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

Chapter 268 The Blood Gang's Legacy, Part Two

"Hey, go outside for a second." Leon's knife was pressed against Vic's neck as he glanced at the chatterbox beside him.

"Uh—dude, I don't really care if the scene that's going to be too gory." The chatterbox, being a simpleton, didn't understand Leon's deeper intentions and just assumed he was going to interrogate the prisoner's superior.

"Get out." Leon glanced at him again.

"OK, OK." The chatterbox raised his hands, looking both confused and impressed, but still left the room.

On the other side, the cold blade pressed against Vic's skin, and the metallic chill finally made his unfocused pupils refocus.

He coughed violently twice, spitting out a mouthful of bloody saliva, then squinted and, by the dim light from outside the corridor, made out the face that belonged to Lyon in front of him.

Vic opened his mouth, but showed no intention of begging for mercy or acting hysterically. Instead, a bitter smile, a mixture of weariness and self-mockery, slowly appeared on his weathered face.

"Cough cough—I knew it—"

Vic's voice was so weak it seemed like a gust of wind could blow it away. He ignored the knife at his neck, slumped helplessly on his desk, and stared at the ceiling.

"I knew it. How could a monster like you be stupid enough to walk in and die following the script? That idiot Tyrone deserved to die."

9

He took a deep breath, his eyes completely empty. The obsession with revenge that had sustained him until now had vanished like a popped soap bubble.

"This is so boring."

He muttered to himself, as if talking to Leon, or perhaps to himself.

"Really—it's so boring."

Leon pressed down slightly on his wrist, and the blade of the folding knife left a very shallow bloodstain on Vic's neck.

"Shut up."

Lyon's tone was completely flat.

"I already know from your underlings that you were the one who kidnapped Mia. I have no interest in hearing your gangster memoirs, nor do I care how miserable you are. You are going to die today."

Leon leaned down slightly, and a terrifying sense of oppression enveloped Vic as if it were a tangible force.

"Tell me, which corrupt cop in the police station sold you her address?"

"Also, where are the Bloods' remaining money and goods after Marcus's death?"

"Hand over the stuff while I still have patience, and I'll give you a quick death."

Vic looked at Leon, his chest rising and falling slightly.

He really didn't want to tell his story again. He had already lost, lost everything, and dying would be a good thing for him.

The office was quiet for about ten seconds, with only the monotonous roar of the generator.

Just as Leon was about to put pressure on him again, and even considered cutting off one of his fingers, Vic suddenly sighed.

"Connor."

Vic closed his eyes and calmly uttered a name.

"Inspector Connor of the West Precinct, who was originally in charge of the Psychedelic Cat nightclub area on 12th Street, was the one you pushed the hardest. He was the one who betrayed Mia's schedule and address, as well as your henchman Ray Fong at Psychedelic Cat. He told us all of this."

Lyon's eyes narrowed slightly as he etched the name into his mind.

"As for the money and goods—forget about it."

Vic muttered to himself, sighed, and his eyes became completely unfocused, "—In the end, all this fighting will only lead to hell for everyone."

He looked at Lyon and smiled slightly.

"My plan to take you down has failed; I'm out of cards now."

"But I suddenly felt that handing the stuff over to you was better than letting those ruthless Mexican bastards or those street thugs who couldn't even hold a gun properly."

Vic took a breath and continued, "You're a devil, but at least you're a devil with some principles."

"If Mia gets beaten up, you can wipe out the entire Blood Gang—I'm giving you this as my final farewell to myself."

"What you do with it is up to you."

"Speak." Leon ignored Vic's sigh, his blade still firmly held.

"The dry cleaner on 15th Street in the West End, the one called 'Old Sailor,' has three USB drives with the passwords for offshore accounts in its basement safe." Vic gasped.

"There is about $1.4 million in money laundering funds inside, all of which are clean."

"It's not over yet."

Vic coughed twice.

"In Blocks 9 and 12, we also have three large abandoned warehouse sites, nominally under a shell logistics company, where more than a dozen modified bulletproof SUVs and sedans are parked."

"Where are the weapons?" Leon interrupted him.

"The basement of that bowling alley in Seventh Street, the one with the 'Closed' sign." Vic grinned.

"More than twenty unnumbered AK and AR-series fully automatic rifles, as well as a bunch of miscellaneous shotguns, pistols, and various types of ammunition, which we were unable to use this time and are still there."

