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

Chapter 86: The Pledge of Allegiance Has Appeared? (4k)

Lyon took a deep breath, took out his phone, and started searching through his contacts.

He didn't have Reverend Anderson's personal number, but he did have the landline phone number for the community church office.

At times like this, there must be someone on duty at the church that has received countless donations, counting the supplies.

The instant the call was dialed, a blue light flashed across Leon's retina.

[Emergency Side Quest: A Proper Halloween]

[Note: On this damn rainy night, your neighbors are even worse off than the gang next door who pay protection money to the mob.]

As a newly appointed ACU team leader, a Seattle hero, and a respectable member of this building, perhaps you should do something.

[Objective: To solve the immediate food and clothing problems of these people, at least ensuring they can have a decent holiday tonight.]

[Mission Reward: 100 Justice Points]

100 points.

Even if it's just for those 100 points, he's determined to take charge of this matter.

"Beep—Beep—"

The phone rang twice before being answered.

"Hello? This is the office of the Holy Light Community Church. How can I help you?"

A somewhat languid male voice came from the receiver.

"Listen, I'm looking for Pastor Anderson. Give me his private cell phone number."

Lyon, not wanting to waste words, got straight to the point.

The man on the other end of the phone paused noticeably, then let out a contemptuous chuckle: "Sir, I think you've either dialed the wrong number or misunderstood the rules."

"This is the church office, not directory assistance. Pastor Anderson is very busy; we can't just give his private phone number to a stranger like this."

"If you need to schedule a confession or psychological counseling appointment, please call again after 9:00 AM tomorrow. If you are here to donate, please visit our website directly —"

"Shut up."

Lyon coldly interrupted his practiced bureaucratic tone: "I am Lyon Vance, the ACU team leader of the West Precinct."

"Now, immediately, give me that old charlatan Anderson's private number."

"Otherwise, I guarantee that within the next hour, I will bring men to thoroughly search those storage rooms in your church where you hide duty-free cigarettes and alcohol and private accounts."

"You can try it; I'm really angry today."

"Leon Vance?!"

The disdain on the other end of the phone vanished instantly, replaced by a gasp of shock.

Who hasn't heard of Seattle these days?

Even the clerk in the church who answers the phone had just seen on TV the heroic figure who single-handedly took on armed drug dealers and angrily berated FBI agents.

If this kind of mad dog cop, who dares to curse even the FBI, were to actually come to the church to cause trouble because of a phone number, he would definitely lose his job and might even get beaten up.

"Uh—Officer Vance! Sorry, sorry! I didn't recognize your voice!"

The man's speech quickened instantly, tinged with obvious panic: "The pastor's number is 206-555-0198. Did you write it down? Do you need me to repeat it?"

"No."

Lyon wrote down the number and hung up before the other party could continue.

Then, without hesitation, he dialed the number he had just written down.

The phone rang about a dozen times before it was finally answered just as Lyon's patience was about to run out.

"Feed————"

The receiver picked up Pastor Anderson's drawn-out, indistinct voice.

The background noise was somewhat chaotic, but one could vaguely hear soft jazz music, the clinking of wine glasses, and a woman's giggles.

Clearly, this servant of God was enjoying an extremely extravagant Halloween party, a world completely different from the cold, rainy night outside.

"Hallelujah—this is Anderson, may the Lord—hiccup—bless you."

Lyon suppressed his anger and tried to make his voice sound calm: "Pastor Anderson, it's me, your faithful follower. I'm in my apartment building right now."

"It's freezing cold, and it's raining icy rain. I have several children from single-parent families here, and some people who can't even get a hot meal and are about to starve to death."

"Didn't your church just distribute relief this afternoon? Could you send someone over now to bring some food and blankets?"

'

"starve?"

Anderson let out a muffled chuckle on the other end of the phone, as if he thought he had heard something extremely ridiculous: "Oh—poor lost sheep."

He let out a burp, his tone becoming light and airy, as if he hadn't heard who the other person was or cared about what kind of emergency call for help it was.

Under the influence of alcohol, the charlatan's rhetoric he usually used to deceive his followers came out without hesitation: "Is the child hungry? Oh—you should know that suffering is a trial given by God."

"All people are sinners, and suffering is a trial that the Lord sends down to cleanse their souls of impurities, so that they may ascend to heaven after death."

"Hunger? That's just physical torture, meant to purify their souls."

"So if they are hungry, it is because they are not devout enough, or because they are not trying hard enough to seek the Lord's gifts."

