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

Chapter 94 The young man is still too young

"No problem, sir."

Faced with Barnes's threat that practically spit in his face, Leon didn't even blink.

He simply took his hand out of his pocket, waved it casually, and spoke in a relaxed tone.

"That's settled then, Coach Barnes. If I come in first, I hope your pen has enough ink."

"Hmph, get back to the team!"

Barnes glared at Leon, as if looking at this arrogant and ignorant guy for even a second longer would give him a sty.

Lyon shrugged, not caring, and strolled back to the end of the line.

Meanwhile, in the back of the line, the two whispering guys huddled together again.

"Is this kid crazy?"

Johnny stared intently at Leon's nonchalant attitude, his teeth grinding together. He lowered his voice and muttered to the seasoned veteran Jack beside him, "First place? What does he take our exam for? Air gun shooting at an amusement park?"

"I'll see how he dies in a minute. Someone who hasn't even memorized the wind speed correction table, trying to hit a target 300 yards away?"

Keep dreaming.

"He's just a patrolman who got promoted by luck, what makes him think he can be superior to us?"

Listening to this indignant speech, the seasoned veteran Jack also outwardly agreed with "You're right," "This is outrageous," and "We have to teach him a lesson."

But actually, the old man was laughing so hard his belly almost burst open.

"Yeah, that's outrageous, Johnny."

"Pfft—cough cough."

Jack coughed twice to hide the smile on his face, but inwardly he was cursing wildly:

Young people are indeed too young.

Although I don't know the specifics of what happened in the industrial park the day before yesterday, I should at least kill someone with my own hands before challenging them.

Johnny and his gang want to compete with Leon?

Hey, that scene is going to be pretty exciting, most likely they'll get completely thrashed.

However—

Jack's eyes darted around; this was incredibly good news for him.

As long as Johnny and his group of proud and arrogant top students fight to the death with Leon, Instructor Barnes' attention will definitely be entirely on them.

At that time, who will still care about this old comrade who just wants to barely pass and get some subsidies?

Jack casually touched the inside pocket of his tactical vest.

There's a small laser rangefinder patch hidden there. We'll stick it on the handguard while things are in disarray, and then we can cheat during the distance estimation.

Then there's the pressure shooting segment, where you have to fire while your heart rate is soaring.

As long as you act well while running laps, pretending to be very tired but actually controlling your breathing rhythm, and as long as your heart rate doesn't rise, your hands won't shake, and your result will naturally be a sure thing.

As for the moving target?

As long as no one is watching, he can make predictions by observing the patterns of the target drones in advance, instead of foolishly tracking them.

This is the survival wisdom of a seasoned veteran!

Thinking of this, Jack's expression became even more sincere. He nudged Johnny with his elbow, adding fuel to the fire again: "Johnny, I don't know if you can tolerate this, but if it were me, I couldn't."

"You're number one in our batch. If you're surpassed by a transfer student, what will happen to your future at SWAT?"

How can we survive like this?

"You'd better show him what real skills are during the live-fire exercise later, so he can see what professionalism is."

"It would be best to beat him so badly he wouldn't know which way is which, and make him cry as he goes back to the mayor to complain."

"Watch me."

Johnny was spurred on by those words, clenching his fists and his eyes filled with fighting spirit: "I'll show him that this isn't a place for him to put on a show."

Jack looked at Johnny's energized expression and nodded in satisfaction, but in his heart he was thinking:

Fight! Fight! The more intense the better! I want to see rivers of blood!

That way, I can peacefully fish in the gutter and get through the ordeal.

Just then.

Instructor Barnes returned to the front of the line.

Holding the tactical tablet, his gaze swept across everyone present like lightning. Finally, he cleared his throat and roared, "Shut your mouths! Listen up, you pig ears!"

"Next, I will announce the assessment content for this afternoon!"

"Listen carefully, I'll only say it once."

"The maximum score for this marksman qualification exam is 100 points. But the passing score is 90 points."

"A score below 90 is a failing grade. So don't expect me to give you even 0.1 points out of pity."

Barnes held up three fingers: "The assessment is divided into three stages."

"Phase 1: Range estimation and target identification. You will need to determine the distance to the target and achieve a first-shot hit within a specified time, relying solely on your naked eye and the scope's reticle, without the aid of a laser rangefinder."

