The American kill line? I, a demon hunter, don't eat beef.

Chapter 7 Shooting Incident

"Fuck! Shooting! Shooting! An officer has been shot! Calling for backup!"

Miles Joe leaned back against the trunk, roaring into the walkie-talkie in front of his chest, his left hand pressing tightly against the wound on his shoulder, blood gushing out and staining half of his police uniform red.

Not far away, the white gunman was unusually excited, holding a shotgun, stepping over the body on the ground, and approaching the police car step by step.

……

ten minutes ago

Miles, a white police officer, was patrolling the Silver Lake area with his partner, Officer Mike, in a Ford Explorer, as usual.

As the workday was drawing to a close, a dispatch came from the command center.

"Police badge number 41B, a serious fight has occurred at No. 169, Silver Lake District. Please proceed to investigate."

41B was Miles's badge number, so after he replied that he had received it, he immediately drove to the designated location.

"Oh my god! I just got this assignment right before I was about to leave work. I swear I'm going to kick those two fighting guys' asses with the tip of my shoe!"

Mike sat in the passenger seat, grumbling impatiently, plotting how to make the guy who made him get off work late suffer.

Miles smiled helplessly and didn't say anything; he was already used to his partner's volatile temper.

With flashing police lights and the accelerator floored, they quickly arrived at the scene of the crime amidst the roar of the Ford V6 engine.

Mike opened the car door first and strode into the courtyard of No. 169 Silver Lake District, banging loudly on the door.

"Open the door! Los Angeles Police Department!"

Several minutes passed, and no one answered.

Mike's impatience deepened, and he knocked on the door even harder.

"Open the door!"

However, no matter how much he knocked on the door, there was no sound inside, as if no one was there at all.

Miles, who had just parked his car, also came up.

When no one answered his knocks, he went around to the glass window in the courtyard and peered into the house.

A sweet, cloying smell wafted from the living room and entered his nostrils.

Miles immediately became alert.

Having served as a Los Angeles police officer for eight years, his experience allowed him to immediately recognize the smell of marijuana.

Is someone smoking marijuana inside?

Out of caution, Miles deftly drew his pistol, cocked it, and stopped Mike, who was still persistently knocking on the door.

He spoke in a low voice into the walkie-talkie on his chest.

"Headquarters, this is SWAT number 41B. There is a suspected marijuana overdose at 169 Silver Lake. Requesting backup."

"Police badge number 41B, received by headquarters, dispatching nearby officers."

After reporting it, Miles told Mike to guard the front door while he went to try to get into the villa through the back door.

Miles gripped his pistol tightly, about to step forward and circle around behind him.

With a loud thud, his right shoulder went numb, as if someone had pressed down on a nerve.

"Fuck! Someone's shooting!"

Mike reacted first, forcefully tackling Miles to the ground and using the yard fence to block the gunman's view.

Only then did Miles feel a piercing pain.

"Joe! Are you alright, Joe!"

Mike frantically pulled out his pistol, using it to block the entrance to the courtyard while tearing open Miles' uniform with one hand to check where he had been shot.

Miles, panting heavily, put his left hand on his shoulder and shook his head.

"I'm not going to die for now. I've already called for backup."

Hearing this, Mike breathed a sigh of relief. He squatted down, gritting his teeth, and said, "Damn it, where did he fire the shot?"

Miles was about to speak.

Another bang, wood chips flew everywhere, and a section of the fence was shattered by a bullet.

Then several more shots were fired.

boom! boom! boom!

The fence was smashed piece by piece.

Seeing the gunfire getting closer and closer to Miles and his men, the two had no choice but to get up and run toward the Ford police car.

boom!

The moment they stood up, another shot rang out. The bullet seemed to have eyes, hitting Mike, who was running behind Miles, precisely in the back and immediately piercing through his bulletproof vest.

Mike let out a muffled groan, then fell heavily to the ground, instantly falling silent. His back was riddled with bullet holes, and blood gushed out like a fountain.

Unlike shotguns in shooting games that require close-range face-to-face contact to kill with a single shot, this is different.

In reality, the effective range of this weapon is about 50 to 100 meters. Once hit within this range, even if you are wearing a bulletproof vest, the huge impact will cause your internal organs to rupture instantly, leaving you with no chance of survival.

"Mike!!!"

Miles hid behind the car, covering his face in pain, and almost roared into the walkie-talkie.

"Shooting! Shooting at 169 Silver Lake! Police officer shot!!!"

At that moment, a white man wearing a yellow shirt finally crawled out of a clump of grass across from 169th Street.

He held up a Remington 870 pump-action shotgun and excitedly loaded it with bullets.

With each shot he inserted, he pulled the trigger, getting closer to the police car.

The man, looking excited, fired another shot at the microphone on the ground.

"Do bullets taste good? You bunch of politicians' lackeys!"

"F*** you"

"I joined the army at eighteen, shed blood and sweat for this country, and what was the result?!"

"I won the war, and all I got in severance pay was two thousand dollars! Not even enough for one psychologist visit! And you bunch of lackeys dragged my house and car down to pay off debts!"

"F******you!"

As he spoke, he raised his hand and fired another shot.

The police car window was smashed, and the falling glass shards covered Miles's face in blood.

Miles didn't answer, because the wound on his shoulder hadn't been treated and the prolonged blood loss had nearly made him faint.

The nearest reinforcements will take at least twenty minutes to arrive.

But now he doesn't even have the strength to twitch his fingers.

Thinking of this, Miles closed his eyes in despair, quietly awaiting death.

But then, a broken English voice with a thick Asian accent rang in his ears.

"oi".

"Sir, do you need help?"

Miles paused for a moment, then turned his head to look at a handsome but unfamiliar Asian man who was smiling at him.

The visitor was none other than Zhou Feng, a model citizen.