymen. I’m the owner and chef of this place…"
After a brief round of introductions, the three sat down. Old Zhou personally brought over a teapot and poured tea for everyone.
Ian Song found it odd. If the food here was so authentic, why was business so slow? It was peak mealtime, yet their table was the only one with customers.
"Old Zhou, what's going on? Why isn’t anyone coming in to eat?" Faye Shangguan noticed too and asked.
"Sigh." Old Zhou let out a bitter sigh. "My restaurant caught the eye of a biker gang—they want me to hand it over. I refused, so now they send people every day to cause trouble. After a few rounds of that, who would dare come eat here? At this rate, I’ll have to close down soon!"
As he spoke, Old Zhou’s voice was full of helplessness and anger.
America likes to shout about freedom, but in reality, Chinese people here are easily looked down on and excluded.
Because Chinese immigrants are known for being hardworking and accepting low wages, many Americans even call for their expulsion, claiming that the Chinese are stealing their jobs.
Nowadays, most Yanhuang people take pride in going abroad or getting a U.S. green card. Some even think it makes them superior. But to most Americans, Yanhuang people are still seen as a lowly race.
And Yanhuang is considered a backward country, only able to produce socks and shirts in its factories.
"Damn! Those punks are just too much!" Faye Shangguan slammed the table, cursing.
Cynthia Murong looked outraged as well. "Old Zhou, didn’t you call the police?" she asked.
"Of course I did!" Old Zhou said, even more helpless and a bit angry. "But the American cops just go through the motions. Before they show up, those bastards are already gone. And as soon as the police leave, the gang comes right back!"
"Aren’t American police supposed to be the fastest to respond?" Cynthia Murong asked, surprised.
Faye Shangguan snorted. "Xinyue, you’re too naive. American cops are American cops—they don’t care much about Chinese people’s problems. If I’m not mistaken, that biker gang is probably working with the police!"
"You’re absolutely right. I’ve heard the same thing—the biker gang and the police are in cahoots!" Old Zhou agreed emphatically.
Cynthia Murong was left speechless—she hadn’t expected things to be so dark in America.
"So, Old Zhou, what are you planning to do next?" Cynthia Murong asked again.
Old Zhou said bitterly, "What else can I do? You can’t fight city hall. I’ll have to sell the place and go home. I’ve been looking for a buyer, but those biker gang punks keep interfering—nobody dares take over!"
Just then, the two CIA agents walked into the restaurant. Old Zhou apologized to the three and hurried over to greet them.
Seeing the agents walk in so openly, Faye Shangguan’s face went a little pale. She started thinking about how to escape, but since they dared to show up here, they’d probably already set a trap and were just waiting to make the arrest.
With that thought, a look of determination flashed in her eyes. Instinctively, she reached for the gun hidden in her boot.