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

Chapter 270 The Blood Gang's Legacy, Part Four

Before Lyon could catch his breath in the car, two blinding beams of headlights sliced ​​through the rain and stopped one after the other on the open ground outside the steel plant.

The car in front was a rusty truck, and the sounds of several people talking and metal tools clanging could be heard from inside. Following behind was a gray Toyota Camry, the same one that Leon had given Ray to use to transfer the wounded.

The truck's passenger door was pushed open first, and MacArthur jumped out.

He was still wearing that old camouflage coat, his left shoulder bandaged, his right hand gripping a Luger compact pistol tightly. Rain was streaming down his hat brim, but he stood ramrod straight, his eyes flashing eerily in the darkness.

"All crew members, disembark immediately! Seal off the entrance to the site! Squad leader, take some men and come with me inside to inventory the supplies!"

Ray jumped out of the driver's seat with clean, swift movements, still holding the Remington 870 shotgun in his hand, his eyes scanning the shadows of the surrounding ruins warily.

Walter opened the driver's side door of the Toyota Camry, while Elton climbed out of the truck bed. Walter was carrying a huge canvas tool bag, Elton was carrying two crowbars, and the old construction worker was the last to get out of the truck bed.

The old construction worker moved a little slower, but his calloused hands gradually regained their old habits as he reached for the handle of the Mossberg 500 rifle on his back.

At the same time, a refrigerated truck, reeking of a mixture of blood and formaldehyde, was parked crookedly next to the truck.

The driver's side door was kicked open, and a fat man wearing an oversized black hoodie rolled out of the car.

After Alex stopped, he first took a deep breath of the cold air of the rainy night, then realized that the taste was wrong, bent over, and gagged twice.

"I----"

Alex wiped his mouth with his sleeve. His dark circles were so heavy it looked like he'd been punched twice, and his face was deathly pale under the car headlights.

"Such large-scale corpse collection—are you planning to groom me into North America's number one funeral tycoon?"

MacArthur, who was holding a Luger pistol and directing his men toward the factory, stopped abruptly upon hearing this.

He turned around, squinted and scrutinized Alex for a full three seconds in the dim light of the car headlights, then his brows furrowed into a deep knot.

"It's you again." MacArthur's tone was filled with undisguised disdain.

"You lingered for almost forty minutes while you were cleaning up the battlefield on Highway 9, which compressed our window of opportunity for retreat to the limit."

Alex looked up, completely bewildered.

"What nonsense are you spouting? What withdrawal window? Do you think this is war?"

"Clearing the battlefield is a crucial step in ensuring the success of the next operation."

MacArthur said solemnly, his expression serious, "Any delay will severely slow down the advance of the entire force and hinder the achievement of the next strategic objectives."

"No, wait a minute."

Alex stretched out his hand and waved it in the air.

"I'm just a corpse collector. What unit? What strategic objective? I was just wondering if you're on drugs? Should I take you to a mental hospital?"

MacArthur completely ignored him, instead turning to look at Leon, who had just stepped out of the Ford police car.

"commander."

MacArthur slammed his heels together and pointed to Alex, who looked completely bewildered, standing to the side.

"This civilian contractor's work efficiency is far below the battlefield baseline, and I strongly recommend changing the logistics supplier."

"You fucking—"

Alex nearly choked.

"Who's your contractor? I'm an employee of Ren'ai Biotechnology Co., Ltd., a legitimate company! I have a business license!"

"You have absolutely no military discipline!"

Alex looked quite constipated. He turned to look at Leon, his hand trembling as he pointed at MacArthur.

"Where did you find this lunatic?!"

"He was just talking to me about 'heavy artillery' and 'armored formations' on Highway 9, and I thought he was joking! But he was serious! He's really crazy!"

Leon adjusted the black mask he had just put on a few minutes ago. He stood in the rain, sandwiched between two guys glaring at each other, his eyes filled with utter despair.

He didn't participate in either side's argument, but walked straight past the two men and headed towards the gray Camry parked behind them.

Ray opened the back door for him.

Leon nodded, then bent down and climbed into the back seat of the police car. He carefully supported Mia's head and knees with his hands and carried her out in his arms.

Mia stirred slightly in her sleep, pressing her cheek against the gunpowder-stained windbreaker on Leon's chest, but she remained asleep.

