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

Chapter 753 A Cruel Contrast

Miles sat down next to Russell and put his head on his shoulder.

"Don't sleep," he said. "Talk to me."

"What did you say?" Russell's voice was so soft it sounded like he was talking to himself.

"Tell me why you came to the Federation."

"Because my mom thinks I can't find a better job."

Miles chuckled briefly, like a sigh.

The truck turned onto a wider street, where shops with lights on and restaurants still open began to appear on both sides. Some people stood by the roadside smoking, some were pushing shopping carts, and some were talking loudly on the street corner; their voices drifted away in the night breeze.

The city was still alive, still breathing, still living its own life, completely unaware that a bleeding agent from the Eagle Nation was sitting in the back of a van.

The private hospital's sign was visible from two blocks away. It was a blue cross, glowing white, standing out cleanly and quietly among the surrounding dim neon signs. The driver parked the car in front of the emergency room, turned off the engine, turned to look at the back of the car, his lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but in the end, he said nothing.

Chen was the first to jump out of the car and push open the emergency room door. The lights inside were blindingly white, making his face look like an overexposed photograph. A middle-aged woman in a white coat looked up from behind the counter, looking at Chen, then at the truck outside and Russell, covered in blood, being helped out of the truck.

Her expression changed. It wasn't panic, but the kind of professional tension that only someone who has worked in the emergency room for a long time would have—the kind of tension that allows them to assess the risk of any wound within half a second.

"What happened?" she asked in Spanish.

Chen held up his identification documents in front of her.

"Eagle Nation Federation. Our colleague has been shot. He needs immediate treatment."

She glanced at the identification, then at the blood-soaked strip of cloth on Russell's arm, and said nothing more. She stepped out from behind the counter, opened a door leading to the treatment room, and called out something inside. A few seconds later, two nurses rushed down the corridor pushing a wheelchair. One nurse supported Russell's shoulder, while the other carefully placed his arm on the wheelchair's armrest—their movements were quick and gentle, like two partners who had worked together for many years.

Russell was taken inside.

Lynn stood at the entrance to the emergency room, watching the door close in front of him. There was a round glass window in the door; he could see the lights moving and people moving around inside, but he couldn't hear any sound.

He reached into his pocket and touched his phone.

There are three unread messages.

The first message came from Gwen: "Have you arrived yet?"

The second message came from Carter: "The rear is ready. We await your message."

The third message came from an unknown number. He clicked on it.

"You almost caught me today. It won't happen again."

Lynn stared at the line of text.

The white light from the emergency room corridor shone through the crack in the door, illuminating his shoes and the small patch of blood on the floor by the door that hadn't been wiped away yet. The blood was half-dry, and the edges were starting to turn brown.

He locked the screen, clutched his phone in his hand, and didn't reply to any messages.

A nurse came out of the treatment room, holding a folder, walked up to him, and asked in English, "Are you the injured person's colleague?"

"Yes."

"We need some information. His name, blood type, allergy history. And your identification documents need to be registered."

Lynn took her ID out of her pocket and handed it to her. As she took it, she glanced at the photo on the ID, then at Lynn's face, a casual yet necessary check, as if confirming it was the same person. Then she opened the folder and began filling out a form.

"His wound isn't fatal," she said, without looking up, her pen scratching on the paper. "The bullet went through the muscle tissue of his forearm; the radius and ulna weren't damaged, and the major blood vessels weren't severed. But he's lost a lot of blood, so we need to give him IV fluids, clean the wound, and stitch it up. It'll probably take about two hours."

Lynn nodded.

"We can wait here," he said.

The nurse closed the folder, glanced at him, and her gaze lingered for a moment on the small cut on his left cheek caused by the debris.

"Your face also needs some work done."

Lynn raised his hand and touched his left cheek. His fingertips touched a thin, dried wound, the bloodstains like a tiny red earthworm crawling on his cheekbone. He hadn't felt it at all.

"We'll talk about it later," he said.

The nurse didn't insist and left with the folder. Only a few of them remained in the corridor, accompanied by the continuous, slight hum of the row of white fluorescent lights overhead.

