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

The flashes of light were so bright they made your eyes blurry.

Hayes stood in the middle of the crowd, trying to explain that it was a misunderstanding, a tactical maneuver, or that he was faking it.

But looking at the cameras shoved right in his face, and at the "seriously injured hero" lying in the mud not far away, being protected by that pretty policewoman, he knew he had completely lost.

Explain what a load of crap.

In this damn short video era, the truth doesn't matter, only the visuals matter.

If he stays any longer, tomorrow he won't just be suspended from his duties and reflecting on his actions; he'll be cyberbullied to death.

"No comment! Move aside! Everyone move aside!"

Hayes could only grit his teeth, push aside the microphone blocking his way, and, escorted by the equally disheveled task force members, awkwardly squeeze into the Chevrolet.

Without daring to utter a single harsh word, the convoy sheepishly reversed and quickly disappeared into the end of the rainy night.

With the FBI gone, the remaining officers from the Western Precinct immediately took over the scene.

Although they were completely bewildered, not knowing what kind of epic battle had just taken place, their expressions changed instantly when they saw that the figure being carried onto the stretcher by paramedics was Leon Vance.

"Vans again?"

"No wonder... If it was him, then it's not surprising that he made this commotion."

The veteran patrol officers exchanged a knowing glance, tacitly acknowledging the plausibility of the scene.

In the Seattle Police Department today, the name Leon Vance is basically synonymous with "super troublemaker" plus "super record".

Whenever he's around, there's either an explosion, a gunfight, or he infuriates some big shot.

Several veteran patrol officers who were familiar with Lyon originally wanted to approach him to chat or inquire about what had just happened, but seeing Lyon covered in blood and pale, they hesitated and ultimately just saluted the stretcher and watched him being carried into the ambulance.

At times like these, it's best not to disturb the hero.

Meanwhile, Harrison was pulling the lead patrol sergeant along, telling a story with great enthusiasm.

"Dude, what's going on here? The battlefield in Syria isn't this horrific, is it?" The sergeant asked, frowning as he looked at the corpses scattered all over the ground.

Harrison took out a cigarette, lit it, and took a deep drag. A look of weariness and remorse washed over his dejected face.

"Don't even mention it. Those drug dealers went crazy; they ambushed us with machine guns and sniper rifles."

"We were on the defensive, completely on the defensive. If our leader hadn't taken out the enemy sniper, we might have been wiped out."

"As for those corpses..."

Harrison exhaled a smoke ring and, without batting an eye, began to make up a story.

"The firefight was too intense, grenades were flying everywhere, and many people were blown to pieces. You know, in the chaos, who cares about anything else?"

As for those gold watches and gold teeth that disappeared, and the unlucky guys who got shot in the head?

Harrison didn't mention it at all.

In his story, it was an epic defensive counterattack filled with justice, sacrifice, and brotherhood, leaving the later patrol officers stunned and filled with awe.

……

After the commotion subsided, the rain continued to fall.

As the wounded were taken away and the cleanup of the scene came to an end, a belated sense of heaviness finally spread among the remaining ACU team members.

After Harrison finished telling the story, the excitement on his face faded, and he silently walked to the two corpses by the roadside.

Those were the two brothers who were just killed.

The remaining uninjured team members also gathered around. No one spoke, but one of them silently lit a cigarette and placed it into the corpse's cold hand.

Just moments ago, they were frantically pulling out gold teeth, polishing their watches, and even shoving each other over a wallet.

Now, however, they all had their heads down, their expressions somber.

For them, this is not a contradiction.

The dead no longer need US dollars, but the living do, and the families of the dead need them even more.

"well……"

Harrison sighed and reached out to close the eyes of one of the corpses, which were still slightly open.

"Just finished paying off my car loan... What a jinx."

“Keep their share,” Harrison said in a low, slightly hoarse voice, “double it. Give it directly to the families; the compensation process is too slow.”

"clear."

……

Seattle City Hall, 3 a.m.

Although it was a dark, rainy night outside the window, the entire building was brightly lit, almost blindingly so.