Leon gently placed her in the back seat of the Camry, and then casually pulled a fairly clean blanket from the trunk and covered her with it.

After doing all this, he closed the car door, walked to the driver's side, took the Camry's car key out and put it in his pocket, then turned around and walked back to the driver's side window of the Ford police car.

Bob and Miller watched the scene outside from inside the car, not daring to make a sound.

Lyon raised his hand and glanced at his watch.

3:04 am.

These two unlucky guys are on the night shift tonight, and they should still have more than four hours before they get off work.

"It's 3:04 now. Normally you would have to patrol for another four hours, but we've already reached this point for tonight."

Leon knocked on the car window, signaling Bob to roll it down. "Drive back to the West End, find a 24-hour donut shop, turn off the walkie-talkies, turn off the lights, and wait until daytime when the shift ends."

He paused, his eyes sweeping over Bob and Miller's faces.

"You guys just went out to slack off late into the night, at worst you'll just get your wages docked."

The subtext of this sentence is something even a rookie fresh out of police academy could understand.

Miller swallowed hard and nodded vigorously.

"Yes, sir. We slept outside the donut shop for most of the night and didn't do any work at all."

Bob breathed a sigh of relief.

Lyon, the Bloods, the homeless community, Sterling, and now the crazy old man in the hat, and even the private soldiers whose backgrounds are unclear.

With the various factions in such a chaotic state, Bob no longer needs to threaten Leon to figure out what to do. Now that Miller isn't doing anything stupid, he can finally relax. He'll definitely keep tonight's events to himself.

Don't worry.

Leon glanced at Bob, said nothing more, and simply patted the roof of the car twice.

"Let's go."

Bob started the engine, the Ford police car made a U-turn, and slowly drove out of the gate of the abandoned industrial area, its taillights quickly disappearing into the dark rain.

As Leon turned around, preparing to go to the factory to oversee the moving progress, a hand reached out and poked his arm.

Lyon looked down and saw MacArthur's serious face.

"Commander, there's something I need to confirm with you."

"What?"

"About Pastor Thomas of St. Jude Church."

Lyon was reaching into his pocket for a cigarette when he heard this and his fingers paused.

"What's wrong with him?"

MacArthur lowered his voice, even though there was nothing around him except the sound of rain.

"When I brought the screwdriver and Cole over tonight, after Pastor Thomas finished stitching up my wound, he took me to the confessional and asked me a question."

"What did he ask you?"

He asked what the community should do in the future.

MacArthur frowned.

"He also mentioned guns, organizations, and the book you gave him, without telling me the specifics."

"What did you say to him?" Leon asked.

I didn't give him a direct answer.

MacArthur straightened his back and spoke in a rigid tone.

"This kind of matter involves the long-term strategic intentions and political program of the entire army. It is not something that I, as the chief of staff, have the authority to disclose to the outside world. It should be replied to by you, the commander, personally."

In fact, MacArthur himself was also very curious about what Leon's ultimate goal was in doing all of this.

Lyon was silent for two seconds.

He recalled the look of confusion mixed with a certain longing in Thomas's eyes when he handed the English paperback anthology to Thomas a few days earlier at St. Jude's Church.

Thomas was a good man and a good doctor, but more importantly, he was an old man whose faith was shaken by the torment of American society.

He now sees the community that Lyon has created: organized, disciplined, and armed.

It would be abnormal if he didn't ask.

"Understood." Leon nodded.

"I'll talk to him later. For now, let's clear out the mess."

MacArthur turned and waved towards the factory.

"Walter! Elton! Grab your tools and come with me! The old construction worker is in charge of perimeter security; report any car lights to me immediately!"

Leon followed MacArthur across the rain-soaked open space, and the two entered the first floor of Steel Works No. 9 one after the other.

The air inside the factory was murky, and rainwater poured in through the broken windows, forming shallow puddles on the cement floor littered with shell casings and glass shards.

Elton was inside counting the weapons. Although he was quick and efficient, it was the first time he had ever seen so many corpses. Every time he stepped over a gangster, he couldn't help but mutter something under his breath.

Walter, on the other hand, had absolutely no psychological barriers to this. He even rummaged through the pockets of several corpses and slammed the unopened packs of cigarettes and a heavy set of car keys he found inside onto the iron table next to him.

Not long after.

