In the cramped meeting car space, Yang Fan stared at the map wrapped around the death row prisoner, picked up the walkie-talkie with his right hand, thought for two seconds, and then said:
"The target has not moved for a long time, proceed according to the plan."
A "yes" sound came back from the walkie-talkie, firm and decisive.
Yang Fan put down the walkie-talkie, closed his eyes, and appeared helpless, as yesterday's news emerged in his mind.
Just as the capture operation was tense but orderly, a phone call pulled Yang Fan back to reality, and his worst fears were finally realized.
"Yang Fan, your request has been approved, the Hell Mud Sculpture is being expedited over." A slightly old-sounding voice came over the phone.
Yang Fan was stunned, his eyeballs turned, and an ominous premonition was in his heart. He slowly spoke and asked: