The engines of several SUVs roared as they sped through the streets of Paris. The cars drove by quickly, and the leaves of the Sycamore trees on the ground swirled and rolled on the streets.
Some of the hooligans on motorcycles on the street shrank back when they saw the convoy, not daring to cause trouble.
At this moment, in Paris, those who could drive such a murderous car were not ordinary forces. Ordinary people would be courting death if they provoked them.
Xia Pingan sat in the back seat of the car in the middle. Tu Poli was driving, and Fang lingqian was sitting beside Xia Pingan.
Tu polu was focused on driving. Fang lingyue would occasionally glance at Xia Pingan, who was sitting beside him. Xia Pingan was holding the letter in his hand and reading it. He was rubbing his face with one hand, and the expression on his face was a little strange.
