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

Chapter 111 Disability

Lyon crouched down, using the light from the police flashlights streaming in from outside the door to carefully examine Carlos's injuries.

If I wasn't mistaken during the fierce battle, the bullet did indeed hit his left knee squarely.

The situation is not optimistic.

Lyon's brow furrowed deeply.

In a gunfight, if a bullet only pierces the muscle group of the thigh or causes a penetrating wound to the shoulder, the victim can recover in a month or two and return to the streets to continue their duties, full of energy and vitality.

But the knees are different.

The human knee joint is extremely complex, filled with fragile cartilage, menisci, and ligaments.

Being hit at close range by a high-speed spinning pistol bullet means that Carlos's entire kneecap is most likely completely shattered.

Even if the best orthopedic surgeon in the United States performed the surgery on a gunshot wound of this severity, he would never be able to walk as briskly as before, and would likely become a permanent cripple.

According to Seattle Police Department practice, frontline officers who suffer permanent physical disabilities in the line of duty typically have only two options.

They could either take a modest disability pension and retire early due to illness, leaving the police force to work as a security guard or live on welfare.

Either you get transferred to a clerical position in logistics, sitting in the archives room stamping documents or answering phones in the dispatch center every day, forever losing the opportunity for field allowances and promotion.

For Carlos, a seasoned ACU veteran who's used to seeking thrills and making easy money on the streets, neither outcome is good news.

Just as Leon was plotting how to use Raymond's authority as a logistics manager to get more compensation for Carlos, a noisy commotion broke out outside.

Sergeant Danfoss had already directed his patrol officers to surround the entire motel, with bright yellow police tape stretched everywhere.

"Don't push me! I don't know anything! I swear!"

The hotel owner was dragged out from the front desk by two tall police officers, one on each side.

The fat boss was sweating profusely, wearing a tank top stained with some unknown dirt, clutching a half-eaten donut tightly in his hand, and his expression was completely bewildered.

"Officer! I swear I know nothing!"

The shop owner was pinned to the hood of the police car, yelling at the top of his lungs, "That bastard checked into a room three hours ago! He came alone, I didn't even get a good look at him! Who knew he'd go out and kidnap a kid later?!"

The boss was wronged and indeed did not participate in the kidnapping, but he was by no means innocent either.

These run-down motels on the edge of Fourth Avenue advertise "cash payment, no registration".

No driver's license or social security number is required. As long as you slap crumpled banknotes on the counter, the boss won't even glance at your face.

This place has long been a haven for prostitutes, drug dealers, and fugitives.

The owner was usually happy to count his money, but now that such a shocking case of child abduction in the street has occurred, his hotel business is truly over.

"Shut up! Save that for explaining your business license to the detectives in the Major Crimes Unit!"

"No!"

Danfoss, too lazy to listen to the fat man's wailing, had him handcuffed to the car door, while he himself, accompanied by two patrol officers carrying professional first aid kits, entered room 104.

"Get out of the way, Mia, let them take over."

Two patrol officers quickly took over from Mia, whose hands were covered in blood. They deftly cut open Carlos's trouser leg and began using professional hemostatic forceps and high-pressure bandages to treat his mangled knee.

Mia let go, staggered back to the side, leaned against the wall, panting heavily, her face still pale.

"Well done, Torres."

Danfoss glanced at her, offered a rare compliment, and then turned back to continue giving instructions: "Protect the scene. Call the forensic team with their cameras. Don't move that body."

After arranging the routine patrol procedures, Danvers glanced at the headless black corpse before walking over to Leon and turning to ask, "Leon, I'm a little confused."

Danfoss's old face was full of doubt. He pointed to the door and said, "The dispatch center just said that the target disappeared on Fourth Avenue. We didn't even see the taillights of the two patrol cars closest to here."

"So you not only showed up, but you actually kicked down the door before us and killed him."

.

"How did you do that?"

Lyon was silent for two seconds.

He couldn't very well say that he had just made a phone call to the gang leader on this street and asked him to mobilize his henchmen for a thorough search, could he?

"A helpful community resident provided the information."

Lyon replied without changing his expression.

"A helpful resident?"

Danfoss was stunned for a moment, his eyes widening in surprise.

He glanced at the street thugs and homeless people who had gathered outside the door to watch the commotion; none of them looked like good people.

In Fourth Avenue, a place teeming with drug dealers, where residents wouldn't even flinch if they saw a police officer being beaten to death in the street, and might even steal the officer's wallet, there are still some concerned residents.

And its reaction speed is even faster than the police radio?

Danfoss opened his mouth, about to retort with "Are you fucking kidding me?", but swallowed the words back.

Forget it.

It's common knowledge that special operations teams have their own shady networks of informants and shady contacts.

Why would a patrol sergeant ask such detailed questions? He's just making trouble for himself.

"Alright, kind resident."

Danfoss sighed, giving up on further investigation, and took out a small notebook from his pocket to start recording the situation at the scene: "This case involves the kidnapping of a minor, and it will be handed over to the Special Victims Investigation Unit (SVU) or the Major Crimes Unit detectives. They will take care of the child's safety, and they will also be in charge of writing the report."

"You ACU guys really did me a big favor. Oh, by the way, your people were injured, remember to submit a statement of the use of force later."

At this point, Danvers stopped writing and his gaze returned to the headless corpse.

The red and white mosaic-like substance on the ground made even this old policeman feel nauseous.

"However, this black guy—"

Danvers frowned and cautioned, "Shooting directly at the head with a shotgun would cause some issues with the rules of engagement. According to the code of conduct for the use of force, unless absolutely necessary, we should prioritize aiming at the torso. Those flies in the Internal Affairs Department seeing this headless corpse will definitely make you write a bunch of reports explaining why you didn't shoot the torso—"

Before he could finish speaking, Danfoss stopped himself.

He slapped his forehead hard.

Damn, it's become a habit.

He had subconsciously mistaken Lyon for one of his subordinate second-level patrol officers who needed his protection.

"Never mind, forget I said anything."

Danfoss waved his hand dismissively and put the notebook back in his pocket: "You're the boss of ACU now. These stupid rules are for us ordinary patrol officers, they don't apply to you."

"Don't even mention blowing a kidnapper's head off; even if you saw him in half, Chief Sterling can still cover it up for you."

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