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

Trey knelt on the slippery tiles, looking up at Lyon's expressionless face.

The deathly silence in the corridor gave him a strange feeling.

Officer Vance didn't fire immediately; he must have been weighing the pros and cons!

My intelligence network and my identity are absolutely invaluable assets to a corrupt cop who wants to establish order in the West District!

Trey's face was contorted with fear, his muscles twitching uncontrollably, and only one frantically beating thought remained in his mind.

"Hehe, I must survive."

However, his mouth, which was slightly open with excitement, froze the next second.

"Click".

Leon raised his gun, pointing the barrel of his CQBR rifle at Trey's forehead.

The ecstasy on Trey's face froze instantly.

He began to tremble uncontrollably, tears and snot streaming down his face, his teeth chattering and making a soft "clucking" sound.

"You think I don't know who you are?"

Lyon's voice was low, but it was jarringly clear in the cramped bathroom.

"You're not a police informant at all. You're just a piece of trash who's served countless masters."

Trey's pupils dilated suddenly, and the whites of his eyes became bloodshot from extreme fear.

How did he know?!

Lyon leaned down slightly, his eyes filled with undisguised disgust.

"waste."

"I knew about that mad dog named Lamar outside when I became the ACU team leader and started reviewing case files."

"He was a scumbag, a drug dealer, but I killed him right in front of me during a shootout."

Lyon raised the barrel of his gun twice, signaling him to look up.

"And that guy named Darrell. He was shot twice, half his body was soaked in blood, but he didn't say a single word of begging to me before he died."

"They're all damn scum, but it's precisely this kind of death that befits their status as gang leaders."

Leon looked at Trey's eyes, which were glazed over with fear, and a mocking sneer curled at the corner of his mouth.

"And you? Who do you think you are? Someone like you dares to dream of becoming the boss?"

"You've been in the Bloods for so long, and Marcus values ​​you highly. Haven't you ever received any favors from him?"

"Gangs are truly disgusting."

Lyon's index finger rested on the trigger.

"But a piece of trash like you, who goes around claiming fathers and betraying his own people, is a million times more disgusting than a gangster."

Trey opened his mouth wide. He wanted to explain, to say that he was an undercover agent for the Mexicans, to say that he had even bigger bargaining chips in his hand.

"Bang."

Lyon didn't give him a chance to utter a single syllable.

The 5.56mm bullet instantly pierced Trey's skull, blasting a horrific bloody hole in the back of his head along with the tiled wall behind him.

Trey's body jerked backward, then collapsed onto the toilet, completely dead.

Leon stared coldly at the corpse on the ground and expertly crouched down.

He rummaged in the pocket of Trey's large suit and pulled out a cell phone with a black waterproof case.

He doesn't have time to decipher this thing right now, but there are definitely clues about the Sinaloa Group or other forces connected to it.

Lyon casually stuffed his phone into his jacket pocket.

Just as he zipped up his pocket, he heard hurried footsteps outside the bathroom.

Chloe, Simon, and Ward, guns at the ready, rushed to the bathroom door in battle formation.

Hearing a single gunshot coming from the end of the corridor, they immediately abandoned the search of the other private rooms and rushed to provide support.

Lyon stood up and turned to look at the three people who had arrived.

He had already put his phone away, and his expression remained normal.

"Sir! How is the situation?"

Ward glanced at Trey lying in a pool of blood, his gun still in a wary stance.

Leon casually kicked Trey's corpse, his tone indifferent.

"It's nothing serious. We caught a gangster hiding in a cubicle."

"This guy was hiding something and was trying to attack me, so I just shot him."

The three glanced at Trey's ridiculous attire and death, but had no suspicions.

In this adrenaline-pumping sweep, it's perfectly normal to kill a gangster who makes a threatening move.

"What's the situation on your end?" Leon didn't linger on that topic and went straight to the point.

"All confirmed, there are no survivors on the second floor."

Simon smiled gently. "A very thorough clearing."

"very good."

Lyon nodded in satisfaction, his gaze sweeping across the corridor outside the restroom.

"Our work is finished."

He slung the rifle he was holding behind his back.

"Let's call it a day. Leave this mess of corpses to the regular patrol officers on the outskirts to clean up."

"yes!"

The three responded in unison and quickly put away their weapons.

Lyon, accompanied by three elite members of the special operations team, strode out of the blown-up back door of the Pink Swan Club, stepping over the mess on the ground, and disappeared back into the rainy night outside.

The rain continued unabated, the cold water lashing against their civilian clothes stained with gunpowder and blood.

……

Heavy rain was pouring down on the main road of the Eighth Street.

The patrol officers from the West District Police Station had already set up layers upon layers of yellow and black striped police tape.

A dozen or so black and white Ford Explorers and Crown Victoria police cars were haphazardly blocking the intersection, their red and blue flashing lights illuminating the puddles in a dazzling display.

Outside the cordon, reporters from various media outlets had completely surrounded the area, their glaring flashes going off wildly in the rain.

Inspector Bradley stood beside the hood of a patrol car, holding a long black umbrella in one hand and gripping a walkie-talkie tightly in the other.

This middle-level bureaucrat in his forties, with a receding hairline and a large belly, is on the verge of a mental breakdown.

His original plan for tonight was simply to sit in his warm office, drink coffee, wait for the end of the workday, or even earlier, and then clock out and go home.

"Everyone, step back! Keep your distance!"

"I assure you! There was absolutely no bloody massacre inside; it was just a normal security incident! The police have the situation completely under control!"

Bradley roared furiously at the reporters outside the police line, who were practically shoving microphones into his nostrils, cold sweat mingling with the rain streaming down his forehead.

