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

Chapter 258 Bayonet Charge

The sound of the psychedelic cat's footsteps suddenly bursting in from the second and third floors exploded in the rainy night, crashing down like muffled thunder from above.

On the concrete floor of the first-floor dance floor, more than twenty bodies wrapped in tattered blankets and sleeping bags bounced at the same time.

MacArthur was the first to stand up.

He hadn't actually been sleeping. After exchanging a few words with Leon, he casually found a chair and sat down, watching the group of homeless people.

Within fractions of a second of the chaotic footsteps, his brain had already switched from alert to combat mode, just like when he was woken up with tear gas by his instructors at the Benningburg training grounds thirty years ago.

As a former colonel, if he were a normal commander on the front lines, his title would be "brigade commander," commanding three to five thousand troops.

Although he later worked in intelligence analysis and did not serve as an on-site commander, MacArthur's resume still shows him as a battalion commander who commanded a force of nearly a thousand men, following the normal promotion process.

Attention everyone!

MacArthur's voice was succinctly audible, but not loud enough to disturb those upstairs.

"This is not a drill. Enemy has invaded the second floor."

The dance floor instantly erupted in chaos.

The five newlyweds, who had just been transferred from the mosque yesterday, were the most confused.

The bankrupt truck driver rolled right out of his sleeping bag, scrambling to the corner while shouting incoherently.

The other two car assembly workers instinctively tried to run towards the door.

"Everyone, stay still! Don't make a sound! Don't turn on the lights!"

MacArthur's order lashed out like a whip, freezing those who wanted to run in place.

He drew the Ruger compact pistol from his belt, cocked it with swift, clean movements, and his eyes quickly scanned the entire dance floor.

"Ray! Walter! Construction workers! Anyone with guns, assemble in the center of the dance floor! Now!"

Ray reacted almost as quickly as MacArthur.

The former army veteran rolled out of his sleeping bag and grabbed the Remington 870 pump-action shotgun that was under his pillow with his right hand.

His eyes weren't fully focused yet, but his hands had already begun to instinctively check the magazine and ejection port, his index finger lightly pressing on the outside of the trigger guard, and he quickly moved closer to MacArthur's position.

Walter was a second too slow.

The former tank mechanic instinctively reached for his toolbox when the alarm went off before realizing he didn't have a tank to maintain.

"Damn it, it's an enemy attack!"

He pulled the Remington 870 from his sleeping bag, pulled the bolt to confirm that the first shot had been fired, then crawled close to MacArthur and muttered a curse.

"Damn it, we really should get a tank."

Old Han was the third to stand up.

His hands trembled twice; his body, forcibly pulled from sleep, was not yet fully synchronized with his consciousness.

He pulled a Glock from his belt, gripped it tightly with both hands, placed his index fingers on the trigger guard, and pointed the muzzle at the ground.

His movements were far less fluid than Lei's, but he clenched his teeth tightly, and the veins on his forehead throbbed.

When the old construction worker crawled out of his sleeping bag, his knee hit the cement floor, causing him to gasp in pain.

But when he grabbed the Mossberg 500 leaning against the wall, memories of receiving basic rifle training at the camp more than thirty years ago surged into his brain like silt stirred up from the bottom of a river, flowing down his fingers.

He pulled the foregrip to chamber a round, pausing for half a second in the middle of the movement. He hadn't touched it in so long that his muscle memory was still there, but it was no longer fluid.

"The logistics guys have never been to the front lines," he muttered. "Damn it, those damn logistics guys."

Another young construction worker who was following him picked up the Winchester 1300 before he could.

This young man had hunted geese on a farm in California. Although he had never killed anyone, he knew that the recoil of a shotgun could shatter a shoulder if the shooting posture was incorrect.

His finger was steady, the muzzle of the gun pointed at the second-floor stairwell, his eyes fixed on that spot.

Elton was the last to lift the shotgun out of his sleeping bag.

The big black man was holding a Remington 870. Although someone had taught him before, his instinctive way of holding the gun was still completely wrong.

He tucked the butt of the gun under his arm, as if he were holding a softball bat.

"Elton, butt of the rifle against your shoulder! Are you fucking playing baseball?!" MacArthur shouted angrily.

Elton hurriedly shoved the butt of the rifle into his shoulder, nearly hitting his own chin with it.

He climbed out of his sleeping bag in his reflective vest and bumped his head on a pile of plasterboard next to him, wincing in pain.

He reached for the Glock 17 he had kept under his bedding, gripped the handle, and the muzzle trembled like a sieve.