"As for the scene here, you should have noticed that we even have an M249 squad automatic weapon."

"That was originally a trump card we prepared to play against the Mexicans if necessary."

Viktor paused, his eyes turning somewhat mocking.

"Not only that, there's also an account book at the bottom of the dry cleaner's safe."

"The records show donations from two Seattle city councilors and several grassroots Democratic politicians. We helped them secure votes in their neighborhoods, and they helped us with city planning."

He looked at Lyon. "All of this is yours now."

Lyon listened to the massive list, but his expression remained completely unchanged.

He quickly went through this information in his mind to make sure nothing was missing.

"That's all?"

"That's all." Vic closed his eyes. "Get to work, Vance, let me go see my wife."

"————" Leon was silent for a moment.

"Are you a man of your word?" Vic opened his eyes again, looked into Leon's emotionless eyes, and asked softly.

"Yes, I shouldn't mistreat prisoners." Leon put the folding knife back into his pocket and drew his Glock 17 from the holster on his thigh.

"That's good."

Vic let out a long sigh of relief and slowly closed his eyes again.

"Bang!"

Gunshots echoed through the office.

Vic had a charred bullet hole between his eyebrows. His body twitched slightly on the desk before falling into complete silence.

His face, which had been tense for half his life, finally relaxed completely at this moment.

Upon hearing the gunshot, the chatterbox pushed open the door and came in.

He first glanced at Vic, who had a bullet hole in his head, on the desk, and finally his gaze fell on the Glock 17 in Leon's hand, which was still emitting a wisp of smoke.

"So—" the gossipy man scratched the back of his head, "the interrogation's over? So fast?"

Leon put the gun back into the holster on his thigh.

"He's in charge of the Blood Gang here," Leon said, his voice muffled.

"I got a name from him. There's a police inspector named Connor in the West Precinct. He's the mole."

The gossipy man frowned.

"Mia's address and daily routine were all sold to them by this Connor."

As he spoke, Lyon picked up the HK416 assault rifle that he had previously tossed on the table, pulled the bolt to confirm that the chamber was empty, and then skillfully holstered it and tossed it behind his back.

"I can't be bothered with ordinary corrupt cops who are greedy for money, but selling the information of serving police officers to gangs almost caused a major news story about a female police officer being murdered—"

Leon's beam of light swept over Vic's gradually cooling corpse.

"This person has crossed the line. You need to tell Sterling about this and then hand it over to him to deal with."

The gossip paused for half a second, then nodded.

Although he was a private soldier of the Sterling family and not a proper law enforcer, he still found the act of betraying his comrades disgusting. In his eyes, such scum who sold information about their own people to the enemy deserved to die more than the enemy.

From another perspective, it should be said that unless the Sterling family were idiots, they would be unlikely to select someone who doesn't dislike traitors for their private army.

"Alright." The gossipy man kicked away a piece of broken glass at his feet. "So what do we do now? Are there any survivors left to deal with?"

"there is none left."

Leon pressed the transmit button on his throat microphone: "Raven, call back. The factory's cleared out, no survivors. What's the situation on your end?"

A calm, as always, response came through the radio, accompanied by the sound of rain: "Received. Nothing was missed on the outer perimeter. I'm withdrawing from up there now and will meet the police car in five minutes."

Leon loosened his microphone and glanced at the chatterbox.

"I'm gone."

The two walked down the corridor littered with corpses and bullet casings. Chatterbox followed behind Leon, his tactical boots crunching on the broken glass.

He glanced down at the oddly positioned corpses in the corridor, then at the handrail at the second-floor stairwell, warped by a grenade, and suddenly blurted out, "Dude, can I ask you a question?"

"ask."

"Where did you learn that skill of teleporting through the hallways? I just saw it. You were carrying a fully equipped HK416, firing and teleporting through the corridor at the same time. Are you Spider-Man?"

Lyon didn't stop.

He couldn't explain that he had used [Shadow Pull] while moving through the hallway during the massacre of the Blood Gang, so he could only make up an excuse.

"When I was a child, I studied kung fu for a few years in Chinatown with an old man who ran a martial arts school."

The gossip remained silent for two seconds.

"Grass."

He gave a thumbs up and said, "Awesome."

Do you take on apprentices?

"No."

