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

Lyon crouched down and, using the light from the police lights shining through the door, carefully examined Carlos's injuries.

If I wasn't mistaken during the fierce battle, the bullet did indeed hit his left knee squarely.

The situation is not optimistic.

Lyon's brow furrowed deeply.

In a gunfight, if a bullet only pierces the muscle group of the thigh or causes a penetrating wound to the shoulder, the victim can recover in a month or two and return to the streets to continue their duties, full of energy and vitality.

But the knees are different.

The human knee joint is extremely complex, filled with fragile cartilage, menisci, and ligaments.

Being hit at close range by a high-speed spinning pistol bullet means that Carlos's entire kneecap is most likely completely shattered.

Even if the best orthopedic surgeon in the United States performed the surgery on a gunshot wound of this severity, he would never be able to walk as briskly as before, and would likely become a permanent cripple.

According to Seattle Police Department practice, frontline officers who suffer permanent physical disabilities in the line of duty typically have only two options.

They could either take a modest disability pension and retire early due to illness, leaving the police force to work as a security guard or live on welfare.

Either you get transferred to a clerical position in logistics, sitting in the archives room stamping documents or answering phones in the dispatch center every day, forever losing the opportunity for field allowances and promotion.

For Carlos, a seasoned ACU veteran who's used to seeking thrills and making easy money on the streets, neither outcome is good news.

Just as Leon was plotting how to use Raymond's authority as a logistics manager to get more compensation for Carlos, a noisy commotion broke out outside.

Sergeant Danfoss had already directed his patrol officers to surround the entire motel, with bright yellow police tape stretched everywhere.

"Don't push me! I don't know anything! I swear!"

The hotel owner was dragged out from the front desk by two tall police officers, one on each side.

The fat boss was sweating profusely, wearing a tank top stained with some unknown dirt, clutching a half-eaten donut tightly in his hand, and his expression was completely bewildered.

"Officer! I swear I know nothing!"

The boss was pinned to the hood of the police car, yelling at the top of his lungs:

"That bastard checked into a room three hours ago. He came alone, and I didn't even get a good look at him! Who knew he'd go out and kidnap a kid later?!"

The boss was wronged and indeed did not participate in the kidnapping, but he was by no means innocent either.

These run-down motels on the edge of Fourth Avenue advertise "cash payment, no registration".

No driver's license or social security number is required. As long as you slap crumpled banknotes on the counter, the boss won't even glance at your face.

This place is perennial