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

Chapter 259 She's just an office worker

Before MacArthur could insert a new magazine, he instinctively used the body of his Ruger pistol to deflect the Uzi's barrel.

A shot rang out.

The Uzi bullet struck the ceiling at an angle, causing the chandelier frame to sway and a piece of chain to fall down.

Spiderface threw away his submachine gun, or rather, his fingers were too sore from the pain in his shoulder to hold it properly, and the recoil knocked the gun away. But he lunged forward and used his weight to knock MacArthur to the ground.

The two fell into a pile of tattered blankets on the other side of the supporting pillar.

MacArthur hit the back of his head on the ground, and his vision went black for a moment.

He tried to push the other man's body away with his knee, but Spider-Face was already on top of him, his left hand choking his throat.

MacArthur used his arm to pry the other man's wrist off, and the two rolled on the ground, becoming entangled.

At this distance, Lei couldn't fire his shotgun directly; one shot would kill both of them.

The old welder held the Glock and turned it halfway around, pointing the gun at it and then moving it away. The two men were wrestling so fast that the light bulbs here had already exploded. He couldn't even tell which arm belonged to MacArthur.

"Damn it!" the old welder cursed, but dared not fire.

MacArthur's right hand gripped Spiderface's left wrist, and the two began to grapple.

He could feel the strength in his opponent's hands weakening; the gunshot wound to his shoulder was rendering Spiderface unable to fight, but MacArthur's arms were also starting to ache.

He was ultimately not a front-line assault officer.

The last close-quarters combat training he ever participated in was more than 20 years ago, when he was able to subdue a young lieutenant with a rear-naked choke in 30 seconds.

Now his joints creak, and his muscles have lost so much power that even he feels like a stranger to them.

Spider-face, taking advantage of the return of some feeling in his right hand, drew a dagger from his waist.

MacArthur held his right wrist with both hands, the tip of the dagger less than two inches above his throat, both of their arms trembling.

"You sons of bitches!" Spiderface gritted his teeth, the spiderweb tattoo on his face contorted with his expression, blood dripping from his shoulder onto MacArthur's face.

"What right do you have to team up with that Lyon to seize our territory! Psychedelic Cat used to work for us!"

MacArthur used his knee to push the man's abdomen away, creating some distance, and the tip of his knife retreated three inches.

"I joined the Blood Gang when I was fifteen." Spider-Face's voice was squeezed out from between his teeth, and saliva mixed with blood flowed from his mouth as he spoke.

"My father was beaten to death by the police right in front of me, and my brother died in prison."

"Nobody cares about us, the government doesn't care, the police don't care, what else can you white people do besides driving us to our deaths?"

He suddenly increased the force of his right hand, and the tip of the knife moved forward another inch.

MacArthur's arm was trembling, and his elbow made a faint creaking sound.

"Fat Mike is my fucking brother!" Spider-Face practically roared, his eyes bloodshot.

"He fed me, gave me work, and helped me stuff the police into the sewers. What right does your Leon have to kill him!"

""

MacArthur stared at the distorted face above him.

"You're just a bunch of bandits." His face was devoid of any warmth.

The spiderweb-faced man's fingers paused for a moment.

"Stop talking nonsense." MacArthur's knee pushed him an inch further away. "You're nothing but a bandit."

"Your brother is a bandit, your father is a bandit, your older brother is a bandit, and that fat Mike who feeds you is also a bandit who deserves to die."

"You take over territory, traffic drugs, kill people, and then blame everything on the government."

"The government is indeed a bastard, but you are not victims; you are just as much of a bastard as him."

"You don't dare to resist the government; you're just transferring your misfortune onto other homeless people or other ordinary people."

"You are weaker, dumber, and more deserving of death."

The spiderweb-faced man's eyes were wide open, almost bursting.

He put all his weight on the dagger.

MacArthur's right arm finally gave way and bent, the knife tip piercing an inch above his left shoulder, cutting through the surface of his camouflage coat and the skin beneath.

Just then, a series of hurried footsteps sounded from the darkness at the top of the stairwell.

The footsteps were not loud, but the rhythm was extremely fast, and their presence was exceptionally strong.

Exoskeleton? No, those were extremely light footsteps.

A tactical team? No, there was only one sound of footsteps.

The spider-web-faced man had just raised his head, not yet able to see what it was.

A black figure flipped over the handrail at the corner of the stairs, leaping over the last six or seven steps.

He adjusted his body angle in mid-air, and when his feet landed, his knees didn't even bend much.

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

It's RayFong, or rather, Lyon.