When Leon opened the car door, Bob and Miller were sitting in the Ford police car.

Bob shifted his bulky body, adjusting himself from an uncomfortable position.

Miller sat behind him, his hands still holding Mia's arms.

Mia was still unconscious at this moment. Although her face was pale, her breathing seemed to be relatively steady.

Seeing Leon open the car door, Bob's old face showed a complex expression, as if his professional values, life philosophy, and worldview had been trampled on in just one hour.

He subconsciously gripped the gun handle at his waist, then forced himself to loosen it.

"Leon—you—"

Bob opened his mouth, clearly wanting to say something, but his brain was cycling between crashing and restarting.

Miller sat behind him, saying nothing, but staring intently at the congealed bloodstains on Lyon's black tactical gloves, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.

Lyon turned on the dim overhead light inside the car, first placing the SR-25 semi-automatic sniper rifle between the back seat and the passenger seat, and then placing the HK416 on the passenger seat.

Then he rubbed his face, letting the warmth of the carriage wash over it.

Bob finally managed to squeeze out a complete sentence: "Leon, how many people did you kill in there?"

Lyon took off his tactical gloves, rubbed his nose which was sore from the gunpowder smoke, and recalled for a moment.

"Maybe—around thirty?"

Bob's lips twitched.

Miller gasped. The young patrolman, who had just shed his naivety, was now back to his old self, his face covered in acne and glistening with oil under the police car's overhead light, his eyes wide as if he were seeing God himself.

"Three—more than thirty?" Bob's voice was off-key. "Do you know what number you just said?"

"I know." Leon tossed his tactical gloves into the glove box, then pulled out a wet wipe and began wiping the blood from his hands. "What are the gangsters going to do if they don't kill you? Go up there and give them a parking ticket?"

Miller stared blankly at the rearview mirror outside the car window, where rain was pattering against the surface.

Bob rubbed his face vigorously with his hands and let out a long breath.

"Leon—it's my first day back at work today, you know? Although I meant I was here to lend you a hand—anyway, the doctor said I can't be startled right now—"

"So, are you holding on now?"

Bob closed his eyes, made the sign of the cross on his chest, and moved his lips as if in prayer.

Leon ignored his breakdown and began checking the sounds outside the car.

Just then, a familiar message box popped up in my mind.

[Mission Completed: Speedrun Blood Gang Outpost]

[Mission Briefing]

Number of criminals apprehended: 32 (including gang leader Vic).

Participation rate: 60% (completed in collaboration with Private Soldier Gossip and Jackdaw)

[Basic Reward]: 2400 Justice Points [Additional Notes]: Blood Gang leaders Tyrone, Vic, Benny, Donnie, and other key targets have all been eliminated. The Blood Gang's remaining forces in the West District have been completely eradicated, and the remaining stragglers will enter a period of chaos.

Lyon glanced at his points balance.

3900.

With the elimination of strongholds and the previous accumulation, the total number of points is now quite considerable.

However, he doesn't have time to deal with these points right now. He still needs to arrange for people to retrieve the legacy that Vic entrusted to him, and the wounded from the psychedelic cat side also need to be taken care of.

We should save this little bit of savings for now, just in case.

He had just finished making his calculations when he heard a faint noise from the back seat.

"Um----"

Mia's eyelids fluttered, then slowly opened.

Those light gray eyes looked particularly unfocused in the dimly lit carriage, their pupils still somewhat out of focus due to the aftershocks of the stun grenade.

Her gaze lingered on the roof of the car for a few seconds before slowly moving down and finally focusing on Leon's face, who was half-turned and looking down at her.

That rugged face, with a small piece of broken glass still stuck to its right eyebrow.

"Lyon—?"

Mia's voice was very soft, almost drowned out by the sound of the rain and the idling of the police car engine, but her eyes suddenly lit up.

"Leon!"

She subconsciously moved her arm, trying to sit up, but was forced back down by the sharp pain in her abdomen, and a layer of cold sweat instantly appeared on her forehead.

"Don't move."

Leon tossed the wet wipe aside and leaned closer to the back seat.

"You are too weak right now, don't move around."

Mia nodded, recovering from the intense pain, then, panting, stared intently at Leon with her lingering fear in her eyes.

"Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

Lyon paused for a moment.

He looked down at himself. There were several pieces of shrapnel embedded in his bulletproof vest, a cut from glass on his sleeve, his body was covered in other people's blood, and his face was covered in gunpowder ash.

