American comic book: I, with my abundant martial virtue, love to do good to others.

Chapter 752 Cry for Help

They walked for about ten minutes, passing through a narrow alley without streetlights, and slipped under the awning of a closed auto repair shop before reaching a slightly wider street. There were cars on the street, not many, and occasionally one would drive by in the distance, its headlights sweeping across the closed doors and windows on both sides of the street.

Javier stopped beside a telephone pole and pointed ahead.

"Keep going down this road, go through two intersections, turn right, go through another intersection, and the Aztec Road will be on your left. At the end of the Aztec Road, turn right, and the warehouses will be on your left. I can't go any further now. Any further and you'll be in the warehouses' field of vision."

Lynn looked at him.

"Thank you," he said, extending his hand.

Havel looked at his hand, hesitated for a moment, and then shook it. His palm was dry and rough, with calluses on the base of his thumb—not from gun use, but from holding a pen or camera for a long time.

"If you find that girl—" Javier said, his voice much softer than before, "the girl who disappeared in New Orleans. If you see her, can you tell me? No need for location, no need for name. Just tell me she's alive. That's enough."

Lynn looked into his eyes.

"If I see her, I will tell you."

Javier nodded, turned and walked into a nearby alley, almost instantly disappearing into the darkness, his footsteps becoming inaudible.

Miles, standing behind Lynn, whispered, "He's really brave."

"It's not that he's brave," Lynn said, "it's that he had no other choice."

He turned his gaze from the direction where Havel had disappeared and looked ahead at the road leading to the Aztecs. The streetlights on both sides of the street were spaced far apart, with long stretches of darkness between the lights, like an electrocardiogram of a person who had lost their rhythm of breathing, with long, flat lines broken by the occasional pulse.

"Let's go," Lynn said.

The six people started walking forward. Their footsteps were particularly clear on the empty street, and the sound of their shoes hitting the asphalt was like some kind of ancient rhythm, tapping out in the night.

The first intersection. No cars. No people. On the street corner, there was a smashed vending machine; the glass was broken, and the goods inside had been emptied, leaving only a few stuck potato chip bags swaying gently in the wind.

The second intersection. Turn right. This street is wider than the previous one, but darker. Most of the streetlights are broken, with only one still lit at the end of the street, like a dying firefly struggling to emit its last bit of light.

An open area appeared on the left.

It wasn't an open space; it was the ruins left behind by a building that had been half-demolished. Bricks, steel bars, and broken glass were scattered on the ground, and a few walls that hadn't completely collapsed stood there forlornly, like tombstones.

Lynn saw the warehouse.

At the end of the street, on the left, was a large cluster of low buildings. The walls were high, topped with rusty barbed wire. The gate was closed, secured with a huge padlock. But behind the wall on the right, there was a shadow, darker than the surrounding area—that was the gap Havel had mentioned.

Lynn raised his right fist.

Everyone stopped.

He made a gesture: disperse.

Bates and Chen went to the left wing, Russell and Yang to the right wing, and Miles followed behind them, the two of them moving slowly forward along the wall. The night wind blew in from the east, carrying the dampness of the river and the chemical smell of the distant factory. Lynn already had his gun in his hand, the safety off, his fingers stretched out against the side of the gun like a taut bowstring.

The gap was larger than Havel had described. A hole had been cut in the fence from the bottom, big enough for a person to bend down and crawl through. The wire around the edge of the hole had been rolled up into a rough loop that wouldn't cut your hand. Someone had prepared for this long ago.

Lynn crawled inside.

The floor inside was paved with gravel, making a slight crunching sound underfoot. He tried to land on his toes first, slowing his center of gravity and minimizing the noise. The main warehouse building was about fifty meters in front of him, a huge, gray...

The windowless concrete building resembled a giant beast lying on the ground. Several iron doors stood in the walls, all closed. A few vents in the roof let in moonlight, casting square patches of light on the walls.

no car.

There are no lights.

nobody.

Lynn's heart sank.

He continued walking, with Miles three steps behind him. The pebbles made a soft rustling sound under his feet, like some small animal moving through the grass.

