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

Chapter 257 Surprise Attack on the Psychedelic Cat

Two days later, late at night, it was drizzling outside.

Today is a statutory rest day for the West Precinct ACU. Except for the on-duty personnel who need to handle emergencies, Lyon is spared from patrolling the streets in his heavy bulletproof vest.

He took off his police uniform and put on his signature "RayFong" outfit: a gray waterproof jacket, a black tactical mask, and a baseball cap pulled low.

He abandoned his Ford Explorer on some remote street corner and now drives a Toyota Camry that he got from Big T.

The car silently glided into the dark alley of 12th Street and stopped in the shadows a few dozen meters from the back door of the Psychedelic Cat nightclub.

The back door of the nightclub has been replaced with a heavy security iron door salvaged from a junkyard.

Lyon knocked on the door.

The door clicked open.

The old welder opened the door; there was a bulge at the hem of his shirt at the lower back, obviously where a Glock pistol was tucked.

Upon seeing Lyon wearing a mask standing outside the door, Lao Han immediately opened the door to make way for him.

Lyon went inside and closed the door behind him.

The scene on the first-floor dance floor has changed dramatically compared to a while ago.

The central stage, originally used for striptease performances, was completely demolished, and the annoying steel pipe was gone.

Along the wall, two sturdy partitions were built using plasterboard and wooden frames brought in by DaT, separating a warehouse for storing supplies and a tool shed.

The electrical wiring in the kitchen area was re-laid by Walter and neatly fixed in the PVC cable trays, no longer the spider web-like mess that could cause a fire at any time.

What made Lyon frown was that although the private rooms on the second floor had been converted into several decent dormitories, and even simple beds had been built with wooden planks, these homeless people seemed to have an allergic reaction to beds and were still sleeping on the first floor.

On the wide cement floor of the dance floor, moisture-proof mats and tattered blankets were laid haphazardly.

A dozen or so homeless people, wrapped in sleeping bags or blankets, slept on the ground like rows of sardines, their snores echoing through the empty nightclub.

"Why do they have to sleep on the floor instead of the beds upstairs? Have these people developed Stockholm Syndrome from sleeping on concrete floors?" Leon muttered under his breath, looking at the "corpses" scattered all over the floor.

"The springs and planks of the bed will limit their tactical rolling space, boss."

A calm voice came from the side.

MacArthur, wearing his old, stained camouflage coat with a row of reflective beer cap medallions pinned to his chest, emerged from the shadows of the stairs like a general inspecting the barracks.

"And they're used to sticking together for warmth."

"Sleeping scattered under a bridge means your shoes or kidneys will be stolen the next morning."

"This kind of defensive instinct cannot be changed in a few days."

Lyon remained noncommittal about this absurd yet surprisingly reasonable explanation. He glanced at the number of people on the ground and noticed that there were several more unfamiliar faces than in the previous two days.

"A new person joined?" Leon asked.

"They were transferred from the recruitment station at the mosque this morning." MacArthur walked over to Lyon, holding the small notebook he used for keeping accounts, and marked it with a half-pencil.

"There are five new recruits in total. They were all initially screened by Lei and confirmed to be free of serious drug addiction and infectious diseases."

MacArthur opened the notebook and began to read aloud in the dim light of the corner lamp.

"A former long-haul truck driver went bankrupt after hitting and killing a deer while driving while fatigued, and his license was revoked after the insurance company refused to pay compensation."

"A former fast food restaurant cook poured hot oil on his boss's car hood because the boss was withholding his wages. He was sued and became homeless."

"The other three are auto assembly workers who came here after Detroit went bankrupt."

MacArthur closed his notebook and looked up at Leon.

"They're all in good physical condition and can do heavy work. Old Welder has already incorporated them into the engineering company; they'll be in charge of dismantling the soundproofing wall on the second floor starting tomorrow."

Leon nodded. Mia was working overtime every day to conduct background checks. As long as they didn't have a history of violent serious crimes, these skilled bankrupt blue-collar workers were the best labor force for the outpost.

"Do they know the rules here?" Leon glanced at the newcomers who were sleeping sprawled out on their backs.

"Not entirely," MacArthur shook his head, his expression serious. "They're still operating with a mercenary mentality, willing to sell their labor for free mutton soup and a roof over their heads."

"They don't know why we built this outpost, nor do they know about the weapons hidden under the podium." MacArthur paused.

"They also need to undergo ideological and political education at the recruit training camp."

Lyon's lips twitched slightly beneath his mask.

He certainly knew what MacArthur meant by "ideological and political education"—it was the "complaint sessions" that had already begun to show results in the strongholds.

"Then I'll leave this to you and Old Han to handle," Leon instructed in a low voice.

"Let them hear more about how other people went bankrupt."

"Only when they know that everyone is being crushed by the same system will they not run away when they encounter trouble."