T

"One second overtime, deduct 1 point; first shot miss, deduct 10 points."

"Phase Two: Pressure Shooting. This is no longer about you lying comfortably on a mat and shooting at targets."

"First, go run two laps around the track, then do twenty burpees. You need to start multiple rounds of shooting as soon as your heart rate spikes to over 140."

"Only scores are calculated for Zone A (the lethal zone) and Zone B (the core of the torso). A hit to Zone C (limbs and edges) halves the score. A miss results in a 5-point deduction!"

"Phase Three: Moving Targets. This is the main event. The targets will move irregularly horizontally or vertically, with simulated bunkers and hostages in the middle. Missing the target deducts 5 points. However, if your bullets hit a target that shouldn't be hit—"

Barnes sneered, his eyes turning extremely dangerous: "That's hitting a hostage. 100 points deducted. If it happens even once, you can pack your bags and get out of here."

After hearing these ridiculously harsh rules, the trainees below turned pale. Even Johnny, who had been eager to test his skills against Leon, unconsciously swallowed hard.

"Dismissed! Five minutes to prepare. Go get your weapons!"

At Barnes's command, the trainees immediately dispersed and ran to the equipment lockers in the rest area, carefully taking out the gun cases they had brought.

This is also a unique reality within the American police force.

Although the police department provides standard-issue rifles, due to years of insufficient funding and lack of maintenance, the condition of these rifles is usually appalling.

Severe rifling wear, a trigger that's stiff like cracking a brick, and inaccurate zeroing of the scope are all common occurrences.

For someone aiming to pass such a high-precision test, using a standard-issue pistol is practically suicide.

Therefore, most SWAT reservists or veteran patrol officers with a bit of ambition will pay out of their own pockets to buy and modify their own beloved guns.

Possessing your own weapons is permitted as long as it complies with the police department's guidelines and specifications and has been reported.

At this moment, the rest area was filled with the click of gun cases being opened and the crisp sound of bolts being pulled back, as everyone was wiping their precious guns as if they were caressing a lover.

Only Leon was empty-handed.

His M24 is still going through the process of being cleared out by Raymond; he won't be able to get it for another two days.

Leon shrugged. He had no choice but to turn and walk towards the metal rack in the corner with the sign for training guns.

The Remington 700 rifles above look like they were dug out of the ruins of World War II.

The varnish on the stock of the gun was worn off, and one of the scopes even had an oily fingerprint left by someone on the eyepiece.

Just as Leon reached out to grab a rifle that looked slightly less bad...

"stop."

A cold, hard voice sounded behind him.

Leon turned around and saw Barnes standing behind him with a frown, holding a black hard gun case.

"What's wrong? Instructor?"

Lyon raised an eyebrow. "Worried I'll break these old things? Don't worry, I'll handle them with care."

"I'm afraid these old relics will ruin your reputation, and then you'll go to the mayor and complain that I didn't give you a good gun."

Barnes snorted coldly, his face full of disdain.

He glanced at the pile of scrap metal on the shelf, his eyes filled with disdain: "This junk is for new recruits to practice their shooting stances; the rifling is practically worn down. Using this to test marksmanship?"

"Unless you can make the bullet turn in mid-air."

As he spoke, Barnes slammed the black gun case in his hand onto the table next to him.

"Smack."

Use this.

Barnes opened the case, inside which lay a well-maintained Remington 700PSS police sniper rifle, its barrel gleaming black, and fitted with an expensive-looking Leupold scope.

"This is my spare gun."

Barnes looked at Lyon, his tone still stiff, but his eyes were frank: "While I don't like people like you who get in through connections, I also disdain to trip you up with equipment."

"If you're going to win, win in a way that leaves me speechless. If you're going to leave, it's because your skills are lacking, not because your gun is bad."

"Don't make it dirty. Give it back to me after the assessment."

Leon looked at the serious-looking old instructor with some surprise, and then at the well-maintained gun that was clearly privately kept.

interesting.

Although this guy has a sharp tongue and a rigid personality, he is indeed a person of principle.

This is typical old-school police style: even if I don't like you, in the professional field, I will give you absolute fairness and handle matters strictly by the book.

In this situation, refusing would make you seem petty and disrespectful to the other person.