The instant he shouted those words.

Read the full text of Chapter 189, "I Suffered Severe Psychological Trauma" (4k), for free. Link:

Leon, gun in hand, led Chloe, Simon, and Ward out of the shadows, stepping over shards of glass and spent shell casings.

The four of them reeked of gunpowder, their tactical vests and casual jackets stained with dark red blood and grime, as if they had just crawled out of Iraqi trenches.

The flashbulbs instantly focused on them like crazy, and Bradley's earlier assurances were immediately proven wrong.

Bradley felt a wave of dizziness, but he still gritted his teeth and went to meet it.

"Commander Vance! My God, what's going on in there?"

Bradley swallowed nervously, his voice trembling.

"How is the situation? Should I call in negotiation experts? Or do we need to send in a few ambulances to rescue the wounded? How many detention buses are needed?"

Leon stopped, slung his CQBR rifle behind his back, and slowly removed his blood-soaked tactical gloves.

"The negotiation experts can go home and sleep."

Leon shook the rain and blood off his hands.

"Ambulances and detention vehicles are also unnecessary."

"You should call the municipal morgue or the nearby meat processing plant right now and ask them to send two... no, to be conservative, three refrigerated vans to come and pick up the meat."

Bradley's hand holding the umbrella trembled violently, causing the umbrella to tilt and the icy rain to pour directly onto his balding head.

His mind went completely blank for a few seconds, then he stammered:

"Three...three refrigerated trucks? Does that mean...not a single survivor was left inside?"

"I'm sorry, yes."

Lyon shrugged as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Those gangsters were all on drugs, extremely agitated, and resisted fiercely."

"To ensure the personal safety of our officers, we were forced to empty the magazines."

Lyon glanced at the club's main gate behind him.

"I think it's quieter inside now than St. Mary's Cemetery."

Looking at Bradley's pale face, Leon thought for a moment and then offered words of comfort:

"Think about it from a different perspective, Inspector."

Lyon patted Bradley's stiff shoulder.

"Without survivors, there will be no complicated medical bills, and taxpayers' money won't be spent on bail hearings."

"ACU has always pursued environmental protection and high efficiency in its work."

Bradley opened his mouth wide, not even noticing the rain pouring into it.

A deathly silence fell between them.

After a few seconds, Leon suddenly chuckled softly.

"Just kidding, Inspector. Don't be so tense."

Bradley had just breathed a sigh of relief, thinking there was still a chance for things to turn around, when in fact there were still people breathing inside.

Even if everyone inside is turned into mincemeat, you still have to go through the ambulance procedure.

Leon clapped his hands. "Otherwise, there will be problems with the report. We still need to call an ambulance, just treat it as a hearse."

Bradley was completely out of control.

In despair, he threw away his umbrella, clutched his balding head with both hands, and groaned in pain.

"God...so many people have died...how am I supposed to write tomorrow's report? Those politicians at city hall will skin us alive!"

Just as Bradley was about to pluck out the few hairs he had left, the defensive line outside the security perimeter was finally breached.

Several sharp-eyed reporters squeezed through the police cordon and shoved microphones bearing the channel logo right in front of Lyon's face.

"Officer Vance! This is Seattle News!"

A young male reporter wearing black-rimmed glasses, looking excited, loudly questioned:

Lyon tilted his head slightly and looked the reporter up and down with an expression as if he were looking at an idiot.

He cleared his throat and put on a somber and serious expression.

"I suspect there was a tragic internal gang fight that took place inside."

Lyon spoke slowly, clearly, and with an uncertain, speculative tone.

"It's possible that they had already riddled each other with bullets before we even got in. When we arrived, it seems we were mainly helping to pick up the spent shell casings on the ground."

Lyon straightened his collar in front of the camera.

"Don't worry, I've already spoken on the scene on behalf of the Seattle Police Department and strongly condemned this gang violence."

Another female reporter nearby was clearly not satisfied with this perfunctory answer. Pointing to the bloodstains on Lyon's jacket, she pressed for an answer:

"Then why do you have so much blood and smell so much gunpowder on you?"

"This one?"

Lyon glanced down at the blood on his body without changing his expression.

"It's possible that the sewers inside suddenly exploded, and before we knew it, this unidentified red liquid sprayed all over us."

"It could be for other reasons, I don't know."

"I just witnessed an extremely brutal gang fight and I'm currently in a state of severe psychological stress, so my memory is very hazy."

"As for the smell of gunpowder you mentioned..."

Leon wrinkled his nose and made a disgusted expression.

"Personally, I think it's probably because the air quality in Seattle has been really bad lately."

"I strongly suggest you visit the Environmental Protection Administration or the Environmental Protection Bureau tomorrow and ask them what's going on with this damn smog."

This utterly perfunctory and nonsensical speech silenced the reporters who were trying to create a big story.

They stood there blankly, holding the microphone, unsure of what to say next.

Lyon couldn't be bothered with these idiots anymore, and he had no desire to stay and watch Bradley's breakdown.

"The rest of the cleaning work is up to you, Inspector. We've suffered severe psychological trauma and need immediate medical attention."

He walked right past the frantic Bradley and turned to wave at Chloe and the others.

"Get in the car. Tonight's overtime is over."

Lyon opened the driver's side door of the Ford Explorer that had been parked there and got in.

"Bang!"

The car doors slammed shut.

The engine emitted a deep, rumbling sound.

Lyon stepped on the gas, and the car sped through the puddle, splashing water half a meter high, before driving away from the noisy neighborhood.

Only Inspector Bradley remained standing in the rain, bewildered in the cold wind, facing the group of reporters who were about to go berserk, and behind him, the club filled with dozens of corpses.

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