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

Chapter 265 I'm Straight

after a while.

"Holy crap! Is this road administration guy in the East District suffering from a terminal stroke?!"

In the passenger seat of the GMC Yukon SUV, Chatterbox was holding a tactical tablet in both hands, the screen's glow casting a ghastly green light on his skull mask.

He zoomed in on the map frantically while cursing loudly at the rainy night ahead.

"Turn left! Turn left next to that pile of scrap tires! Wait, that's a dead end! Damn, the GPS clearly said it was open!"

The chatterbox slammed his hand on the tablet screen. "Turn right! Turn right! Go around that damn container!"

Han Ya gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands, the veins on the back of his hands throbbing.

Under the incoherent commands of the chatterbox, the heavy GMC swayed from side to side like a drunkard on the flooded and potholed auxiliary road of the abandoned industrial area.

"Snapped!"

Finally, the crow could no longer bear it. It took its right hand off the steering wheel and slapped the chatterbox hard on the back of the head once again.

"Shut up, sit still, and don't give orders." The raven's voice was squeezed out from between his teeth, so cold it felt like ice crystals were falling out.

"Why did you hit me again? This lousy road doesn't even have a streetlight!"

The chatterbox covered his head, slapped the tablet on his knee, and pointed at the Ford police car in front of him, whose taillights were barely visible.

"Look at that lunatic up ahead! He drives a beat-up police car and makes it feel like an F1 rally race through this garbage dump, while you, driving a 6.2-liter V8, can't even get a whiff of his exhaust fumes!"

Ignoring his taunts, the crow gritted its teeth and pressed the accelerator even harder, its jaws snapping against the spray of water from the Ford police car ahead.

Inside the Ford police car ahead, Lyon held the steering wheel firmly with both hands, his eyes focused and without any distraction.

Bob in the passenger seat and Miller in the back seat were already dizzy from the rollercoaster-like jolting, gripping the door handles tightly and not daring to utter a sound.

Lyon could still hear the phone call from the man in charge of surveillance a few minutes earlier.

They had just left the highway and were approaching the eastern district when Lyon heard the slightly impatient voice of Sterling's subordinate on his cell phone.

"Target vehicle spotted. It passed under the 19th overpass at the intersection of the West and East districts five minutes ago."

"Send me your real-time coordinates, and I can intercept them on the main road." Lyon then slammed on the gas.

"No, we can't stop it."

The man's voice was tinged with helplessness, "They've already entered the abandoned industrial area in the East District."

"The municipal surveillance network over there has been paralyzed for at least five years, and all the private surveillance cameras have been smashed by gangsters."

"Our hands can't reach in there, you'll have to find it yourself inside."

Lyon cut off the call and, relying on his intuition and prediction of the gang's escape route, plunged into the maze of abandoned factories, rusty containers, and muddy roads.

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He originally planned to use his dynamic vision to intercept the car on the outskirts of the industrial zone.

But the terrain here is too complicated.

Rain blurred the tire tracks, and the intricate network of side roads and towering abandoned reactor towers obscured all visibility.

They circled around inside for nearly ten minutes, but still couldn't catch up with the Chevrolet.

"squeak-

'

The Ford police car's tires screech on the wet concrete. When Leon slammed on the brakes, he didn't apply too much pressure, so the sound wasn't too piercing.

The police car came to an abrupt stop behind a huge abandoned boiler tank.

He casually turned the key and turned off the engine.

The headlights went out instantly, and the entire car was completely enveloped in darkness.

Caught off guard, the GMC SUV following closely behind jerked the steering wheel sharply, bringing the heavy vehicle to a screeching halt less than half a meter from the police car's rear bumper, its tires kicking up a cloud of mud in the standing water.

The chattering head nearly hit the windshield.

"What the hell!" The chatterbox steadied himself and reached for the HK416 on his lap. "Why did it suddenly stop?"

Leon's extremely low voice immediately came through the throat microphone around his neck.