When he reached the main entrance of the warehouse, he smelled a odor.

smoke.

It wasn't cigarette smoke, but the lingering smell of recently extinguished tobacco. Someone had smoked here, perhaps five minutes, perhaps ten minutes, but no longer.

He crouched down and swept the ground with the beam of his flashlight.

There were tire tracks on the gravel. Not just one vehicle, but at least two. The tracks were fresh, the edges still intact from the wind, indicating the vehicles had just left.

Lynn stood up, turned around, and was about to speak—

A shot rang out.

Not just one sound. It was many sounds.

The sound, coming from the other side of the warehouse, echoed in the empty night sky, like someone throwing stones into a huge well, each stone creating ripples of sound waves.

The bullet struck the concrete wall less than two meters from Lynn, a spark flashing in the darkness, debris flying everywhere. A small piece hit Lynn's left cheek, stinging painfully. He didn't touch his face, but lunged to his right, his body slamming into the gravel ground, his gun already turned towards the direction from which the gunshot had come.

"Bunker!" he shouted.

Miles was already sprawled on the ground, rolling behind a slab of abandoned concrete. His laptop bag swung off his shoulder as he rolled, landing on the gravel with a dull thud.

The gunfire continued.

From the other side of the warehouse, there were at least two firing positions. One was to the left front, about a hundred meters away, and the other was further to the right, at different angles, indicating they weren't in the same location. Lynn lay prone on the ground, using a raised ledge as cover, and peeked out with half an eye from the edge.

He saw muzzle flashes. Two. Both in the southeast corner of the warehouse, coming from behind a low wall.

It was not an ambush.

They are targeting other objects.

Lynn realized one thing—the guns weren't aimed at them.

The bullets were flying from the southeast corner of the warehouse further southeast. Lynn was positioned directly in front of the warehouse, and the bullets that hit the wall next to him were stray bullets, deviating from their original targets. Someone was exchanging fire with another group on the other side of the warehouse.

He lay on the ground, pulled his phone out of his pocket, and quickly typed a few words, sending them to everyone's phones: "Fire exchange in the southeast corner of the warehouse. Do not return fire. Take cover. Do not reveal yourselves before confirming identities."

Bates replied with a single word: "Receive."

Chen returned a point.

Russell and Yang didn't reply, but Lynn saw a figure move behind the pile of ruins on the right flank; it was Yang's signal.

The gunfire stopped for two seconds.

Then there were three more sounds, even closer.

Lynn heard a sound. It wasn't a gunshot, but a human voice. It came from the southeast corner of the warehouse. Someone was shouting something in Spanish; he couldn't make out the words, but the tone wasn't one of command, it was a plea for help.

Then he heard the sound of an engine.

The car sped out from behind the warehouse, its tires skidding on the gravel, kicking up a cloud of dust. The headlights weren't on, but Lynn could make out its silhouette in the moonlight—a dark-colored SUV, a Ford Explorer. It emerged from an exit in the southeast corner of the warehouse and headed south onto a dirt road, the dust billowing from its rear like a gray curtain in the moonlight.

is it.

Wayne was in that car.

Lynn stood up, his gun aimed at the car's taillights. The distance was too great, over two hundred meters; his gun was a pistol, its effective range far too short. He watched the car's taillights bounce further and further away on the dirt road, finally disappearing behind a grove of low bushes.

The gunfire stopped.

The southeast corner of the warehouse suddenly fell silent, an unnatural silence. There were no gunshots, no human voices, and even the wind seemed to pause for a moment, like a brief pause before a deep breath.

Then Lynn heard footsteps.

It wasn't just one person. It was many people, moving westward from the southeast corner of the warehouse, their footsteps creating a chaotic, heavy, panting sound on the gravel. He couldn't see who they were, but he could sense they were approaching his location.

He took half a step back, pointed the gun in the direction the sound came from, and rested his finger on the trigger guard.

The footsteps grew closer.

Then he heard Russell's voice.

"Lynn! It's Russell! Don't shoot!"

