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

Twelfth Avenue, Psychedelic Cats nightclub.

The pink and purple neon sign shimmered with an ambiguous halo in the night after the rain, and the puddles at the entrance reflected bizarre and colorful images.

Even through the thick soundproof walls, you can still feel the dull vibration from the subwoofer.

Several SUVs without any police markings braked abruptly at the street corner.

The car doors opened simultaneously, and a dozen or so ACU team members, dressed in plainclothes and exuding a menacing aura, filed out.

"Walk."

Leon straightened his tie, didn't touch the gun at his waist, put his hands in his pockets, and swaggered towards the nightclub with his group of ruthless thugs who looked like they had just escaped from prison.

At the main entrance of the nightclub, two security guards stood guard.

These two people clearly aren't employees of any legitimate security company.

The man on the left is a Samoan Asian strongman who is nearly 2.1 meters tall. His nickname is Hammer. His right hand is always in his pocket, where he is most likely holding a brass knuckles or a switchblade.

He was wearing a tight black suit that looked like it might burst at any moment, and his neck was covered with dense gang tattoos. It was said that he had killed someone in an underground boxing ring and served several years in jail. After his release, he was recruited by the 12th Street Boys to work as a bouncer.

The one on the right, slightly thinner, is a white man named Slack, with a black teardrop tattooed at the corner of his eye.

He's a seasoned street thug, usually dealing with troublesome customers or drunkards. He's the type who's ruthless but still quite clever.

At that moment, Slack was smoking a cigarette, idly watching the street scene.

Looking up, I saw a dozen or so muscular men in plainclothes with fierce eyes surrounding me.

Slack's mind went blank for a moment.

This group of people didn't bring any female companions, and the way they walked and the aggressive manner they exuded didn't seem like they were there to have fun.

It looked more like some gang from the next block had come to cause trouble.

Hey, stop right there.

Slack immediately threw away his cigarette butt and, together with Hammer, took a step to the side, blocking the center of the door like two walls.

Slack sized up the group, his gaze finally settling on Leon, the leader, his tone carrying a clear warning and probing:

"Friends, it seems you've come to the wrong place."

"Don't you know the rules? This is a private club. Do you have a membership card? Or who referred you?"

Iron Hammer also pulled his hand halfway out of his pocket, revealing gleaming brass knuckles on his knuckles, and added with a cold smile:

"Judging from your poor appearance, you probably can't afford it. You'd better get lost and not cause yourselves any trouble."

The bulldozer behind Lyon was already seething with anger, and Carlos had just been shot in the knee. He had been plotting how to demolish the store the whole time in the car.

Seeing that two watchdogs dared to block his way, he snorted coldly and clenched his fists, ready to charge forward.

"I'll send you a referral!"

The bulldozer muttered a curse in a low voice and made a move to go up and start working.

"What's the rush?"

Leon didn't even turn his head; he simply raised his left hand and made a gesture.

The bulldozer came to an abrupt halt, reluctantly taking a half-step back, but its eyes remained fixed on the sledgehammer opposite it.

Leon didn't respond to Slack's comment at all.

He slowly took his phone out of his pocket and glanced at the screen.

Raymond, that fat guy, is indeed incredibly efficient.

A "Joint Inspection Order for Emergency Firefighting and Liquor Licenses" bearing the seal of the Western District Fire Department had just been sitting neatly in his mailbox.

Lyon opened the file and then flipped his phone screen over.

At the same time, he pulled the silver police badge from his waist with his right hand.

"Smack."

The phone screen and the police badge were slapped almost simultaneously in front of Slack's nose, so close that Slack could even feel the slight heat emanating from the screen.

Seattle West Precinct, ACU.

"We received a tip from a concerned citizen that there are serious fire hazards here and that you are illegally selling homemade alcoholic beverages. We are now going in to conduct a surprise safety inspection."

He narrowed his eyes slightly, looking at Slack's face, which froze instantly:

"What? Are you trying to obstruct official business and prevent us from entering?"

Slack was completely stunned by the sudden appearance of the police badge.

He glanced down at the reflective police badge, then at the official search warrant with the branch office's electronic signature on Lyon's phone screen. His previously arrogant expression instantly changed like a chameleon, first turning deathly pale, then ashen.

A cop?!

Where the hell did this bunch of cops come from?! Plainclothes special agents?!

This is against the rules!

As the core business of the 12th Street Boys Club, this nightclub pays a considerable sum of money each month to certain corrupt officials and high-ranking members of the police department.

According to past practices, whether it's a crackdown on prostitution, drug trafficking, or even a disgusting surprise fire inspection, the police station's informants would tip off their bosses at least two hours in advance, instructing them to remove any powders, underage girls, or wanted criminals that shouldn't be on the table through the back door.