Conan: Begins to collaborate with Miss Bayonetta and become famous

Chapter 973 Go north

"Where to the north?" McCallen repeated subconsciously, her mind still reeling from Baijiu's deathbed instructions.

Why go there suddenly? What are they trying to avoid? And what is Baijiu (the liquor company) up to?

Baijiu didn't answer immediately. He leaned against the cold cabin wall, his chest still heaving from the previous pain and suffocation, but his eyes, which had just been filled with fear, now burned with an almost obsessive, scorching sharpness.

He suddenly moved closer to McCallum, so close that they could feel each other's hot breath.

Bai Jiu lowered his voice, which was hoarse yet carried a resolute force; each word was like a hardened nail.

"To the 'Sevastopol'."

“Sevastopol…” McCallum’s pupils contracted sharply as he repeated the name he had just heard from the visions of the intelligent being and the babbling of the white wine, the sunken ghost ship that was said to contain “horseshoes”.

Why suddenly...

The liquor didn't give him any time to digest or ask questions. His gaze passed over McClane, as if piercing through a concrete wall, looking towards a more distant and dangerous place.

He took a deep breath, lowered his voice, but it carried a resolute determination:

“I have to be arrested. I have to get Gin, I have to get the organization to arrest me.” He saw McClane’s eyes widen instantly and Vermouth’s body tense up abruptly. His words quickened and left no room for argument. “Only in this way can I get there… get to where they want to take me. There is… no other way.”

His last words carried a profound sense of helplessness and desperation, as if he had been driven to the brink.

McCallen opened her mouth as if to say something, but was silenced by the unwavering resolve in Baijiu's eyes.

This is insane! They're practically handing themselves over to be captured by the organization?

How is this any different from suicide?!

Baijiu stopped looking at him, grabbed the notepad and pen again, and, ignoring her weakness, began writing rapidly once more.

This time, although his handwriting was still messy, it was much more organized, like an urgent action plan:

"First and foremost: a very high frequency (VHF) receiver, covering MHz, with a concealed antenna."

"Key: Portable decompression chamber and mixed gas supply (at least 48 hours' supply), check all seals."

"Vehicle: Steal an airplane. It must be an old airplane, piston engine preferred, and the fewer electronic systems the better."

"Key points: Remove all transponders, GPS positioning modules, and satellite communication terminals. Complete physical isolation. Only retain the most basic analog radio and gyroscope."

"Model recommendations: DC-3 (if a flyable one can still be found), or An-2, similar older models. Their navigation relies on visual and radio beacons, making them more difficult to track over long distances."

"Alternative plan: If not found, consider boats, but they are too slow and riskier. See the sketch on the back for the route and rendezvous point."

He wrote rapidly, occasionally interspersed with abbreviations and symbols that only he and McCallum understood. He would pause now and then, emphasizing a particular line with the tip of his pen, as if to stress its importance. After finishing the last stroke, he practically tore off those densely written pages, along with the previous sheets filled with speculations and contingency plans, and shoved them forcefully into McCallum's hand.

“Everything you need, everything you can think of, is on here.” Bai Jiu gripped McCallum’s wrist so tightly that the edges of the paper dug into her skin. He looked up and met McCallum’s gaze. All the fear, pain, and confusion on his face had faded, leaving only a reassuring, rock-solid determination and unwavering trust. “Remember, McCallum, you are the only one who can understand these things and turn them into reality.”

McCallen looked down at the heavy paper in his hand, still warm from the liquor and his sweat, feeling as if he had caught a red-hot branding iron.

Baijiu continued his instructions, his tone leaving no room for doubt: "After you set off, every two hours, use that modified VHF radio to transmit the coordinates once on the designated frequency band. The broadcast duration should not exceed fifteen minutes. Use the third variant of the old codebook for encryption. I will... do everything I can to receive it over there."

Where is "over there"?

Within the organization? In a prison? He didn't say it explicitly, but everyone understood.

Finally, Baijiu released his grip and took half a step back, as if to create some distance in order to complete some kind of handover ceremony.

He straightened up, and although he was still battered and bruised, his aura suddenly rose, like a general about to go to the battlefield, looking at his chosen successor.

“From this moment on,” his voice was clear, steady, and carried immense weight, “you are the captain.”

“No…!” McClane cried out almost instantly, her face filled with resistance and panic. “I…I can’t! Baijiu, this is too sudden, I—”

He didn't finish his sentence.

Baijiu stepped forward, raised his blood-stained yet steady hand, and instead of slapping, gently but with undeniable force covered McCallum's mouth. This action stopped McCallum's attempts to refuse and forced him to look Baijiu directly in the eye.

In those eyes, there was no command, no coercion, only the deepest trust and a heavy sense of entrusting one's children to another.

“McCarlan,” Baijiu’s voice was soft, yet each word was clear, penetrating the gaps between his fingers covering the other’s mouth and the surrounding silence, “You must… take care of everyone.”

This statement is more powerful than any command.

It was no longer about "executing the plan," but about "taking on the responsibility of protecting one's comrades." It struck at the deepest part of McCullen's heart, the corner where he had always considered himself a reliable deputy but had never thought of standing at the forefront to face all the storms and choices.

McCarran's struggles ceased.

He looked through the baijiu in his hand at those eyes, which were filled with trust, weariness, and a hint of pleading.

He saw Vermouth's tightly pursed lips and the complex emotions in her eyes, the deep worry on Kiel's pale face, and even Vodka's silent yet resolute gaze.

The words of refusal stuck in his throat, eventually turning into a difficult roll of his Adam's apple.

The panic, resistance, and self-doubt in his eyes slowly receded like the tide, replaced by a gradually solidifying, heavy, but ultimately steady determination.

He nodded slowly. Although the movement was slight, it seemed as if he had used all his strength.

Baijiu felt the movement of his jaw, released his hand, and a glimmer of relief flashed in his eyes, which was then replaced by a deeper solemnity.

McCallen lowered his head, his gaze returning to the heavy stack of papers in his hand, the hasty yet crucial handwriting seeming to burn his vision.

He murmured unconsciously, over and over again, as if digesting this sudden burden, or as if repeatedly confirming the most crucial and dangerous objective:

"Key...key..."