"Commander, the initial inventory of the spoils here has been completed."

MacArthur unfolded an old watch he had found in some office, covered with dense pencil writing.

He placed the form on the iron table and gestured for Lyon to come and look at it.

Regarding rifles.

MacArthur ran his finger over the first line of text.

"AR-15, unnumbered black market assembled goods, a total of seventeen. Although the workmanship is rough, the barrel and bolt are in good condition. Most of the captured magazines are filled with green-headed M855 steel-core bullets."

"What about the AK series?"

"Eight of them. They look like secondhand goods smuggled in from Eastern Europe. The stocks are cracked, and the recoil springs on two of them are almost broken. Walter said they will need some time to refurbish."

He pointed to the stairwell deep inside the factory, where five or six Blood Gang thugs lay dead, their bodies scattered haphazardly.

"Regarding handguns, a total of eighteen Glock 17, 19, and 22 series handguns were seized, along with nine Springfield XDs and Smith & Wesson M&Ps, none of which had serial numbers."

"As for the most important spoils of war—"

MacArthur dropped the form and led Leon to the forklift in the corner of the first floor.

Walter was crouching next to a corpse, carefully wiping a light machine gun that was pressed into a pool of blood with a rag stained with machine oil.

The gun's appearance was completely different from that of ordinary M4 series rifles. The barrel was twice as thick as that of a standard rifle, with a heavy metal ammunition box hanging below it. The gun body was covered with a heat-resistant polymer handguard and equipped with a folding bipod.

M249 squad automatic machine gun.

Walter looked up and said, "Boss, this thing is very heavy. It's an M249SAW manufactured by the Belgian company FN, 5.56mm NAT0 caliber, belt-fed, with a theoretical rate of fire of 850 rounds per minute."

He gently touched the scratched serial number plate on the casing with his finger. The number had been roughly ground off with an angle grinder, leaving only a deep, recessed metal groove.

"Back when I was transferred to the front line with the tank repair team, a machine gunner in an infantry squad complained that this thing was too heavy and asked me to modify it for him."

"I'm very familiar with its internal structure. This thing is unmatched in terms of sustained firepower suppression."

"What about the ammunition?" Leon asked.

MacArthur turned to a page of the form.

"Three M249-specific ammunition belt boxes, totaling 600 rounds, plus approximately 1,500 loose 7.62 Warsaw Pact rounds, 2,000 rounds of 9mm pistol ammunition, and approximately 200 rounds of 12-gauge shotgun shells."

"We also found a batch of low-end tactical accessories, including four red dot sights and six tactical flashlights, all of which were taken from these guys' guns and are still working."

He paused, then looked around at the bulletproof vests he had pulled off the corpses and piled up in the corner.

"In terms of protection, of the ten soft bulletproof vests, four were penetrated by rifle bullets, while the remaining six could withstand a few pistol bullets."

Lyon looked around at the equipment and nodded.

"Load everything onto the truck, don't leave anything here."

"clear."

Just then, the factory's large iron gate was slammed open from the outside, and a fat man wearing a black hooded sweatshirt squeezed in.

Alex's face looked even greener under the stark white beam of the work lights, and his hoodie hem and trouser legs were stained with a mixture of dark red blood and sludge.

"————RayFong.

""

Alex leaned against the wall and caught his breath.

"I'm fucking broke—the car is already overflowing."

He reached out and pointed to the refrigerated truck parked crookedly in the rain outside the door.

"I already had three pieces of carcass in my trunk that I picked up on Highway 9 tonight, plus the ones in this building—"

"The Gundam inventory is already full."

Alex counted on his fingers, his expression somewhere between collapse and absurdity.

"Do you know how many bodies I have crammed into the back of my truck right now?"

"By the standard of adult males, my carriage could normally only fit ten bodies, even if we forced them in. Now we've crammed in nearly twenty. The blood in the carriage is almost up to my shoe soles."

"How much is left to move?" Lyon looked into the depths of the factory.

"At least thirty," MacArthur answered on Alex's behalf.

"They mainly die in clusters at stairwells and near windows, making them difficult to move."

Alex let out a desperate groan.

Lyon glanced at him and sighed.

"Take the rest to the old boiler room behind the factory, close the door tightly, and deliver it first. Alex, meet me at Thomas's place after you're done."

"Okay." Alex rubbed his face and sighed.

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