His movements were so fast that no one present even had time to turn their guns.

He drew his Glock from his waist with his right hand and placed his left hand on his right wrist for stability.

First shot.

In the fraction of a second before Spider-Man had rolled off MacArthur, a bullet pierced his heart through his back.

Spider-face's body jolted violently, his pupils dilated instantly, and he finally released his grip on the dagger.

The second shot.

The shotgunner had just raised his gun when the bullet pierced his skull from below.

Blood spurted from his ears, the shotgun slipped from his hand and crashed into the stairs, leaving him hanging from the stair railing at an odd angle.

The third shot.

The man in the black woolen hat, who was huddled on the ground with a bullet in his thigh and was thought to be incapacitated, somehow managed to grab a pistol that had fallen to the ground.

He had only raised his gun halfway, pointing it at Ray, when Leon's third bullet pierced the back of his right hand and went through the trigger guard of the pistol.

He screamed as the pistol slipped from his hand; the bullet sliced ​​off a section of his finger as it passed through the trigger guard.

Lyon took a step forward.

Just as Walter, holding a shotgun, was about to speak, Leon raised his left hand to stop him.

The thug, whose nose had been smashed by the old welder and who had been knocked unconscious by Walter, was covering his face. He had just regained consciousness from his brief daze and was struggling to get up from the ground when Leon's fourth bullet hit him in the knee.

His left leg instantly bent at an abnormal angle, and he fell down again with a scream.

"thunder."

Lyon's voice came out muffledly from behind his mask.

Ray did not answer.

Ray was staring intently at this side. He had been waiting for an opportunity to peek out and fire, but Leon's sudden arrival had ended the battle immediately. Before he could recover, his index finger was still pressed on the trigger guard of the Remington 870.

"Ray!" Leon's voice rose a notch.

"Here!" Lei finally reacted and stood up straight.

"Gather the wounded together and start treating them quickly. Where's the first aid kit?" Leon glanced at the philosopher huddled in the trash can next to the ruins of the DJ booth.

MacArthur sat up, clutching his left shoulder. Blood seeped from between the old man's fingers, but judging from his expression, it wasn't a fatal wound.

"Also, examine all the bodies. Ignore the ones who aren't dead; I want to question them. Drag the dead to the corner and collect the weapons they brought in; these are our spoils."

Lyon lowered his gun and walked to the support column.

Then, Lyon turned to look at MacArthur, his steel-gray eyes above the mask revealing no emotion.

"You just said they were weak."

He glanced down at the spiderweb-faced corpse again, then kicked him away from the support pillar.

The body rolled halfway, lying on its back, blood still flowing from its chest.

"Bandits, that's right, they're just a bunch of bandits who have taken to outlaws."

MacArthur grinned, blood continuing to seep from between his fingers and on his shoulder, but he laughed heartily.

At that moment, the system panel in Leon's mind finally responded again after being dormant for quite some time.

A pale blue screen unfolded on my retina, and the task completion data on it jumped twice:

[Mission: Respond to Gang Attack (Completed)]

Participation rate: 70%

[Reward Settlement: 3000 × 70% = 2100 Justice Points]

Current total points: 2100 + 200 balance = 2300

Leon turned off the control panel, put away his gun, glanced at the pile of corpses in the stairwell, and then at the black woolen hat that was wailing while clutching the back of its hand.

Then, Leon's gaze shifted away from the black beanie; the most important thing now was not to interrogate the guy who was still groaning while clutching the back of his hand.

He glanced around, then took two steps to the other side of the load-bearing column and squatted down.

The man with the screwdriver slumped to the ground, leaning against a pillar. His work shirt, worn on his right side, was soaked in blood, the color of which had changed from light gray to dark black.

The woman in the reflective vest knelt beside him, her hands pressing tightly against the rag stuffed into the wound, her fingers filled with sticky blood.

"Let me see." Leon pulled open his reflective vest.

The rag was lifted, revealing the wound.

Two shotgun pellets struck the outside of his ribs, but did not penetrate. The pellets remained embedded in the flesh, and the skin around the wound was turned inside out. Blood gushed out with each breath of the screwdriver-wielding man.

Fortunately, it didn't hit an artery, otherwise there would have been a pool of splattered blood on the ground.

The screwdriver-wielding man glanced down at his wound, then looked up at Leon, his face twitching.

"It hurts a little," he said.

"Nonsense." Leon pressed the tattered cloth back down, gesturing for the reflective vest to remain in place. "You got shot, of course it hurts!"

"I know, I was just saying."