But he was not injured.

To be honest, for the first twenty minutes he was playing a live-action FPS game. The only difficulty was that the enemies were too weak, so there was not much sense of accomplishment in fighting them.

"I'm not injured," he replied briefly.

Mia looked into his eyes, as if confirming the truth of his words, and then slowly nodded, forcing a weak smile onto her pale face.

"That's good—that's good—"

She closed her eyes, as if gathering her strength.

Then she opened her eyes again.

"Are you... are you stupid?"

Lyon had just unscrewed the cap of a bottle of mineral water when his hand froze in mid-air.

"—What?"

"You went into the factory alone—"

Mia's voice was broken and intermittent, each word accompanied by a dull pain in her abdomen, but she forced the words out, "You don't know—when I saw you walk into the office—I thought—it's over—this idiot actually came to his death alone—how could you—"

She took a deep breath, and then spoke even more softly.

"How could you take such a big risk for me alone?"

Lyon remained silent.

His expression remained largely unchanged, but the fingers gripping the water bottle tightened slightly before relaxing again.

"You are my subordinate," he said, his voice unusually gentle, even carrying a strange warmth. "It is my duty to bring you back."

Mia didn't speak, but simply smiled slightly.

"but----"

Leon paused. He should have explained—explained that the "Leon" who had just walked into the office was a gossipy imposter, wearing his clothes, with his outline drawn on them, and hiding two deadly bombs in his crotch.

But how do I explain this now?

Mia had just escaped danger, and then she said, "Actually, that wasn't me, it was this guy next to me who was acting" — isn't that a bit too much of a mood killer?

He glanced out the car window.

The chatterbox was leaning against the door of his GMC SUV, tilting his head back and taking a swig of mineral water.

The camouflage paint on his face had been mostly washed away by the rain, and he had also torn off the silicone fillers that the crow had carefully applied piece by piece and casually tossed them into the trash can inside the car.

Seemingly noticing Leon's gaze, he wiped the glue residue from his chin and turned his head.

Then he whistled and looked away casually.

The schadenfreude implied in the whistling was enough to suffocate an entire choir.

"besides----"

Mia's voice rang out again, this time with a faint hint of laughter.

"I saw you—stuffing that thing in your crotch."

Lyon looked down into her eyes.

"That," Mia gestured with difficulty, "that thing, it makes a sound, it knocked me out, the thing you stuffed in your crotch."

Lyon's mind raced through a series of rapid thought processes in a fraction of a second.

He knew exactly what Mia was talking about.

He could even recall that a few dozen minutes earlier, when the gossipy guy was stuffing those two things into his crotch with a look of utter despair in the GMC carriage, Crow had professionally reminded him, "Move a little to the right, the left side will press on the femoral artery."

But the problem now is—

He has already tacitly agreed, so there's no going back to explain now.

"That?" Leon glanced at the gossipy person outside, who turned his head even further away. "We'll talk later."

Mia didn't delve into it, and simply hummed in agreement.

Her current brain processing capacity is already far beyond what she can handle to recognize Leon and maintain a complete conversation. As for other details, we can ask her about them later.

Leon unscrewed the cap of the mineral water bottle, carefully supported the back of her head, and handed it to her so she could drink a sip of cold water.

"You need to rest now."

He placed the water bottle on the seat next to her. "I'll take you to see a doctor, but before that, you need to close your eyes and get a good night's sleep. Leave the rest to me."

Mia obediently closed her eyes, her lips moved slightly as if she wanted to say something, but exhaustion and pain, like an invisible hand, pulled her completely into a deep sleep.

Her breathing gradually calmed down, and although her face was still pale, her tightly furrowed brows finally began to relax.

Leon stared at her face for a few seconds.

He remained outwardly calm, but Leon slowly pulled up the jacket covering her and then stepped out of the car.

The car door closed very quietly.

Then he turned around and looked at the chatterbox who was still leaning against the GMC door whistling.

"You whistled a bit too loudly just now."

1

"Yeah?"

The chatterbox stopped whistling. "I wasn't paying attention. The wind was too strong. I thought no one could hear me whistling."

"There's absolutely no wind right now."

The chatterbox finally couldn't hold back, and his lips twitched. But after seeing Leon's expression, he wisely swallowed the rest of his laughter.

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