"The ambush has been cancelled; the car we were chasing has already reached the gang's hideout."

The chatterbox pressed the microphone and looked out through the rain-blurred car window. He could see nothing but darkness and abandoned corrugated iron walls. "If we don't intercept them halfway, things will get even more complicated once the hostages get inside."

A slight electrical static could be heard coming from the walkie-talkie.

"We can't chase them anymore. Look closely, towards twelve o'clock." Leon's voice was cold and hard. "That three-story red brick factory building next to the water tower, see that rusty ventilation duct on the roof?"

Suozui quickly grabbed the GPNVG-18 panoramic night vision goggles from his helmet and pulled them down.

A ghastly green light instantly filled my vision.

He looked in the direction Lyon had indicated, and in the shadow of the ventilation duct, a figure crouched in the rain, holding an automatic rifle, the muzzle occasionally sweeping across the only passage below.

"Look at the three o'clock position, the second layer of that pile of abandoned containers," Leon's voice continued.

The gossipy man shifted his gaze.

In the ghastly green scene, another figure is perched on top of the shipping container, holding some kind of thermal imaging or night vision binoculars, observing in their direction.

"A sentry." The chatterbox licked his lips, his voice lowering.

"If we continue to press the accelerator and advance further, the crossfire from both sides will turn the car into a sieve within five seconds, and the hostages will die."

Lyon sat in the driver's seat of the police car, the night vision goggles he had just put on gleaming faintly.

His [Danger Sense] had detected a slight stinging sensation when he passed the previous intersection, which prompted him to make an emergency stop and take cover.

Just as the gossipy man was intently watching the two hidden sentries through the night vision goggles, the cell phone that Leon had casually tossed onto the center console of the Ford police car suddenly vibrated in the darkness without warning.

The screen lit up; it was an unfamiliar number.

The gossip whistled into the walkie-talkie, "Hey, your takeout's here?"

Leon ignored the gossiping teasing. He took off his right tactical glove, picked up the phone with its screen dimly lit, pressed the answer button, and held the phone to his ear.

A hollow echo came from the other end of the phone, mixed with the dull sound of rain hitting the tin roof, followed by a male voice suppressing his anger and smugness—it was Tyrone's voice.

"Leon Vance".

The voice carried an arrogant air of complete control: "You mad dog who bites everyone, listen up. Your little secretary is in my hands now. I want you to come to the Ninth Abandoned Steel Plant in the East District alone. Don't notify the other cops, and don't bring a gun."

Tyrone chuckled coldly on the phone, seemingly already anticipating the counter-terrorism hero's groveling appearance. "If you dare to play any tricks, or if I see another patrol car around here, you'd better prepare to see her body chopped into pieces."

Leon leaned back in the driver's seat, not even lifting his eyelids. His steel-gray pupils were as cold as ice in the darkness, automatically filtering out the provocation and intimidation in the other person's words.

He didn't question the other person's identity, nor did he angrily shout like a policeman in a movie, "You dare touch a single hair on her head?"

He simply listened quietly as Tyrone finished reciting that classic kidnapper line.

"Feed? Are you fucking listening?!" Tyrone didn't get the expected terrified response, and his voice rose, "I'm warning you!"

"beep."

Lyon pressed his thumb, immediately cutting off the call.

"Beep—beep—beep—"

He casually tossed his phone back onto the center console, put his tactical gloves back on, and tightened the Velcro straps.

A barely suppressed laugh came through the walkie-talkie, "Well done, sir. I bet that bastard's staring at his phone right now, questioning his existence."

At the same time, the gaze pierced through the rain, past the two sentries targeted by Lyon on the perimeter, and arrived inside a three-story red brick factory building.

This place was originally an abandoned steel smelting workshop, with a ceiling height of nearly ten meters, and a rusty gantry crane still hanging in mid-air.

The factory interior was dimly lit, with only a few portable spotlights scattered in the corners.

