You're a US police officer, what are you thinking about going back to the East for?

Chapter 109 Gang Disagreements

Now that Carlos had taken over the steering wheel, Lyonton stepped in and pressed the call button on the car radio to request more detailed case information from the dispatch center.

"Dispatch, this is ACU-1. Report the specific characteristics of the kidnappers and the current tracking status."

"ACU-1, witnesses described the suspect as an adult male, Black. The vehicle was last seen near Fourth Avenue, but the target was subsequently lost due to widespread damage to municipal surveillance cameras in the area."

Hearing this, Leon raised an eyebrow.

Black person?

If the wrong person were arrested or the wrong gun was fired in this case, the media and protesters would definitely tear the roof off the police station.

As for the malfunctioning surveillance cameras on Fourth Avenue, that's perfectly normal.

The surveillance cameras there are often used as targets by street thugs for shooting practice, and nine out of ten of them are out of order.

The fact that this guy disappeared in a place like that most likely means he found a motel that doesn't require ID cards and specializes in prostitution and dealing with undocumented immigrants and hid inside.

and many more.

Fourth Avenue?

Isn't that the territory of that fat, dark-skinned guy, Big T?

A sudden idea flashed through Leon's mind. He immediately took out his phone, found the number he had saved last time in his contacts, and dialed it.

The phone rang twice before being answered.

The background noise included the crisp "snap" of billiard balls hitting the puck, as well as the sounds of several people loudly boasting and cheering, clearly indicating that these gangsters were having fun in some billiard hall.

"Yo, who?"

Big T's gruff, somewhat impatient voice came over.

"I am Leon Vance."

"Clang!"

Immediately, a heavy thud was heard from the other end of the phone, sounding like a billiard cue hitting the floor.

Big T's voice instantly rose, his previous bossy demeanor completely gone: "Big—Big Boss?! What now?! I didn't organize any illegal assembly today!"

"Stop talking nonsense."

Lyon spoke rapidly: "A dark gray Ford E-Class van without license plates, a Black man, just kidnapped a little girl, and drove into your territory. You have one minute to get your men to find him."

Upon hearing this, Big T immediately yelled on the other end of the phone, "Tony! Stop fucking calling! Go ask the guys around the corner if they've seen a gray Ford Bread! Hurry up!"

Even in the underworld, there is a hierarchy of contempt.

Human traffickers and pedophiles are the lowest of scum, despised by other murderers and drug dealers even if they are imprisoned, and might even be stabbed to death with a toothbrush while taking a shower.

Less than half a minute later, Big T, panting, leaned back in front of the microphone and shouted boastfully, "Boss, I found out! That car just drove into the Starlight Motel at the end of the street!"

Before Leon could even praise his efficiency, Big T's tone suddenly changed, becoming extremely serious: "But! Boss, I need to make things clear beforehand!"

"This guy who drives the bread truck has absolutely nothing to do with us!"

"He's just a stray dog ​​from out of town, thinking the cops wouldn't dare come into our territory, so he came here to hide out the trouble!"

"You have to believe me, boss! We're businessmen with principles!"

Big T pounded his chest, frantically proving his innocence on the phone: "My men, at most, sell drugs and collect protection money; they're all legitimate businesses. We absolutely don't touch children! That's the rule! That's the kind of work only scum do!"

"Go ahead and arrest people, shoot them all. I've already had all my men evacuated from that block. I, Big T, will absolutely not take the blame for this!"

"7

Lyon, sitting in the passenger seat, was speechless and exasperated.

Listen to that self-righteous tone.

They make it sound like selling drugs on the street and destroying other people's families is some noble profession that benefits society, and they even have the audacity to look down on human traffickers and develop a sense of moral superiority based on that.

However, Leon was too lazy to correct his absurd gangster values ​​at this point and interrupted him directly: "Alright, stop your PR speech. Which room is he in?"

"First floor, room 104! Do you need me to call a few of my buddies with weapons to block the door for you?"

"Keep your people in check, don't let them get in the way."

After hanging up the phone, Lyon gave his location to Carlos, who was driving.

The Ford Explorer sped through the night, running three red lights before screeching to a halt outside a dilapidated motel with half of its neon sign broken.

Several dilapidated cars were parked in the yard.

"Get out of the car quietly."

The three of them got out of the car.

Mia took a deep breath, gripped the Glock pistol tightly in both hands, and followed closely behind Leon.

Carlos's movements were much more professional. He held an MP5 in his hand, walked very lightly, and had a murderous glint in his eyes, making him completely different from the smirking pimp he had been before.

Lyon walked in front, following the barbed wire fence around the hotel, and silently slipped into the parking lot in the backyard.

A quick glance.

In a corner, beneath a broken streetlamp, sat a dark gray Ford E-Class van.

No license plate was displayed.

Lyon walked over and gently touched the hood of the van.

The sheet metal was still scorching hot, and the exhaust pipe was even emitting faint wisps of heat.

It had only been a short while since it stopped.

Lyon looked up at the spot where the bread truck was parked.

Directly opposite the front of the car is a guest room on the first floor.

House number: 104.

The curtains in the room were drawn tightly, not letting in a single ray of light. Even the cracks under the door were stuffed with towels, clearly to deliberately block sound and light from leaking out.

Lyon gestured to the two people behind him.

He turned around and pulled a solid black Remington M870 tactical shotgun from the weapon tactical latch in the middle of the Explorer's front seat.

Compared to the pistol he carried during his patrol days, which was only good for taking down petty thugs, this thing is a true equalizer in close-quarters combat (CQB) in confined spaces.

The three of them spread out in tacit agreement, forming a tactical formation and sticking to both sides of the door frame of room 104.

"Click."

Lyon skillfully pulled the rough pump-action handguard, feeding a 12-gauge slug into the chamber. The crisp metallic click sound carried a chilling killing intent in the rainy night.

He held the shotgun diagonally across his chest, the muzzle slightly lowered, his cold gray eyes sweeping over the dark gray Ford van parked in the corner.

No need for further words; eye contact is unnecessary at times like this.

Without hesitation, Leon raised his Remington M870 in front of the cheap wooden door with the "Do Not Disturb" sign, pressing the muzzle against the lock.

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