Miles leaned against the opposite wall, the light from the fluorescent tubes reflecting off his glasses, making him look like a poster that had been on that wall for a long time.

Chen stood by the window at the end of the corridor, looking out at the dark courtyard.

Bates sat on a plastic chair, his hands on his knees, head down, as if counting the number of tiles on the floor.

Lynn stood at the door of the treatment room, looking inside through the round glass window. He could see Russell lying on the bed, a doctor treating his wounds, and a nurse handing him instruments. Russell's head was turned to one side, his eyes were closed, and his lips were moving as if he were saying something, but he couldn't hear him through the glass.

Outside the window at the end of the corridor, the night in Renosa continued. There were sounds of passing cars, barking dogs, and music coming from somewhere, the subwoofer making the windowpane tremble slightly.

Lynn put his hand in his pocket and touched the key.

The metallic serrations pressed against his fingertips, feeling cool.

He pulled his hand out, turned around and leaned against the wall, tilting his head back to look at the fluorescent light tube on the ceiling.

One end of the light bulb was blackened, as if it was about to break. The light at that end became dimmer and yellower, like something about to go out still struggling to emit its last bit of light.

The corridor was quiet.

Everyone is waiting.

Forty minutes after the door to the treatment room opened, a doctor wearing a dark blue scrub suit came out.

He wasn't old, maybe thirty-five or thirty-six, with his hair shaved short, revealing an old scar on his scalp. He hadn't taken off his gloves yet, and his right palm and fingers were stained with half-dried blood. In his left hand, he held a medical record folder. He glanced at the people in the corridor, his gaze lingering on each face for a moment before finally settling on Lynn.

"Are you in charge?"

Lynn straightened up from the wall. "Yes."

The doctor tucked the medical record folder under his arm, removed his right glove slowly, rolling it down from the wrist bit by bit, as if he didn't want to waste this still-usable glove. When the rubber was turned inside out, there was a layer of lighter-colored blood on the inside, a pinkish color, diluted with tissue fluid.

"The radial artery wasn't damaged; it's a miracle," he said, his English very standard, except for a slightly emphasized "r" sound and a flick of his tongue against his palate. "The bullet entered from the ulnar side and exited from the radial side, passing right between the ulnar and radial arteries. It avoided both major blood vessels. It also avoided the nerves. Your colleague was either extremely lucky, or the shooter was very far away."

"How far?" Lynn asked.

"Over a hundred meters," the doctor said. "The bullet's speed had already decreased by the time it entered the body, so the exit point was larger than the entrance. If it had been a close-range shot, his forearm would be gone by now."

Lynn didn't speak. He was thinking about the people who fired from behind the low wall in the southeast corner of the warehouse. Who were they aiming at? If it was Russell, hitting a moving target's forearm with a rifle from a hundred meters away was too accurate; it was unlikely to be a stray bullet. If it was a stray bullet, then Russell was indeed extremely lucky.

"We cleaned his wound and stitched it up with seventeen stitches," the doctor continued. "There are two areas of muscle tissue that need repair, but neither is serious. We've already given him the first unit of blood, and depending on his vital signs, we might need a second unit, but his blood pressure is stable. He's awake, and you can go in to see him. But—" He held up one index finger, a bit of dark red blood still embedded in his nail, "not for too long. He's on an IV drip and needs rest."

Lynn nodded and went inside.

The treatment room wasn't large, and the lighting was dimmer than in the corridor—the kind of warm, non-glaring surgical lights. Russell lay on the bed, his left arm propped up on a triangular cushion, his entire forearm wrapped thickly in white gauze, from his wrist all the way to just above his elbow. The gauze was clean, a gleaming white, creating a cruel contrast to the blood-soaked sleeve he had brought in earlier.

His complexion was still not good, and his lips were pale, but it was much better than when he was in the back of the truck. His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. Hearing the door open, he turned his head, saw it was Lynn, and his lips twitched slightly.

"I'm sorry to have troubled you again," Russell said, his voice a little hoarse.