"I remember I was carrying a revolver!?"

"I've already switched with you. You don't understand how to use a revolver." The screwdriver man's voice came from beside him, as he pushed the reflective vest behind the support column.

The man with the screwdriver was holding a Taurus revolver.

MacArthur originally gave this silver revolver to Reflective Vest, but Reflective Vest was almost scared off by the description of the revolver's recoil when he first tried it out.

In his own words, one shot from this thing would leave his wrist in the same state as a cast.

The screwdriver guy didn't care. When he used to drive bulldozers, he often used a shotgun to chase away coyotes in abandoned landfills. The feel of a revolver and its single-action trigger were actually closer to the shotgun he was used to.

So the two of them switched weapons.

Now the screwdriver guy raised the revolver, flicked the hammer with his thumb, and the muzzle was very steady, completely unlike his previous idiotic state of using a screwdriver to pry open a wooden board on the floor.

"Next group!" MacArthur's gaze swept across the corner of the dance floor.

Jarvis swallowed hard. He didn't have a gun, but when MacArthur called him, he immediately grabbed a bucket full of rags next to him.

Cole was crouching at the bottom of the stairs, clutching a wrench in his hand.

The trash can philosopher is at the farthest point.

The self-taught baker rolled from one sleeping bag to another the moment he heard footsteps, then rolled four more times before finally curling up in a corner filled with discarded stereos.

He sandwiched himself between two broken speakers, closed his eyes, and muttered rapidly.

"I knew it, I knew it. The free baker's end up being shot dead in a nightclub, which is worse than sleeping in a dumpster."

MacArthur rushed over and kicked him in the butt.

The trash can philosopher sprang out of the middle of the speaker like a spring, slamming his forehead on the floor while still shouting.

"I surrender! I don't have a gun! I'm a toaster!"

"You traitor, spy, mole, opportunist, capitulationist, anti-Party element, defector, opportunist!"

Shut up!

MacArthur pointed a finger at his nose and cursed as he continued making arrangements.

"You're in charge of first aid! Jarvis and Cole, drag the wounded behind the DJ booth! If anyone's been shot, immediately press a rag against the wound and then drag them to a safe area!"

"If anyone falls, you fucking pick up his gun and hold it against him! Got it?!"

The trash can philosopher was bewildered by all the labels being thrown at him. He opened his mouth three times before finally managing to squeeze out a single sentence.

"May I tell you about my will first?"

"Your will simply says, 'Go get me bandages!'"

MacArthur turned around, his gun lowered, his eyes sweeping over everyone who was already in position.

Veteran Ray had already crouched behind the nearest load-bearing pillar, his Remington 870 rifle pointed at the second-floor stairwell. His breathing was steady, and his eyes shone with a chilling light—the kind of menacing glint only someone who had seen blood would possess.

Immediately afterwards, a series of dull thuds came from the second floor, as if someone had been thrown onto the corridor floor, followed by a gunshot.

MacArthur took a deep breath, gripped the handle of the Ruger pistol, and held it firmly with his knuckles.

"Everyone, listen up! No matter who comes down from above, if they have guns pointed at us, open fire!"

"This is our first time fighting a positional war! We have no reserves, no air support, and no retreat route."

"But we must hold our ground."

"Anyone who dares to come down will be shown that this infantry division will fight to the death if they don't surrender!"

No one responded, but everyone's guns were pointed at the stairs.

A dozen seconds ago.

Seven or eight Blood Gang thugs had just stormed into the psychedelic cat, spreading out on both sides of the corridor. Some of them were still in a half-crouching assault posture, but in front of them were only a few half-open broken doors, a pile of construction debris that had not yet been cleared away, and a few old mattresses spread on the ground.

no one.

There wasn't a single living person on the second floor.

A tall, thin thug with a red headscarf kicked open the door to an empty private room. Inside, there was only a table with a broken leg and an empty beer crate.

He turned his head, his eyes a little vacant. This was because his long-term use of methamphetamine had damaged his dopamine receptors, making his brain process sudden information much slower than normal.

"It's empty," he said.

"What?" Another thug with a spider web tattoo on his face peeked out from around the corner of the corridor.

"I said, this place is fucking empty! There's nobody here!"

The man in the red headscarf raised his voice two notes. He kicked a piece of plasterboard on the ground, which bounced off the wall with a dull thud.

Spider-face frowned, and an old scar on his forehead deepened with confusion.

The order stated that there should be homeless people guarding the easily defensible stairwell on the second floor, allowing them to break in through the window and eliminate them.