"Understood, sir." MacArthur stood at attention and gave a standard military salute.

"By tomorrow night at the latest, I will let them know that they are not vagrants, but that they are the forgotten infantry division."

Leon waved his hand, indicating that he didn't need to be so formal, then turned and walked towards the second floor to check on Walter's modifications to the base's electrical circuits and ventilation ducts.

In the alley outside the Psychedelic Cat nightclub, rainwater flowed down the mottled brick walls, splashing into greasy puddles and making a soft, dripping sound.

Luke stood in the shadow of a trash can about thirty meters away from the back door.

He was wearing a black waterproof windbreaker, zipped all the way up, and his baseball cap was pulled low, almost completely obscuring his face in darkness.

He was holding a low-light night vision telescope, which he had just put down.

"Confirmed." Luke's voice was very soft, as if he were talking to himself. "The guy wearing the mask went in. It's Ray Fong."

""

Standing next to him was a "veteran".

This Blood Gang die-hard, in his fifties, was wearing a dark gray hoodie with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing faded gang tattoos on his forearms.

He didn't take any binoculars; he just leaned against the wall, a loaded Glock pistol in his hand.

"Is Tyrone's information accurate?" The veteran turned his head, looking at the faint light shining through the window on the second floor of the nightclub. "Has Vic made his move yet?"

"Vic has already hooked up with that female office worker; we can make our move anytime." Luke stuffed his binoculars into his tactical pocket.

"Tyrone's meaning is very clear: our mission here is not necessarily to take down this stronghold."

"As long as we make a big enough commotion here tonight and draw the attention of the police, especially that madman Leon Vance, Vic will be able to successfully kidnap that woman named Mia."

Luke paused, his eyes turning cold.

"But I'm not just going to make a scene." He touched the silenced pistol at his waist.

"Five years ago, Fat Mike paid off my $194,000 debt and pulled me off the loan shark's leg saw. Now he's dead in the Pink Swan."

"I can't kill that policeman, but RayFong is his front man."

"Tonight, I'm going to make every single one of the people breathing in this hideout pay the price with Fat Mike."

The veteran didn't say anything, but silently pulled the bolt to confirm that the bullet was chambered.

His perpetually somber face was devoid of any extraneous expression; as a former soldier, he was only concerned with tactical execution.

"They've gone in." The veteran raised his chin and pointed towards the exterior wall of the nightclub.

In the darkness ahead of them, seven or eight Blood Gang thugs dressed in dark clothes clung silently to the shadows of the psychedelic cat's outer wall, like geckos.

These thugs were all die-hards handpicked by Tyrone from the remaining forces. Each of them carried a short-barreled shotgun or an automatic pistol, and their eyes held a desperate, mad glint in their eyes, a result of the gang's demise.

Because Luke had previously scouted the location using his experience as a former professional thief, the thugs completely avoided the front door and the repaired back door, which could make noise.

They went directly to the bottom of the rusty fire escape ladder on the side of the building.

The veteran raised his right hand behind the trash can and waved it forward twice, making a gesture of advancing.

The first thug grabbed the rusty iron railing of the fire escape ladder, tested its weight-bearing capacity, and then began to climb up using both hands and feet, like an agile chimpanzee.

The rain made the iron railings slippery, but the thugs moved with surprising steadiness.

The veterans below were keeping a close watch; if someone were to slip and fall or make a loud metallic clanging sound at that moment, the entire raid would turn into a disaster.

The first thug successfully climbed to the second floor. He stopped next to an aluminum window with cracked and peeling waterproof sealant, pulled a short-handled crowbar from his back, and carefully inserted it into the gap in the window frame.

The second and third thugs crossed the second floor and continued climbing up the fire escape, their target being the iron door on the third floor that led directly to the internal ventilation duct.

The remaining thugs were scattered at various points along the fire escape, their guns all pointed at the exits of the nightclub's exterior wall, waiting for the signal to break in.

Luke looked at the thugs hanging on the outer wall and slowly placed his hand on the walkie-talkie at his waist.

Just as Luke's finger touched the talk button on the walkie-talkie, before his fingertip could press it down...

A sudden sound came from the depths of the dark, unlit alley behind them.

"Da, da, da."

Those were the dull, clear sounds of hard-soled leather shoes stepping on the rain-soaked cement ground.

The rhythm of the voice was neither fast nor slow, and even seemed somewhat nonchalant.

But in this tense environment, where everyone was holding their breath to the limit, the sound was like a direct blow to Luke and the veteran's eardrums.

Luke's hand gripping the walkie-talkie suddenly stiffened, and the muscles in his back tensed instantly.

The veteran reacted faster; out of his former soldier's instinct, he turned around abruptly.

