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

Chapter 97 Art Originates from Life

The third round of moving target assessment proceeded very quickly, and could even be described as somewhat tedious.

For other trainees, those targets that slid irregularly on the tracks and occasionally popped out as "civilians" to take the bullets were a nightmare, but for Leon, it was no different from playing whack-a-mole in an amusement park.

Accompanied by the rhythmic firing of the Remington 700PSS, the targets on Lyon's side fell one by one, cleanly and efficiently.

"Cease fire! Assessment over!"

Barnes put down his binoculars, looked at the report card in his hand, and fell silent.

Finally, he strode up to Lyon, and for the first time, an expression of admiration appeared on his face.

"OK."

Barnes tore a pre-filled, signature-only sniper certification from the splint, pulled out a pen, scribbled his name in a flourish, and then slapped it on Lyon's chest.

"Take it."

"Although I hate your arrogant attitude of getting in through connections, I have to admit that your marksmanship does live up to your foul mouth."

"Since you have this ability, then stop wasting your time here and go save the world, great hero."

"Thanks, instructor."

Liang Ang smiled as he accepted the certificate, returned the fine gun, and without lingering, strode away from the shooting range amidst the envious or jealous gazes of the other trainees.

Lyon had barely stepped out of the barbed wire gate of the shooting range, and before he could even warm the certificate in his hand, his phone vibrated in his pocket.

He took it out and frowned slightly.

It was the number that was left for old Bill.

Shouldn't this old man be quietly writing his memoirs in his apartment right now? Could something have gone wrong on his end or Alex's end?

"I remember saying not to use this phone unless the house is on fire or the FBI is breaking down the door. What's wrong?"

Lyon answered the phone, but without stopping, he continued walking towards the roadside to flag down a car: "No—no, sir, I'm safe."

On the other end of the phone, old Bill's voice sounded somewhat hurried and a little annoyed: "I am—I was just organizing my thoughts when I suddenly remembered something terrible."

"What is it?"

"You know, my house—I mean my old house—was foreclosed on by the bank a few months ago."

"But when I was organizing the documents there just now, I suddenly remembered that I had left a Seagate portable hard drive in the drawer of the study connected to my bedroom."

"There are some original test logs that have been desensitized but haven't been destroyed yet, as well as some source files of attitude control code that were run before."

"But—the bank's auction process may have already begun. I don't know if the house has been vacated yet, or if anyone has already moved in."

Lyon's hand holding the phone froze for a moment, and he stopped in his tracks.

"Wait, Bill."

"Are you kidding me?"

He asked, somewhat incredulously, "You mean, your lab allows you to bring this kind of thing home? And you just casually toss it in a drawer in your study?"

"Is your confidentiality agreement like toilet paper? Or is your security supervisor blind? Shouldn't this kind of thing be locked in the company's classified computers, triggering an alarm even if you plug in a USB drive?"

This is too frivolous.

That's military technology, not some elementary school summer homework.

If any engineer could pocket missile data and take it home, wouldn't America's defense security be like a sieve?

"Uh... well..."

Old Bill explained somewhat awkwardly on the other end of the phone, "Theoretically, that's how it is, officer. There are hundreds of rules in the confidentiality manual that prohibit doing this."

"But—rules are rules, and budgets are budgets."

"The project schedule is tight, and the higher-ups are pushing us like crazy, but in order to make the financial statements look good, the company strictly limits overtime pay."

"If we stay in the lab to work overtime, according to labor law, the company has to pay us 1.5 times or even double the overtime pay, and also be responsible for nighttime security and utilities."

That's a huge expense.

"Our supervisor ostensibly doesn't allow us to stay in the office for too long, but he's actually implying that if we can't deliver on time, we'll be fired."

"So—everyone knows the unspoken agreement."

"As long as we don't get caught, copying data home and working overtime is the norm."

"Just turn a blind eye."

Lyon stood by the roadside, holding his phone, speechless for a long time, feeling utterly speechless.

This world is truly a huge makeshift operation.

He used to think it was all just a joke: Hillary Clinton sent top-secret emails from a private email address, the Pentagon set the nuclear launch code to "00000000", or some secret documents were piled up in the bathroom of a private resort that the president had taken back.

Now it seems that art truly does originate from life.

However, this is also a good thing for him.

If there were no loophole, where would he get this kind of information that seems to fall from the sky?

""

"Fine, I give up on you capitalists."

"Lyon took a deep breath and made a quick decision."

"How long has the house been taken away?" Leon asked.

"It's been about three months —"

"It should still be in the auction process or in a vacancy period."

Send me the address.

"I'll go get that damn hard drive back for you. Hopefully, I can do it before it gets formatted or sold as scrap metal."

I hung up the phone and looked at the address that had been sent to me on the screen.

It's a middle-class community in Seattle's East Side, not too far from here.

The afternoon sun slanted down on this middle-class suburban community of Seattle.

Everywhere you look, there are neatly trimmed hedges, pickup trucks and Volvos parked in the driveway, and an atmosphere so quiet it's almost deafening.

-

Lyon got out of the taxi a block away from his destination.

He tugged at the collar of his jacket, put his hands in his pockets, and slowly walked toward the address Old Bill had given him, like a passerby taking a leisurely stroll.

Turning the corner, he immediately recognized the old house that old Bill had mentioned.

It was a two-story detached wooden house with an attic. It used to be a very respectable house, but now it felt somewhat dilapidated.

The most eye-catching feature is the lawn.

The lawns of the neighbors on both sides are as green as a golf course, but the grass on this house has grown to ankle height, and because it has not been maintained for a long time, large patches of it are withered and yellow, with wildly growing weeds mixed in.

Several local newspapers, soaked by rain and dried by the sun, were piled on the steps in front of the door.

"No one lives here."

Lyon walked through the main entrance, his eyes quickly glancing at the doors and windows.

The curtains were all drawn tightly shut, and there wasn't any exaggerated seal on the front door, just a tight lock.

For houses in the auction process, banks usually just change the locks and leave them to grow mold until the next unlucky buyer takes them over.

Lyon glanced again at the eaves and the streets on both sides.

monitor?

It is practically non-existent.

He couldn't help but mentally criticize America's emphasis on privacy once again.

If this were his hometown in his previous life, in a neighborhood of this caliber, the street corner cameras probably wouldn't be able to clearly capture the blackheads on his face.

But in Seattle, apart from a few particularly neurotic homeowners who might install an Amazon security doorbell, most streets are essentially a surveillance vacuum.

This kind of environment is simply a paradise for thieves and burglars.

Lyon strolled to the side of the house, where a row of tall cedars blocked the view of the neighbors.

He stopped and looked around.

A garbage truck rumbled past at the end of the street, and faint barking could be heard a few blocks away.

Right now.

Lyon braced himself against the tall wooden railing with one hand, using his waist to exert some force.

He moved as lightly as a cat, and with a graceful flip, landed directly on the muddy ground in the backyard, which was covered with fallen leaves.

Then, he crouched down, leaned against the fence, and listened carefully to the sounds.

Apart from the occasional sound of passing cars in the distance, the only other sound was the rustling of pine needles in the wind.

Safety.