But now, let alone the homeless guarding the second floor, I haven't even seen a single person snoring in a sleeping bag.

"Is there some mistake?" A short, stocky thug carrying a short-barreled shotgun emerged from the ventilation duct, his knees covered in rust.

"The boss is right."

He didn't finish his sentence.

"Bang!"

A gunshot suddenly rang out at the end of the corridor; it was the same gunshot that had just been heard downstairs. Everyone instinctively shrank back.

A young thug wearing a black woolen hat crashed into the wall, his pistol still smoking.

His finger had been on the trigger the whole time. As he passed a pile of debris, he tripped over a protruding steel bar and instinctively tightened his grip, causing the trigger to pull straight down.

The bullet hit the corridor ceiling, tearing off a large chunk of plaster, and white powder flew everywhere.

"Hold!"

The man in the black woolen hat stumbled a couple of steps, his knees hit the floor, and he fell over.

The gunshot bounced back and forth in the enclosed corridor, causing everyone's ears to ring for a few seconds.

Spider-face was the first to react. He rushed over, grabbed the collar of the black wool hat, and pulled him up from the ground.

"What the hell are you doing?!"

"It went off! I went off!" The voice of the man in the black woolen hat trembled, his face covered in plaster powder.

Spider-face slapped him across the face.

"Shut up!"

The corridor fell silent, save for the heavy breathing of a few people and the sound of wind and rain coming through the walls in the distance.

The silence lasted only a few seconds.

A bald thug leaning against the wall, with a sinister look in his eyes, suddenly spoke up.

"Stop fucking."

His voice was calm and not loud, but the others still reflexively looked at him.

Before joining the Blood Gang, this bald man spent ten months in Iraq, where he was personally trained by a veteran.

He was also the only person in the raiding team who, apart from the veterans who had already been killed by Leon, had actually seen the battlefield.

"Stop standing there like an idiot." The bald man straightened up from the wall and slung the silenced submachine gun over his shoulder.

"My former superior told me that once the raid begins, don't even think about hiding."

"There's no one on the second floor, but there's definitely someone downstairs."

"What we're doing now isn't standing here dumbfounded. You're all fucking scared, feeling like you've been played, aren't you?"

No one said a word.

The bald man looked around and suddenly laughed, revealing a row of teeth missing two teeth.

"It's good to be afraid, but don't suppress your fear, or you'll end up like him, going astray."

He pointed to the black woolen hat, then raised his submachine gun, aiming the muzzle at the stairwell.

"That's the rule on the battlefield: the more afraid you are, the more you should shout it out. Shout it out loud so the other side can hear you, so they know you're not fucking afraid, and then they'll be the ones who are afraid."

"Your voice is your courage."

After the bald man finished speaking, he was the first to take a step, stomping heavily on the wooden plank at the top of the stairs.

"Those poor bastards on the first floor are definitely hiding under the stairs, let's rush down!"

"Kill them all!"

His last words were shouted.

This roar acted like a fuse, igniting the rest of the group.

The man in the red turban roared back, his voice high-pitched and shrill, sounding nervously excited.

Spider-faced pulled a second-hand Uzi submachine gun from his waist, pulled the bolt, and the metallic scraping sound was particularly jarring in the darkness.

A short, stocky thug carrying a short-barreled shotgun followed closely behind, his shoes thumping heavily on the wooden stairs with each step.

After being slapped, the man in the black wool hat seemed to have some primal aggression activated. He ran and shouted, brandishing a pistol.

The footsteps of seven or eight people converged, sounding like muffled thunder in the narrow stairwell.

"Kill all these poor bastards!"

The bald man was the first to rush down the stairs and around the corner, his silenced submachine gun barrel sweeping towards the dance floor on the first floor.

As a veteran, if his judgment hadn't been clouded by drugs, he should have known that leading the charge would have been unwise for him personally.

He was greeted by two lights that simultaneously lit up in the darkness.

"Thump!!"

Ray fired first with his Remington 870.

The No. 12 shotgun shells spread out in a cone shape, hitting the bald veteran from the chest to the abdomen.

Before the bald veteran could pull the trigger of his submachine gun, his body was thrown backward and crashed into the wall of the stairwell, leaving a dark red trail of blood as he slid down the wall.

"Bang!!"

Walter then pulled the trigger.

The second shot of a No. 12 shotgun shell hit the red-turbaned man who was right behind the bald man.

The man in the red turban was yelling, his mouth still open, when a shot pierced his neck and collarbone, and his voice came to an abrupt halt.