Behind these intricate load-bearing columns, abandoned machine tools, and rusty iron walkways on the second and third floors, forty or fifty people were scattered in the shadows.

Some of them were the last loyalists of the Blood Gang, while others were drug-addicted street thugs armed with automatic weapons—in other words, members of the 23rd Street King Gang.

These men, in twos and threes, were scattered in all the blind spots and stairwells, chewing gum or smoking, their gun bolts already pulled back, forming a three-dimensional crossfire network capable of shredding any assault team.

In a cubicle deep inside the factory, which used to be the manager's office, Tyrone stared at the phone in his hand, which was ringing with a dial tone, his eyes twitching violently with anger.

"Hold!"

Tyrone slammed his phone against the dusty wall, the screen shattering instantly. "That son of a bitch cop! Still acting tough at a time like this! When he gets here, I'll see how tough he really is!"

He had expected Leon to panic upon hearing that the policewoman had been kidnapped, but the other party hung up without saying a word.

This feeling of being completely ignored humiliated brought Tyrone's temper to its peak.

Tyrone paced anxiously back and forth behind the table for a couple of steps, then turned to look at Vic, who was leaning against the window.

"That spineless coward, Mad Dog Aug!"

Tyrone pointed at the thugs sent by Orgrimmar outside the door, cursing and swearing.

"They sent out a dozen men, but they didn't even dare show their faces. Hiding in the back like cowards at a time like this, once I've killed Leon, my next target will be their hideout!"

Vic, wearing a dark gray polo shirt, held a half-burnt Marlboro cigarette between his fingers as he looked out at the rain.

"It's normal that he didn't come."

Vic's eyes remained in that deep void, as if everything happening around him had little to do with him. "Aug and Leon have no blood feud. He sent people here to give us face, and also so that if we win, he can rightfully take the benefits."

He put the cigarette butt in his mouth, took a drag, and exhaled a cloud of grayish-white smoke.

"If Leon dies, it doesn't matter whether he comes or not, we can still divide the territory. But if Leon doesn't die—"

Vic turned his head, his bloodshot eyes looking at Tyrone.

"Or rather, if Leon doesn't care about this woman's life or death at all, then Aug's presence here is tantamount to a death sentence for himself. At least he could have run away when things went wrong on 23rd Street, right?"

Tyrone snorted coldly, remaining noncommittal to Vic's long-winded explanation.

He turned around, and the light fell on Mia, who was tied to an iron chair in the corner of the office.

Mia's hands were tied behind her back to the chair with rough nylon rope, and her short, black hair, soaked with cold sweat and rain, clung messily to her cheeks.

Her face was as pale as paper, and her body was slightly curled up.

Tyrone walked up to Mia, looking at the policewoman, his anger finding no outlet.

He raised his booted foot and kicked Mia hard in the knee.

"Bang."

The iron chair scraped against the cement floor, making a screeching sound.

Mia groaned and her body trembled violently, but she bit her lip tightly and didn't cry out. She knew that begging for mercy in front of these people was pointless.

That's enough.

Vic threw the cigarette butt on the ground and crushed it out with his toe. "It's pointless."

Tyrone turned and glared at Vic. "What do you mean by 'meaningless'?"

"Torturing a woman is meaningless and pointless."

Vic walked over and stood between Talon and Mia, staring at Talon with a deathly look in his eyes.

"If Leon comes, we'll shoot him and it'll all be over. If he doesn't come, there's no point in killing this policewoman; she's just a clerical worker in the police department, let her go."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the thugs standing guard outside the door. "Instead of wasting time on that, you should do something else. My gut feeling tells me that Lyon won't walk in with his hands raised like in the movies."

Tyrone gritted his teeth, but ultimately took a half step back and went to the side to check on the situation of the outer sentries with Donnie and Benny.

On the other side, Andrei stood at the doorway, holding a Glock pistol, watching the corridor warily.

Mia lowered her head, her abdomen still twitching from the blow Andrei had delivered earlier.

pain.

Her vision was blurred as she stared at her flat shoes, which were covered in mud.