"You got shot, not absent from work." Lynn walked to the bedside, pulled up a stool, and sat down. The stool leg scraped against the concrete floor with a harsh sound. "How do you feel?"

Russell raised his right hand and pointed to the IV line. "This thing is a bit cold. It hurt a little when it went in through the back of my hand, but I can't feel it now. My arm is under local anesthesia, so the whole right side is numb. I can't feel anything when I pinch myself." He paused, "But the bleeding has stopped."

Lynn looked him in the eyes. "Did you see who fired the shot during the firefight?"

Russell shook his head.

"I was on the right flank of the warehouse, and Yang was about fifteen meters to my left. When we heard the engine, the Ford had already come out from the southeast corner. I didn't see anyone in the car, I only saw the car. Then the gunshots rang out." He closed his eyes and thought for a moment. "The first shot was far away from me, probably from the southeast corner of the warehouse. I lay down. The second shot was closer, hitting the ground less than two meters away from me, and gravel flew up and hit me in the face. The third shot hit me."

"Did you hear the sound of bullets?"

"I heard it. Not the kind of whoosh you hear in movies," he paused, as if searching for the right word, "like someone tearing a thick piece of cloth right next to my ear. A soft thud. Then it felt like I'd been punched hard in the arm, and I fell down. I looked down and saw my sleeve was covered in blood."

Lynn mentally compared Russell's account with the gunfire he heard directly in front of the warehouse. The timeline matched. First, there were two muzzle flashes, continuous firing, then Ford rushed out, then the gunfire intensified, then Russell was shot, then Ford ran south, and then the gunfire stopped.

This wasn't an ambush targeting them. It was aimed at the Ford vehicle.

Someone was lying in ambush on the Ford in the southeast corner of the warehouse. Lynn and his six men were positioned between the firefight zone and the Ford, becoming victims of stray bullets.

"Get some rest." Lynn stood up and pushed the stool back into place. "If the situation allows tomorrow, we'll arrange to send you back to the border. Carter is waiting over there."

"Are you going to continue?"

"Wayne hasn't been found yet."

Russell looked at him, his lips moved a few times, and finally he only said one sentence: "Be careful."

Lynn nodded, turned and left.

There was another person in the corridor. It wasn't one of theirs, but a middle-aged man in a gray suit, his hair neatly combed and his shoes polished. He was standing next to the emergency room registration counter, speaking quietly to the middle-aged female nurse. He noticed Lynn coming out of the treatment room and turned to look at him.

That glance didn't seem like curiosity, but rather an assessment. His gaze moved from Lynn's face to the hem of his coat—the outline of Lynn's gun at his waist was hidden by the coat, but the man's gaze was precise, as if he knew exactly what should be there.

The nurse said something to him, and he nodded and walked towards Lynn.

"Are you from America?" he asked in Spanish, his tone polite, but almost unnaturally so.

Lynn didn't answer, she waited.

"I'm Sanchez, the administrative director of this hospital." The man pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to him with both hands. "We rarely see—how should I put it—wounded personnel from foreign law enforcement agencies. I need to confirm some procedural matters."

Lynn took the business card, glanced at it, and didn't say anything.

Sanchez stood there, rubbing his fingers along the seam of his suit trousers, then again. "We've registered your identification. That's fine. Mexican law recognizes the use of medical services by foreign law enforcement personnel in emergency situations. But—" he paused, "gunshot wounds, according to regulations, need to be reported to the local police."

Lynn looked at him. "Did you report it?"

Sanchez's fingers paused for a moment.

"Not yet," he said. "I'm waiting for your response."

The fluorescent light in the corridor flickered, emitting a very low hum. The clock on the wall pointed to 9:47 PM, the second hand ticking away, the sound amplified several times in the silence.

Lynn didn't answer immediately. He looked into Sanchez's eyes and saw the middle-aged man's fingers rubbing the seam of his trousers faster, and saw his Adam's apple bob up and down—not nervousness, but the uncertainty of waiting for the other person's reaction after making a decision.

"What do you want from us?" Lynn asked.