Lyon stood up and glanced at the dance floor.

Walter squatted down next to Cole and used a torn strip of T-shirt to make a makeshift bandage for Cole's ribs that had been cut by the dagger. Although his technique was rough, he at least knew how to tie a knot.

Jarvis was squatting on the other side, examining the old construction worker's ears. The old man's eardrums were congested from the grenade, and there was a cut from broken glass on his right earlobe. There wasn't much blood, but it looked scary.

"Are there any people who have studied medicine specifically?"

No one said a word.

Jarvis looked up, hesitated for half a second, and said, "My dad used to be a first aider. I've seen him treat gunshot wounds, but all I know how to do is put on a band-aid."

"Then you must not have studied medicine," Leon interrupted him.

The trash can philosopher peeked halfway out from behind the fire extinguisher, his face still covered in dry powder, and cautiously raised his hand: "Can I spread butter on bread, that counts?"

"You fucking idiot, you avid entertainer," Leon cursed at him.

There were indeed no professional doctors present.

The screwdriver man's injuries do not appear to be fatal, but the two pellets must be removed, and the wound must be cleaned and sutured; otherwise, infection in this environment would mean certain death.

Cole had a knife wound; disinfection and stitches would suffice.

The knife in MacArthur's shoulder was similar.

There is only one person who can handle all of this.

"Gather the wounded together," Leon said, turning to Ray.

"Help those who can walk to sit down against the wall; carry those who can't walk in sleeping bags."

"Go find some clean bed sheets in the trash can and tear them into bandages for later use."

I still prefer to be called a philosopher.

"Go now." Leon glared at him.

The trash can philosopher sprang up from behind the fire extinguisher and scrambled across the sleeping bag storage area.

Ray had already put away his shotgun and was helping Cole up from the ground with Walter.

Cole clutched his ribs, gritted his teeth, and took a couple of steps. Blood seeped from between his fingers and dripped onto the concrete floor.

"I can walk," Cole said. "Don't help me, I can walk."

"You fucking walk in a straight line, let me see you do it." Walter didn't let go, his eyes already red.

Old Han tucked the Glock back into his waistband, bent down to pick up the blood-stained SKS bayonet on the ground, and just as his fingers touched the stock, he thought for a moment, pointed the muzzle at the corner of the wall, emptied the magazine, and then turned the gun upside down and leaned it against the pillar.

"Boss." He straightened up and looked at Leon. "How many of us died? It's too dark, I can't see."

"It's just been confirmed. No one on our side died. On the other side, everyone except the two who are still alive is dead."

95

The old welder nodded and said nothing more.

He glanced at the piles of corpses in the stairwell, then at Cole, who was being helped to the wall by Ray. His expression was complicated, as if he wanted to vomit but also wanted to laugh. He wanted to vomit because it was his first time in such a place, and he wanted to laugh because none of the people he knew on his side had died.

But in the end, he didn't make any expression; he just nodded again.

MacArthur stood up from the ground.

The wound on his left shoulder was still bleeding. His camouflage coat had been cut open with a two-inch-long gash, and the skin underneath had also been ripped open, but the knife tip had only penetrated less than half an inch and had not damaged the muscle layer.

He pressed his right hand against his wound and walked over to Lyon.

"We've only been talking for half a minute," MacArthur said in a low voice.

Lyon turned to look at him.

"I saw it clearly from the ground just now." MacArthur looked at the spiderweb-faced corpse on the ground.

"When you flipped down from the second floor, your speed was wrong. An ordinary person couldn't do that, no matter how good they are at fighting."

Lyon didn't say anything.

"I always thought you were dangerous, but I thought your danger was at the organizational level. Money, people, guns, and brains."

MacArthur wiped the blood from his shoulder with the back of his right hand and smeared it on his coat.

"I didn't expect you to be such a strong fighter. I can't be sure if this is the effect of some kind of drug being injected into your bloodstream, but I tend not to think so."

He turned his head, his slightly cloudy eyes staring at Lyon with a sharp gaze.

"I've met the Leon Vance that the gangster just mentioned. He's the cop who's always on TV and in the newspapers."

"I want to know, what exactly is your relationship with Leon Vance, and why would the mob come here because of Leon Vance?"

MacArthur removed his hand from the wound, put it in his coat pocket, and stood ramrod straight.

"I don't usually pry into other people's business, but I'm the chief of staff here, and I have more than twenty lives under my command."

"Your mission for me was to hold this outpost, and I did it, but I was also nearly stabbed in the throat with a dagger. I need to know who's on my side."