Countless staff members, secretaries, and public relations teams dressed in formal attire scurried about the corridor like headless flies, the sounds of ringing phones, buzzing printers, and anxious shouts creating a chaotic cacophony.

The mayor's office door was tightly shut, but the soundproof oak door couldn't block out the roaring noises coming from inside. It didn't sound like there was any respectable politician inside; it sounded more like someone was having a menopausal episode and their butt was on fire at the same time.

"Clang!"

With a sharp crack, it was probably some unfortunate vase that had been smashed against the wall.

"They've gone mad! These damn assholes have completely lost their minds!"

The current mayor of Seattle, Douglas Reynolds, is a middle-aged, overweight white man whose hairline has receded to the top of his head.

At that moment, he was pointing out the window at the night sky in the north district, where red and blue police lights were still flashing, his fingers trembling as if he had Parkinson's disease:

"That's on the edge of the affluent area, next to Bellevue, where my sugar daddies play golf and walk their purebred poodles!"

"It's not a damn slum, nor is it a garbage dump!"

"Are these damn gangsters' brains filled with shit?!"

"I wouldn't care if they were shooting at each other with rocket launchers in the slums. I could even happily drink coffee and watch the show. After all, bullets are more valuable than human lives there, and it's a good way to clean up the 'garbage population'!"

"But where are we now? Huh? Can anyone tell me where the firefight is going?!"

"They actually set fire to the doorstep of a major taxpayer!"

"Just now, ten minutes ago! Mrs. Vanderbilt's housekeeper called me to say that a stray bullet shattered a pane of glass in her greenhouse, frightening her $20,000 Persian cat!"

"A $20,000 cat! If that cat gets depressed, I'll get depressed too!"

The deputy police chief, standing in front of his desk, hunched over, his uniform soaked with cold sweat.

The chief of staff standing next to him, a thin man wearing glasses who looked shrewd but was also sweating profusely, was trying to shield the mayor's spittle from his tablet.

"Mr. Mayor, calm down, calm down..."

The chief of staff wiped his sweat and cautiously suggested:

"The pressure from public opinion is immense right now; Twitter is in an uproar."

"My suggestion is...we must take a tough stance and wage all-out war!"

"We need to mobilize the National Guard, even request federal intervention. We must break ties with those gangs and destroy them! We need to give the rich people an explanation!"

"Tear your ass apart!"

The mayor abruptly turned his head, staring intently at the chief of staff, his eyes wide as if he were looking at an idiot.

"Simon, are you out of your mind? Or do you think my re-election campaign funds and votes came from nowhere?"

He slumped into the leather boss's chair, clutching his few sparse hairs in anguish.

"Tear off the mask of civility? How?"

"You think those gangsters just sell drugs on the street? They hold the union votes! And those damn 'human rights lawyers'!"

"Do you know how much political donation they launder for me every year through those 'non-profit organizations' and 'community mutual aid societies'?"

"And the votes! Those damn votes from the underprivileged! Who helped me organize and mobilize them in the community? It was those so-called 'community leaders'!"

"If we were to actually deploy the National Guard now and indiscriminately open fire, tomorrow morning, those gang leaders would jump out and say that it was just the individual actions of a few ignorant underlings or temporary workers, that it was a gang fight, not organized crime."

"Then they'll turn around and accuse us of racism, of excessive force, of massacring slum dwellers, and then they'll threaten me behind my back with withholding my money, leaking information, and fighting me to the death."

"What will those rich people think then?"

"They won't be grateful to me. They'll still think I'm incompetent, that I made a big fuss, that I caused more social unrest, and even blame me for their stock price drop."

"Then...then shall we tone it down a bit? Just for show?"

The deputy director tentatively chimed in.

"Screw you!"

The mayor threw another cushion at him:

"Take it easy? Do you want those rich people to devour me alive?"

"If those rich people living in the North District wake up tomorrow morning and find bullet casings on their doorsteps, and realize the police haven't managed to rip the shit out of those thugs, they'll immediately withdraw their investment! Withdraw, understand?!"

"They'll support our rival, that Republican lunatic who's always shouting about law and order!"