The pistol in his hand flew out, and he tumbled down the stairs, landing next to the bald man. He twitched a couple of times and then remained still.

"Fire! Open fire at all levels!"

MacArthur's orders boomed across the dance floor.

The old welder gritted his teeth and pulled the trigger twice in succession. The nine-millimeter bullet hit the metal handrail in the stairwell, sparks flying everywhere.

The construction worker's Mossberg 500 also went off. His body, which was over fifty years old, was pushed back half a step by the recoil, but his second loading action was much smoother than the first.

The Blood Gang thugs in the stairwell were caught off guard, and Spider-Faced was also hit in the shoulder by a pistol bullet, but he did not retreat.

"Fire in the hole!" he shouted, pulling a small, dark green fragmentation grenade from his waist, pulling the pin, and throwing it towards the dance floor on the first floor.

"Scatter!" Lei roared, then collapsed to the side.

The grenade arced through the air, struck the chandelier on the ceiling, bounced, and landed in the pile of clutter behind the DJ booth.

"boom!!"

The explosion shattered all the intact light bulbs in the dance floor, and shards of glass rained down.

The reflective vest was knocked to the ground by the shockwave, his ears were ringing, but he was still holding the Glock in his hand.

"I'm blind! I can't see!" he cried out in a panic.

"You're not blind, the light just exploded!" The screwdriver-wielding man dragged him behind a load-bearing column.

He glanced sideways at the back of the DJ booth, where a shallow crater had been blasted open, debris was burning, and flames illuminated half of the dance floor.

Fortunately, MacArthur had Jarvis and the others move the emergency supplies to another corner beforehand. The "Trash Can Philosopher" was huddled next to the fire extinguisher, frantically pulling at a red fire extinguisher with both hands and feet.

"They're coming down!" Cole poked half his head out from under the stairs and slammed a wrench on the head of a figure jumping down.

The figure let out a muffled groan, but immediately a dagger stabbed through the air, grazing Cole's ribs and tearing his clothes and flesh.

Cole screamed and backed away.

On the other side, the short, stocky thug jumped down the stairs. His short-barreled shotgun was already level, the sights pointed at the nearest load-bearing column, where the screwdriver man and the reflective vest were hiding.

The screwdriver-wielding man pulled his Taurus revolver a fraction of a second before the short, stocky thug pulled the trigger.

This is the feel he developed from hunting coyotes in landfills.

The single-action trigger fired instantly, and a .38 caliber revolver bullet precisely pierced the short, stocky thug's right cheek, spraying a cloud of blood from the back of his head.

The short, stocky thugs' shotguns fired simultaneously.

The 12-gauge shotgun shell was ejected from the muzzle, but the bullet veered off course and struck the plasterboard next to the screwdriver-wielding man.

Two of the projectiles pierced the plasterboard and lodged below the screwdriver man's right ribs.

The screwdriver man felt as if he had been stabbed hard by a red-hot iron rod.

He glanced down and saw that his work shirt, covering his right side, was quickly soaked with blood, the viscous liquid dripping down his waistline.

"Damn it," he cursed calmly, his voice so composed it didn't sound like he'd just been shot.

then.

His legs immediately gave way and he collapsed to the ground.

"Screwdriver!" The person in the reflective vest rushed over, frantically trying to cover his wound.

The trash can philosopher finally dragged the fire extinguisher over.

He pressed the handle towards the flames behind the DJ booth, spraying white powder everywhere. He himself was choked and coughed violently, his face covered in a layer of dry powder.

"Someone's jumping down the stairs!" Lei roared.

He pulled the trigger of the Remington 870 again, and a shotgun shell hit the corner of the stairs. A thug who had just poked his head out was grazed on the scalp by the bullet and screamed as he shrank back.

Walter cocked the gun again, his knee braced against the support column, and the muzzle steadily pointed at the stairwell once more.

"We've already taken down a few!" he shouted at MacArthur.

MacArthur aimed his pistol at the stairwell, while wiping the blood from the broken glass on his face with his other hand.

"Hold on!" he shouted. "Construction workers! Left wing coverage! Don't let anyone get behind Jarvis and his men!"

At the corner of the stairs on the first floor, the remaining members of the Blood Gang huddled together.

Blood was seeping from the gunshot wound on Spiderface's shoulder. He switched the Uzi submachine gun to his left hand, his teeth grinding together.

"They have shotguns!" the man in the black beanie shouted, his voice filled with terror.

"Shut up! Some of them are already dead!" Spider-face slapped the back of the black beanie's head. "Keep shouting!"