Lyon was silent for two seconds.

"You know Leon Vance," Leon said.

"Know."

"I know him quite well."

MacArthur narrowed his eyes for a moment, then slowly nodded.

RayFong did not deny his connection with Leon Vance, but said that he and Leon Vance were very close, which means that the two were at least deeply involved.

Ray Fong didn't specify the exact extent, but MacArthur knew it was inappropriate to ask for details at this point.

This level of confirmation is sufficient.

"Understood," MacArthur said. "So, what are your plans for treating the wounded now?"

"Send it to the church. Pastor Thomas, a former surgeon."

"St. Judy's Church? The one who dispenses medicine?" MacArthur frowned. "I've heard of him. That old man looks like he could be blown away by a gust of wind."

"His hand is steadyer than yours when he's stitching up veins."

MacArthur didn't question it anymore. He turned around and glanced at Cole, who was being helped to sit down by the wall by Walter, and then at the screwdriver man lying on the ground who hadn't been lifted up yet.

"It's late at night, how do you plan to get the person there?" MacArthur asked.

"Put them in sleeping bags and carry them to the car," Lyon said.

"Let me treat the wound simply first. I have some basic medical supplies in my car, such as sterile gauze and antibiotic ointment, which can help with temporary treatment."

"Then those with more serious injuries were sent to the church first, while those with minor injuries stayed here to wait for the next batch."

MacArthur did not press the matter further.

He noticed that Lyon's gaze had shifted to the black beanie huddled in the corner, so he released his hand from the shoulder, took a step back, and gave up the stage.

The black woolen hat was curled up in the corner, and blood was still seeping from the penetrating wound on the back of his right hand. The severed finger lay on the floor two feet away, no longer bleeding.

He held his right hand, the gunshot wound in his thigh preventing him from standing up. He could only press his back tightly against the wall and tuck his knees to his chest.

Leon walked up to him and squatted down.

The man in the black woolen hat raised his head, his eyes bloodshot, his pupils shrunken to the size of pinpoints due to fear and drug residue.

He could smell the blood from his severed finger and feel the gunshot wound on his thigh throbbing with each heartbeat.

"I already know you're from the Bloods," Leon said.

The man in the black woolen hat trembled slightly, but remained silent.

"What are your plans for tonight?" Leon lowered his voice, his mask making it sound muffled. "This building is a feint, am I right?"

The man in the black woolen hat swallowed hard.

“You wouldn’t just send seven or eight men to their deaths,” Leon continued. “Your commander isn’t stupid.”

"When he was leading the team outside, I saw the layout map in his hand. The map had more than just arrows pointing to this building."

So you have other goals.

The layout diagram that Leon mentioned was made up. He didn't even have time to look at what Luke was wearing, but he didn't need to actually see it. As long as the man in the black wool hat thought he had seen it, that was enough.

"Is it the lamb shop at the mosque?" Lyon's voice was flat. "Or the Western District Police Station? Or Lyon's apartment?"

The man in the black beanie's eyes flickered.

Lyon caught the flash.

"None of those?" he answered the question himself. "Then there must be something else."

He placed his left hand on the knee of the black woolen hat, just two inches from the gunshot wound on his thigh.

The black woolen hat shrank back slightly.

"Will you tell me or not?" Leon asked.

"I don't know," the man in the black woolen hat said through gritted teeth. "I just followed the charge; I have no right to know the plan."

"You do have them, but do you think a gang is a tightly organized place with such thorough intelligence protection?"

The man in the black woolen hat bit his lower lip and remained silent.

Leon looked at him for two seconds, then stood up.

He walked over, bent down, and picked up a rusty multi-functional folding knife from the ground, probably from one of the thugs.

The blade was only two inches long, and the edge had two cracks, so dirty that its original color was no longer visible.

He opened the folding knife, walked back to the black woolen hat, and squatted down again.

"You saw me fire a few shots," Leon said. "Four men, four shots, one moving target, and three stationary targets."

Do you think my hands are steady?

The woman in the black woolen hat began to breathe faster.

"I'll make a few incisions for you now, none of them will be fatal, they'll all be right between the bones."

Leon brandished the folding knife in front of him. "Then I rubbed salt in and sewed the cut up."

He pointed to the severed finger on the black beanie. "I don't need you to tell me. I can play with you here all night, you believe me?"

The lingering excitement in the eyes of the man in the black woolen hat, fueled by drugs, was finally shattered.

He saw Leon's eyes.

There was no anger, no mania, not even disgust in those steel-gray eyes; only the focus one would show when dealing with garbage.