"You must teach them to be patient and to be grateful—"

Anderson chuckled vaguely, appearing superior: "As for relief. Haha—the church is a place where the Lord guides lost sheep, not a free fast food restaurant."

"My relief allowance was already used up this afternoon, and I've taken photos. Those who didn't get any can only blame themselves for being too slow."

"Food stamps are discontinued? Then go to work. If they're even remotely attractive, their mothers could sell their bodies on Seattle Avenue; at least they could earn some bread money, right?"

"God will forgive them for their desperation to survive."

"Don't always think about getting something for nothing —"

Click click—

In the corridor, Lyon's knuckles cracked as he gripped his phone too tightly.

His last bit of patience vanished completely, and the veins on his forehead throbbed.

That old bastard.

Is this even human?

The murderous intent in Lyon's eyes was so palpable it seemed to overflow.

"You old charlatan, listen to me carefully."

His voice suddenly turned extremely low, the calm before the storm: "Did you drink horse piss and lose your brain? You can't even recognize my voice anymore?"

"I am Leon Vance."

"That Leon Vance from the industrial area the night before last."

"I'm in your parish right now, right downstairs in my apartment building."

"I'll give you ten minutes."

"Right now, immediately, pull your fat face out of the wine glass and roll in front of me with something edible."

"You can try hanging up on me, or tell me you can't come."

"But I promise you, if you dare say no, I'll call the Seattle Times, Fox News, and every reporter I can reach right now."

"I'll tell them that the highly respected Reverend Anderson suggested that poor single mothers in the community sell themselves for bread!"

"Do you really think that, given my current popularity as a Seattle hero, this news could ruin your reputation and tear you to shreds by angry followers within minutes?"

The background noise on the other end of the phone seemed to disappear instantly.

The deathly silence lasted for three seconds.

Immediately following was a flurry of sounds as tables and chairs overturned and glasses shattered.

"Clang!"

"Wan—Wan Si?!"

Anderson's voice changed instantly, and he sobered up considerably.

Of course he knew what Lyon had been up to lately.

This face has been all over the news these past two days!

He has now become a big shot in Seattle, someone even the mayor has to fawn over!

If it were that old second-level patrol officer, he could have fooled him.

But now, if this guy really gets fired on, he's really finished!

His business, which uses charity as a pretext to amass wealth, will definitely be thoroughly exposed, and he may even face a direct audit by the tax authorities.

And he had no doubt that Leon would dare to do such a thing; this madman would even wipe out a drug cartel!

"No! Don't be impulsive, Officer Vance! Just now—just now I was drunk, the devil controlled my tongue, please don't call the reporters!"

Anderson's voice trembled: "God, how can I abandon those poor children? We must help them! We have to help them!"

"Bring enough supplies, so I don't have to tell you again."

"Smack."

Lyon hung up the phone immediately.

After hanging up the phone, Lyon put it back in his pocket and let out a long sigh of relief.

I was disgusted by that old charlatan. When he comes, I'll teach him a lesson he won't forget.

He turned around and looked at the several people in the corridor with different expressions.

"Alright, stop standing there."

Leon clapped his hands, drawing everyone's attention: "The food will be here soon. Not one of those moldy breads, but hot pizza, hot soup, or something else decent."

He looked at the two children still carrying empty pumpkin buckets, and Tommy and Jimmy: "You guys, stop standing here like idiots. Go and call out to the other hungry neighbors in the building. Especially those with children, tell them to come downstairs."

"There will be hot pizza and hot soup downstairs in twenty minutes, all you can eat. I'm telling you now, no fighting, everyone gets some."

When the children heard there was food, their previously dim eyes lit up instantly, a sight that made Leon's heart ache a little.

They cheered and, no longer feeling the cold, took off running up and down the stairs to knock on doors and spread the word.

After settling the children in, Leon looked at the Mexican deliveryman who was still carrying a tattered paper bag and looked conflicted.

"Don't leave either."

Lyon saw through his thoughts and waved his hand: "Señor (Sir) — I still have to go collect my bills —"

Old Mo hesitated, after all, every minute cost money.

"Run my ass."

Lyon pointed to the torrential rain outside the window: "In this kind of weather, even if you run yourself ragged, you won't earn much money. You might even catch a cold and lose all your savings."

"Stay here. When that old charlatan comes, go and get one too, eat your fill before you leave. And if there are any left, remember to take a couple more home for your daughter. That old guy will definitely bring a lot of indulgences with him, so why not take them?"