Keep going! Baldy's right, a strong voice is a sign of courage!

The remaining four or five thugs simultaneously let out meaningless howls, the sounds echoing in the narrow stairwell.

Spiderface propped the Uzi submachine gun in the gap of the stair railing and fired a long burst.

The bullet struck the concrete surface of the load-bearing column, scattering fragments everywhere.

The old welder pulled his head back, a bloody scratch from cement debris scraping his ear. He cursed, then leaned out from the other side of the pillar and fired two more shots.

Missed.

Spider-faced retreated to the corner of the stairs, blood seeping from the gunshot wound on his shoulder, soaking half of his T-shirt.

His right hand hung at his side, his fingers trembling incessantly from the pain.

"Did you hit it?!" The man in the black woolen hat squatted down at his feet, his Glock magazine empty, and he was frantically changing it.

"Stop fucking asking! Shout! Keep shouting!" Spider-face kicked him in the knee.

The man in the black woolen hat gritted his teeth and let out a wild howl from his throat.

MacArthur, who was behind the supporting column, heard the howl and squinted.

"Ray!" he shouted, but didn't turn around; his gun remained pointed at the stairwell. "Left flank, advance three meters! Walter, cover!"

Ray moved from behind the support column, his back bent, the butt of his Remington 870 pressed tightly against his shoulder, his shoes crunching on the broken glass.

He crouched down again behind another pillar, from which he could see a blind spot at the corner of the stairs.

"I saw it!" Lei roared, pulling the trigger at the same time.

Shotgun shells struck the walls of the stairwell, scattering bullets and cement debris. A thug hiding in a blind spot screamed, clutching his face as he fell backward.

The bullet pierced his cheek, and teeth and blood gushed from his mouth.

"Take one down!" Ray shouted as he reloaded his shotgun.

Spider-face saw that another person beside him was missing, and bloodshot veins appeared in his eyes.

The pain in his right hand had turned into a numb burning sensation, which actually made his mind a little clearer.

Stop squatting here.

If they squat down any further, they will be called out and eliminated one by one.

The old man who kept giving orders seemed to be the commander of this group of homeless people. If they could take him down, there would still be a chance for things to turn around.

He took a deep breath, tucked the Uzi submachine gun to his waist with his left hand, grabbed the black woolen hat that he had kicked over from the ground, and shoved it in front of him.

"Sprint! Charge with me!"

Before the man in the black beanie could react, he was pushed forward, missed a step, and stumbled towards the dance floor on the first floor.

The remaining two thugs charged forward with Spider-Face.

MacArthur's first target was the black woolen hat.

This kid was pushed in front as a human shield, his Glock gun held crookedly, the muzzle pointing at who knows where.

MacArthur pulled the trigger.

The nine-millimeter bullet from Ruger's pistol pierced through the black woolen hat's right thigh, causing him to fall to the ground, clutching his leg and yelling as the pistol slid a considerable distance away.

Another thug followed closely behind, holding a second-hand SKS semi-automatic rifle with a bayonet fixed in his hand.

He bought the gun from a gun dealer; the bayonet was rusty, but the triangular tip was still sharp.

"Hmph hmph hmph ahh ...

Holding his bayonet, he charged forward, roaring as he thrust it straight at the nearest load-bearing pillar.

The old welder was changing a magazine behind a pillar when he caught a rusty metal spike coming at him out of the corner of his eye. He instinctively turned his head to the side.

The bayonet grazed his ear and embedded itself in the plasterboard on the side of the pillar, the blade wedged into the wooden frame inside, and he couldn't pull it out.

Old Han had barely inserted the Glock magazine into the grip when, without even raising the gun, he simply grabbed the gun with both hands and slammed the bottom of the grip hard into the other man's face.

The sound of the thug's nose bone cracking was crisp and abrupt. He groaned, released the butt of the SKS with both hands, covered his face, and took half a step back.

Taking advantage of the opening, Walter grabbed the butt of the Remington 870 from the side and smashed it into the back of the thug's head.

The thug's eyes rolled back, and his body went limp to the ground.

There are two left who can fire.

Spider-face and the last thug rushed into the dance floor at the same time.

The firepower in the dance floor was instantly drawn to the thug with the shotgun.

Taking advantage of the opening, Spider-Face lunged directly at the nearest load-bearing column.

MacArthur is hiding there.

MacArthur had just finished firing a magazine and was reloading.

His fingers were not as nimble as they used to be; it took him two tries to remove the empty magazine from the magazine catch.

The spiderweb-faced Uzi submachine gun was already pointed at him.

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