He instantly raised the Glock pistol in his hand, pointing the muzzle directly into the depths of the dark alley. For the first time, his usually gloomy face showed surprise and vigilance.

"Who?" the veteran whispered, forcing out a loud shout.

Luke quickly drew his pistol and stood back-to-back with the veteran, staring intently at the direction from which the footsteps were coming, his mind racing.

Police? Impossible, there were no police lights or static on the radio.

A drug addict passing by? Even less likely. A drug addict's steps are unsteady; they would never have that oppressive feeling of stepping right on you.

However, this sudden change did not reach the Blood Gang thugs hanging on the outer wall of the psychedelic cat.

The sounds of wind and rain, the obstruction of the nightclub's old walls, and the intense focus of his climb meant that the thugs on the wall were completely unaware of their commander's unusual behavior below.

They did not receive a stop signal from the walkie-talkie, nor did they see any gestures from the veterans to retreat.

In their brains, feverish with the heat of revenge and lingering drugs, there was only that predetermined tactical objective.

Outside the second-floor window, the thug with the short-handled crowbar had already driven it deep into the cracked sealant.

He gritted his teeth, the veins on his arms bulging, and pressed down sharply.

With a "crack," the old aluminum alloy window frame emitted a metallic creaking sound as it writhed under the strain.

On the edge of the third-floor rooftop, two other thugs had already climbed over the rusty railing. Holding short-barreled shotguns, they kicked the metal door leading to the ventilation duct.

Luke's heart sank when he heard the sound of metal shattering above him.

He knew that the attack had already begun irreversibly.

But his attention was now completely locked onto the "tap tap tap" sound that was still slowly approaching.

The footsteps stopped less than five meters from the trash can.

By the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the dark alleyway, Luke and the veteran could make out the people's attire.

A grey waterproof jacket, a black tactical mask, and a black baseball cap pulled low.

It's RayFong.

The veteran's pupils contracted sharply. His reflexes as a former soldier were pushed to their limit; he gripped the Glock pistol tightly with both hands, his index finger pressing directly onto the trigger.

"Go to hell!"

The veteran had barely uttered half a syllable when the dark figure opposite him moved.

There was no tactical roll, no search for cover, and no unnecessary probing.

Lyon stood still, the movement of his raised right hand casting a blurry afterimage on the veteran's retina.

That was a gun-drawing speed that broke through the limits of normal human muscle strength.

"Bang!"

The first gunshot rang out in the rainy night, short and muffled.

Before the veteran could even pull the trigger, a burst of blood erupted from the center of his forehead.

The last emotion that remained in his bloodshot eyes was pure astonishment.

He couldn't understand why a street gang's white glove could have a gun-drawing speed more terrifying than any top special forces soldier he had ever seen in Afghanistan.

His knees buckled, and he fell forward into the puddles.

The instant the first shot rang out, Luke also drew his silenced pistol from his waist.

But he had only raised the muzzle of his gun halfway.

"Bang!"

The second gunshot followed immediately, the interval between them so short it was almost an echo.

A 9mm Parabellum bullet pierced Luke's right eye socket with pinpoint accuracy, its powerful kinetic energy instantly shattering his prefrontal cortex.

In the last tenth of a second before his consciousness was completely swallowed by darkness, Lu Ke stared intently at the pair of steel-gray eyes above the mask.

An absurd feeling struck his brain like lightning.

Why was RayFong outside? How could he react so quickly?

This oppressive feeling of killing with the ease of drinking water, this inhuman speed—

In the entire West District, there is only one madman with such abnormal combat power.

Ray Fong—is that Leon Wan?!

The idea had barely formed in Luke's mind when it was completely destroyed along with the red and white mixture that gushed from the back of his head.

Luke's body fell backward, slamming heavily onto the metal of the trash can with a dull thud, before sliding into a muddy puddle, his night-vision binoculars rolling to the side.

Two shots, and two loyal commanders of the Blood Gang died on the spot.

The entire battle lasted less than two seconds.

Lyon lowered his gun expressionlessly, a wisp of smoke rising from the barrel, which was instantly dispersed by the cold rain.

Just a minute earlier, while he was inspecting the ventilation ducts on the second floor of the Psychedelic Cat building, his "danger perception" suddenly started alarming wildly.

Without alerting the homeless man on the first floor, he used "Shadow Pull" in combination with his extremely high agility to silently climb out of the building through another ventilation opening and directly circled around to a dead corner in the back alley.

He waded through the puddles to Luke's body and glanced down at the loaded, silenced pistol in the man's hand.

At the same time, a dull thud and the sound of shattering glass came from above.

The second-floor vents had been completely pried open, and a huge gap had been made in the iron door to the third-floor rooftop.

The Blood Gang thugs hanging on the wall, clearly unaware that their commander had become two corpses lying in a puddle, were surging into the building like mad dogs.

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