"Is this... really okay?"

The Mexican man's eyes widened, and he bowed deeply, tears streaming down his face. "Gracias! Thank you so much, sir! My wife and I are just wondering what to have for dinner tonight!"

Having arranged everything, Lyon's gaze finally fell on the white homeless man sitting on the ground.

Upon seeing this, Lyon's eyebrows twitched involuntarily.

In the few minutes he was on the phone, the pile of fried chicken scattered on the ground, except for a few bones, had been devoured by this guy in a whirlwind.

He even picked up the fries that had fallen on the ground and stuffed them into his mouth.

At this moment, the man was leaning against the wall, holding the only remaining half of a bisky bread in his hand. He was burping and still trying to stuff it into his mouth, choking until his eyes rolled back.

"Your appetite—it's unbelievable."

Lyon shook his head as he looked at his miserable state.

He walked over and nudged the homeless man's toe: "You don't seem like a drug addict to me; you're fairly articulate."

"How did you end up like this? What did you do before?"

The homeless man swallowed the last bite of bread with difficulty, wiped his mouth with his dirty sleeve, and looked away, seemingly ashamed to speak.

But after hesitating for a moment, he muttered under his breath, "Engineer."

"engineer?"

Leon raised an eyebrow; that was a very broad range. "What kind of engineer? A plumber or a car mechanic?"

"Not that kind of thing—"

The homeless man gave a bitter laugh, a hint of melancholy in his eyes: "I work with inertial navigation systems. My main responsibilities are the accuracy calibration and attitude algorithm correction of the ring laser gyroscope."

"I previously worked at a level 2 outsourced laboratory at Raytheon."

"Simply put, it's like creating an inner ear for cruise missiles or military drones. It allows them to know their location and direction even without a GPS signal, with an error margin of less than a meter."

The air fell silent for two seconds.

Lyon had only asked casually, but when he heard this, he was completely stunned.

Holy crap?

What kind of high-end talent is this?

Inertial guidance? Military-grade gyroscope? I don't quite understand any of this myself.

Technology is a valuable commodity, especially in fields involving military industry and advanced weaponry. A skilled calibration engineer is more precious than gold.

This kind of person actually steals fried chicken from the floor in the hallway of an apartment building in Seattle?

"So how did you end up in this state?"

Lyon couldn't help but ask, "This kind of technology should be in high demand in the industry."

"What else can we do?"

The homeless man, or rather the former engineer, carefully stuffed the chicken bones—whose purpose he didn't know—into his pocket, and said, "The lab project was canceled, supposedly to make way for some more advanced AI-assisted aiming system."

"I was laid off."

"Then my daughter got sick, leukemia. Although we have medical insurance, it doesn't cover those incredibly expensive targeted therapies at all."

"I sold the house and spent all my savings, but I still couldn't keep her. My wife left me."

"I want to find a new job, but I signed a non-compete agreement and can't work for a similar company. Work at a fast food restaurant? They think I'm not as quick and efficient as Mexicans."

"It's that simple, I'm just a useless person now."

He spoke calmly, as if he were telling someone else's story, but the feeling of despair chilled the air in the corridor.

Lyon looked at the man, his gaze gradually deepening.

Is he a useless person?

No.

In Lyon's eyes, the smelly guy in front of him was practically glowing.

This is the pledge of loyalty he's been searching for!

Although he himself has a system and is capable of fighting and killing, in the context of great power competition, the value of a super soldier is far less than that of an engineer who can improve the accuracy of missiles.

Although the technology isn't his own, what if he could establish a channel?

An underground passage specifically designed to collect highly skilled talents who have been abandoned by capital in the United States and have nowhere else to turn, and then transport them to the East.

This in itself is enough to earn him the highest honors!

Moreover, there are far too many people like this in the United States.

"That's interesting—"

Leon quickly considered the situation in his mind and forcibly suppressed the urge to immediately pull this person aside for a detailed chat.

Now is not the time, and this is not the place to talk.

"What's your name?"

"Leon asked."

"Old Bill—that's what my former colleagues called me."

"Okay, old Bill. You stay here and don't wander off. Eat plenty of pizza when it arrives."

Lyon gave him a meaningful look: "Maybe I can find you a place where you don't have to sleep on the streets and can still contribute your remaining energy."

After saying that, he didn't explain further and turned to walk into the stairwell.

"I need to go downstairs to meet that distinguished pastor first."