I'm going to die, he thought. And not a quick death.

"Vic," he said, his voice beginning to tremble, "Vic has another group of men on his side, not with us. His mission is to capture a woman."

"What woman?"

"Police officer, policewoman. I don't know her name, I only know she's a police officer and has connections to Leon."

Blackie's body began to tremble violently; fear finally overwhelmed his last shred of loyalty to the Blood Gang.

"Vic said he would catch her before Leon showed up, and then let Leon come to him himself."

"He said that way Lyon would come alone."

Lyon's hand stopped.

The folding knife hovered two inches above the knee of the black woolen hat, without being pushed forward any further.

"When did you start arresting people?"

"Meanwhile, we raided the place, and Vic arrested people."

The man in the black beanie's voice had turned into a sob, "We'll work together. We'll create a commotion here to distract Leon, and Vic will take the hit."

"This was arranged by Tyrone. He said that as soon as Lyon saw the fire here, he would rush over, giving Vic enough time."

Lyon was silent for a second.

Then he closed the folding knife and put it back in his pocket.

Just as the man in the black beanie thought this meant "enough, you don't have to die" or at least "I'll give you a quick death," Leon grabbed him.

Lyon pulled him up from the wall.

One hand.

Under Lyon's full burst of power, the black woolen hat's weight of about 160 pounds was not much different from a sack.

He was pinned against the wall, and the gunshot wound slammed into the wall, creating a new gash. Blood gushed out and splattered onto Leon's jacket.

"You bunch of reckless fools."

Lyon's voice changed.

He took off his mask immediately.

The man in the black beanie's pupils constricted sharply, for he recognized that the person before him was not Leon's white-gloved Ray at all.

Fong is practically Leon himself!

Lyon's expression didn't change, but his voice did. It went from the chilling composure he had during the interrogation to a taut string stretched to its limit.

"The Blood Gang, a bunch of scum who kneel on the streets and lick the toes of Mexicans. Your boss has been dead for over a month, and you don't dare to come looking for me, so you go find a woman instead."

""

He punched the man in the black woolen hat in the cheek.

A fist with a strength attribute of 15 smashed the cheekbone of the man in the black woolen hat, the sound of bones shattering muffled beneath his skin.

The man in the black woolen hat slammed his head against the wall, bounced back, and spat out a cloud of blood and a few broken teeth.

"What do you think this is? Tactics?"

Leon's second punch landed on his ribs, breaking both ribs instantly.

"You fucking are a bunch of cockroaches who can't even fight head-on and don't dare to fight, you only dare to target women."

The third punch landed on his upper abdomen, near his stomach.

The man in the black woolen hat bent over like a shrimp, vomiting yellow gastric juice mixed with blood.

"She's just an office worker! She doesn't even deserve a rifle! She told me before that her biggest dream was just to win five million dollars in a scratch-off lottery ticket!"

Lyon's voice boomed from beneath the ice, his fists striking again and again, each blow landing between the bones of the man in the black wool hat, his ribs, collarbone, and the base of his skull behind his ear.

Do you know what time she works overtime every day? Do you know how long she's spent cleaning up the messes of you bunch of scum?!

You don't even know her name, yet you dare send people to arrest her!

The black woolen hat had started twitching.

His consciousness was fading, he was making incomprehensible gurgling noises, and his body slid down the wall only to be slammed back up by a fist.

MacArthur stood still.

The old welder didn't touch it.

Walter helped the injured Cole to a different angle so that he wouldn't see what was happening.

Ray stared at it for a full five seconds, then looked away and began to examine the Remington 870's magazine.

The final punch.

Leon's right fist struck his left temple.

The man in the black woolen hat slammed against the wall, then slid limply to the ground, his cheeks sunken, his skull deformed, his eyes rolled back, his mouth agape, and his last breath squeezed out from deep in his throat, like a scream that never got a chance to escape.

he died.

Lyon straightened up, panting heavily.

This amount of exercise is nothing for Lyon's current physique; it's purely anger pushing him outwards.

He stood there with his fists clenched for a few seconds, then turned around and walked to the stairwell.

The thug whose knee he had shattered with a single shot during the fight was now slumped under the stair railing, groaning as he clutched his leg, which was bent at an abnormal angle.

He hadn't made a sound, he might have fainted, or he might have been playing dead, it doesn't matter.

Leon drew his Glock and aimed it at the back of his head.

The trigger is pulled.

Gunshots echoed in the narrow stairwell, and spent cartridges struck the steel handrail and fell to the ground with a clatter.

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