Then she closed her eyes again, and the image of Leon's face, which always carried a nonchalant and mocking tone, involuntarily surfaced in her mind.

That jerk always dumps the most troublesome reports on her, always dangles the promise of a lavish meal in front of her, and before Lyon got two clerical jobs for her, she was working overtime until she was practically in heaven, and this guy even rewarded her with unlimited coffee—the kind of drink reserved for beasts of burden. She eventually realized what had happened and was speechless. But if he really doesn't come this time, then all the overtime she's worked this month will be for nothing, and she hasn't even received her overtime pay or salary yet!

She was too exhausted to complain; the pain in her body and the cold air were slowly draining her strength.

She could only silently and bitterly pray that the man who always managed to physically resolve everything in the worst-case scenario would kick open the factory's iron gate just like he usually did with the ACU office door.

In the shadows behind the boiler tank, rainwater streamed down the wide black roof of the GMC SUV.

Lyon opened the rear door of the GMC, slipped the SR-25 sniper rifle under his arm, and climbed into the cabin. He then closed the door behind him, shutting out most of the sound of the rain outside.

The tactical red lights inside the carriage were dimly lit.

Leon didn't immediately start giving tactical instructions. Instead, he leaned back in his leather seat, his steel-gray eyes staring intently at the chatterbox sitting in the passenger seat through the night vision goggles.

His gaze swept from the chattering man's broad shoulders down to the waist tightened by the tactical vest, and then back to his neck.

The atmosphere in the carriage was eerily quiet for ten seconds.

The gossipy man felt uncomfortable under his gaze, and even his fingers, which were resting on the gun handle, couldn't help but shift their position.

Hey buddy.

He finally couldn't hold back his chatter any longer, and turned his head to look at Leon in the back seat through the headrest.

"Weren't we supposed to be discussing a rescue plan? What's with staring at me like that the moment you got in the car? I'm straight."

Leon ignored his lame joke, his gaze remaining fixed on the gossipy man's face behind the skull mask.

"Does anyone on your bus know how to put on makeup?" Leon suddenly asked.

"ha?"

The gossip paused, thinking he'd misheard. He picked at his ear with his little finger. "What the heck? Makeup?"

"right."

"Are you fucking out of your mind?"

The chatter involuntarily rose in volume.

"I'm a Ranger, he's a SEAL! We're here to kill, not to attend some drag ball in downtown Seattle! Who the hell carries makeup in a car?!"

Before he could finish speaking, the crow in the driver's seat turned its head.

The crow didn't speak, but looked at Lyon and nodded very slightly.

The chattering stopped abruptly, and he turned his head sharply, staring at the crow as if it were a monster.

"Holy crap?" The chatterbox's eyes widened in disbelief, his mouth agape beneath his mask. "You can do makeup?! How the hell would someone who plays with a sniper rifle know how to do makeup?!"

The crow gave him a cold glance.

"Special infiltration, camouflage, and stealth techniques, understand?"

The crow looked at the chatterbox with the disdain one would give an illiterate person.

"If it is necessary to infiltrate enemy-occupied urban areas to carry out indirect operations, changing facial features, skin color, and age characteristics is a basic operation."

"There is always a professional camouflage kit in the trunk of the car."

"Hold----"

The gossipy man slapped his thigh in sudden realization.

"No wonder when I was rummaging through the trunk, I saw a bunch of bottles and jars and things that looked like human skin masks. I thought you had some kind of unusual fetish!"

The crow's eye twitched, as if it were barely suppressing the urge to draw its gun and kill its partner.

He ignored the idiotic chatter and turned to look at Leon in the back row.

"I can do basic facial feature alterations. As long as you don't get within half a meter and shine a bright light on it, you absolutely won't be able to spot it at night or in dim lighting," Raven's tone returned to professional. "But the disguise takes time, at least twenty minutes."

"I have enough time. It took me time to get here from other places, so I don't need to put on a fancy makeover."

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