Russell emerged from the darkness, one hand clutching the upper half of his other arm, the sleeve soaked in blood, the dark blood resembling black engine oil in the moonlight. His face was pale, his lips trembling, but he kept running, his pace unwavering.

Chen followed behind him, one hand on Russell's back, the other holding a gun with the muzzle pointing downwards, his eyes scanning every shadow around them.

"He was shot." Chen's voice was tight, but every word was clear. "Right forearm, the bullet went through, but didn't hit the bone. But he's bleeding non-stop."

Lynn holstered his gun, took two steps to Russell, grabbed his arm, and looked at it. Blood was gushing from a hole in his sleeve, dripping down his wrist and leaving small red dots on the gravel. The wound was on the outside of his arm, with a small entrance but a larger opening on the other side, revealing deep red muscle tissue inside.

"Press it down," Lynn said, pressing Russell's hand above the wound. "Hold on tight, don't let go."

Russell gritted his teeth, his forehead covered in sweat, his nails digging into his flesh, pressing the skin around the wound until it turned white.

Miles crawled out from behind the concrete slab, his glasses askew on his nose, a speck of dust on his face. He glanced at Russell's arm, his lips moved slightly, but he didn't speak. He turned to pick up the laptop bag that had fallen to the ground.

"Bates? Young?" Lynn shouted into the walkie-talkie.

"Bates's here," a voice came from the right wing. "I'm not hurt. Yang's right next to me, he's fine too. We saw that Ford head south. Should we give chase?"

Lynn glanced at Russell's arm. Blood was still flowing, seeping from between Russell's fingers, trickling down his forearm, and dripping onto his shoes.

"We're not going to pursue them," he said. "Let's retreat first. Russell needs to go to the hospital."

He turned around, took two steps toward the gap, and then paused. He glanced back at the warehouse—in the darkness, it lay there like a satiated beast, motionless, breathing evenly. The Ford had sped away, and Wayne, inside, had once again slipped through his fingers.

Lynn turned his gaze away, walked over to Russell, and pulled his other hand over to put it on his shoulder.

"Can you walk?"

"Yes." Russell's voice trembled slightly, but his steps steadied.

"Walk."

The six men squeezed through the gap and returned to the Aztec road. The night wind was cooler, blowing from the direction of the river, carrying the smell of rotting water plants and the pungent odor of chemical waste from a distant factory. Russell's blood dripped onto the road, drop by drop, like withered flowers on the gray cement surface.

Miles walked in front, holding his phone to his ear.

"I'm looking for the nearest hospital," he said urgently. "The nearest private hospital is downtown, a 15-minute drive. There's also a public clinic, even closer, eight minutes away, but I'm not sure if they have the expertise to treat gunshot wounds."

“Private,” Lynn said. “Public ones will call the police.”

"In Mexico, reporting gunshot wounds to the police isn't mandatory," Miles said. "But private hospitals have better equipment and can treat them faster."

Chen had already run to the intersection ahead and flagged down a passing van. The driver initially didn't want to stop, but Chen stood in the middle of the road, holding up his ID in one hand and resting the other on the gun at his waist. The driver leaned out of the window, glanced at the words "Eagle Nation Federation" on the ID, and his expression changed from anger to fear, then from fear to helplessness, before finally nodding.

Lynn helped Russell into the back of the truck. The truck was empty except for a few old blankets used to line the cargo and the smell of diesel fuel.

Russell sat down against the carriage wall, raising his injured arm slightly. Blood trickled down his elbow, dripping onto the blanket and spreading into a dark, damp patch.

Bates took off his coat, tore it into strips, and used them to tie a makeshift tourniquet on Russell's upper arm. He tied it tightly, and Russell took a breath, biting his lip to keep from crying out.

"Don't tighten it too much," Lynn said. "Loosen it every twenty minutes."

"I know," Bates said, adjusting the tourniquet again.

The truck started moving. The driver drove fast, bumping along the uneven street. With each bump, Russell frowned, but he didn't make a sound. His lips were pale, his eyes were half-closed, and beads of sweat clung to his eyelashes, glistening in the light filtering through the gaps in the truck bed.