Taoist priest goes to America

Chapter 122 Tragedy

When the taxi stopped at the park entrance, veteran Boone hadn't even stopped completely before he immediately opened the door, quickly stood up, and helped Ang Lee out of the car before anxiously looking towards the park.

Looking towards the park's woods, through the sparse canopy of sycamore trees, one can see large swathes of rotating police lights, their red and blue lights flashing alternately, illuminating the entire grove.

Yellow caution tape cut through the tree trunks, enclosing the tent camp where he had lived for several years, dividing the area into two parts:

Outside the perimeter were onlookers craning their necks to see what was happening and reporters holding up their phones; inside the perimeter were uniformed police officers and forensic doctors in white coats.

Police officers and forensic doctors moved back and forth inside and outside the cordon, their walkie-talkies buzzing in the night wind like a swarm of flies.

Veteran Boone's anxious steps stopped outside the cordon, staring blankly in the direction of his tent.

The tent's canvas door was lifted, revealing a bright, white on-site investigation light that projected the shadows of several bent-over figures onto the canvas.

He suddenly realized something—the posture of bending over and checking something, the angle—Boone's expression changed in an instant.

Veteran Boone strode forward and charged toward the tent, splashing mud and water from the grass all over his trousers, but he didn't care at all.

A Black police officer reached out his arm and stopped him.

The policeman was very strong; his arms were almost as thick as the veteran's legs. His uniform sleeves were stretched taut by his muscles. He easily placed one hand on the veteran's chest, stopping Boone outside the police line.

"Hey, hey! What are you doing? Back off, back off! This is a crime scene, no strangers allowed." The black police officer's voice was deep and impatient.

"What happened? My friend is still inside! He lives in that tent—the green one, the one by the tree!"

"Let me in to see him!"

Veteran Boone's voice trembled as he tried to walk around the policeman, but the arm remained as still as an iron railing.

Boone could only peer out from the tent on tiptoe and see more white coats swaying behind the canvas, and a blood-stained arm that had been raised.

"Please accept my condolences," the Black police officer said coldly. "Your friend encountered a deranged killer and is dead."

Veteran Boone froze, his grip on the black policeman's arm gradually loosening.

The Black police officer was still saying platitudes like "We will investigate" and "Please cooperate with the police," but Boone could no longer hear them.

Only one thought remained in his mind: dead. Dead? This morning he had shared a cup of cereal with that old geezer, and the sickly old man was even fantasizing about going to church for charity tomorrow.

That was the last time they spoke? Was leaving him meant goodbye forever? No! That couldn't be!

Boone began to struggle frantically, trying to crawl under the black police officer's arm, tear open the yellow police tape, and rush into the tent to get to the bottom of things.

"Let me in! Let me see him! He's still waiting for me to bring back the medicine."

The black policeman didn't move aside; he reached out with another hand, and both of his strong hands pressed down on Boone's shoulders at the same time, this time with even more force, pushing the veteran back a step.

"I said, no unauthorized personnel allowed! The scene must be kept intact; the forensic team is collecting evidence. No one is permitted to enter! If you cause any more trouble, I will arrest you for obstructing official business!"

The black police officer pointed his finger at Boone's nose and said menacingly.

"I'm a veteran!" Boone's voice suddenly rose, and a surge of anger that had been suppressed for years finally found an outlet.

"I've shed blood and done my part for this country! I just want to see my friends! Get out of my way!"

Veteran Boone pulled out a badge he had carried with him for decades from his pocket. The old badge was worn and tattered, and the brass inside the gold-plated casing was showing through the sweat.

The black police officer stopped shoving him, his gaze falling on Boone's old badge, the number on the epaulettes faded, and a worn-out medal ribbon pinned to it.

"What war are you a veteran of?" The black police officer asked with a solemn respect, his tone filled with caution and reverence.

"Yue War! I'm a veteran of the Yue War! The 1st Infantry Division! Now let me in!" Boone practically roared.

The black policeman's face immediately turned cold, and all respect vanished in an instant. His mouth even turned down, and his attitude became contemptuous. In this country, being a war veteran has never been a symbol of honor, especially for black people.

The proportion of Black people drafted as cannon fodder in that war was far higher than that of white people, and very few Black veterans received full retirement benefits after returning home.

This old white man in front of me is standing here claiming to be a veteran of the Yue War, and I'm asking him to make an exception for me? Someone who has enjoyed privileges that others haven't is now demanding even more.

"So what if you're a veteran of the Yue war?" The black policeman raised his arm again to stop Boone. "Rules are rules, and they weren't made today."

""

"If you don't back down, I'll call my colleagues to handcuff you."

The way he looked at Boone had changed. Just moments ago, there was a hint of businesslike restraint, but now it was replaced by a condescending contempt, as if he were looking at a dirty vagrant.

Boone saw that look in his eyes. He knew that look all too well. In the years since he returned from the battlefield, he had seen that look on the faces of countless of his compatriots.

"Phew—" Veteran Boone raised his head, exhaled, and stopped walking.

Boone straightened his back and stared directly into the black policeman, who was half a head taller than him, with his cloudy old eyes, his body no longer trembling.

Boone clenched his battered right hand tightly, the bones making a crisp cracking sound. Then, he twisted his waist and hips, his right fist flying upwards from his waist, delivering a precise uppercut to the black policeman's throat.

That was the same fist that had killed Yue Gong in the jungle when he was young; the force of the punch went deep into his throat, reaching his Adam's apple.

The black police officer let out a violent retching sound, instinctively covered his throat with both hands, his eyes bulged out, and he bent over, lowering the hand that had been covering Boone's chest.

The veteran didn't give him a second glance. He bent down, crawled under the cordon, and ran quickly toward his tent.

The other police officers inside the cordon reacted immediately. Several uniformed officers surrounded Boone at the same time, and someone drew a Taser, with the red laser sight moving back and forth on his back.

"Stop! Don't move! We'll shoot if you run again!"

""

Boone didn't stop; he didn't even glance back at the laser sights, focusing only on running towards the tent.

"Look! The police are about to use excessive force against an elderly person!"

""

That shout was like a stone thrown into a beehive; the crowd immediately stirred. Passersby who had been standing at a distance watching the commotion all pulled out their phones, pointing their cameras at the police officers holding Tasers.

Several reporters carrying cameras also smelled the news and ran towards the location from all directions at the same time.

A young man holding a phone and live-streaming even rushed into the police cordon and pressed the camera against the faces of the police officers chasing Boone.

"Stop filming! No filming allowed!" A policeman reached out to block the camera.