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

"Do you see those cars?"

Bob pointed to the flowing river of cars in front of him, "Every car is a walking dollar bill."

Just then, an extremely over-the-top black Ford Mustang GT roared past them with a deep, rumbling engine.

A typical spirited young man's chariot, though it wasn't actually speeding, but that's not important.

"Isn't this just them handing us money?"

Bob chuckled.

"Illegal exhaust modifications, smoked taillights causing insufficient brightness... you could probably find a whole host of other problems if you looked around."

"This whole process should result in at least a $300 fine."

"Moreover, these young men who drive modified cars are usually very straightforward. They know their cars are illegal, and as long as their cars aren't impounded, they'll pay up faster than anyone else. They'll never go to court to appeal or argue with you."

Miller was stunned.

"Then...shall we make our move?"

"Lights on"

Bob turned the steering wheel, and the Crown Victoria nimbly slid behind the Ford Mustang.

"Waaah—waaah!"

The short siren blared twice, accompanied by two sudden flashes of red and blue lights.

The brake lights of the car in front immediately turned on. The driver was clearly startled, and somewhat flusteredly turned on his turn signal, obediently pulling over to the side of the road next to a curb.

Bob nodded in satisfaction, slowed down, and pulled the handbrake.

He patted his uniform, straightened his police cap, and instantly his lazy expression vanished, replaced by a serious, businesslike demeanor.

"Don't be nervous. Take your hands off the gun. He's just a rich, clueless kid who likes cars, not a drug dealer. But look serious, move slowly, and scare them a little."

"Let that poor kid be nervous for two minutes first. That's when his mental defenses are most vulnerable, and then we'll go up and issue the ticket."

Bob swaggered ahead, and as per procedure, he pressed his fingerprint firmly onto the Mustang's taillight as he passed it.

Then, he reached out and tapped on the completely dark car window.

Oh, with this level of sunshade, this car window glass is also against regulations.

"Knock knock knock"

As the car window with its excessively thick tinted film slowly rolled down...

It didn't smell like cheap cologne or cigarettes as I had expected.

A strong smell, like burnt plastic mixed with a slightly sweet aroma, wafted out.

Holy crap, ice

It was freshly baked in the car.

"Hold"

Bob jolted violently; decades of street experience had made his body react faster than his brain.

Almost the instant he caught a whiff of the aroma, his body, which had been lazily leaning against the car window, jerked back abruptly, his right hand instinctively reaching for the gun at his waist.

But the madman in the passenger seat was faster than him.

Or rather, these people who are high on drugs simply lack the brain circuitry of hesitation or weighing the pros and cons.

The man sitting in the passenger seat had a face covered in festering sores and tattooed arms.

Before Bob could even see his face clearly, he yelled and rammed past the terrified young driver, slamming a short-barreled submachine gun through the car window.

"Die! Pigs!!"

"Da da da da da!!!"

Flames shot from the muzzle

"You fucking lunatic!"

Bob immediately went numb on one side of his body; he had been hit in the shoulder and abdomen.

Blood spurted out instantly, staining his newly donned uniform crimson.

He screamed and fell backward in a sorry state, rolling on the ground with the momentum, awkwardly hiding behind the Mustang's blind spot.

He was in so much pain his jaw was chattering, and he was cursing wildly in his head.

These brainless idiots! He just wants to generate revenue by issuing a few hundred dollars in tickets!

Even if they find drugs in the car, it's just a few years in jail. This guy just opened fire on the police. Does he have a death wish?

But how can you discuss logic with someone who has ice skating?

"Fire! Bob's been shot! Fuck! Fuck!"

Miller, who was standing guard to the side and rear, was so frightened by the sudden gunshot that he almost lost his mind.

This time, he didn't freeze up. The moment Bob collapsed, adrenaline took over Miller's brain.

With a scream, he pulled out his Glock 19, his hands trembling as he pointed it at the side window of the Mustang that was spraying bullets, and pulled the trigger without a second thought.

"Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!"

Despite his trembling hands, most of the bullets hit the Mustang's door and the roadside trash cans, but did not hit the people inside.

But the stray bullets successfully forced the madman, who was about to stick his body out to finish off the madman, back down.

"Drive! Are you waiting to die?! Drive!!"

The madman in the passenger seat shrank further under the seat while pounding the driver's head with the hot barrel of his gun, hysterically roaring, "Run them over! Run!"

The young man in the driver's seat, who looked only seventeen or eighteen, had obviously taken less and was now completely terrified by the scene.

He gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands, his forehead covered in sweat.

Looking at Miller, who was still firing at the car, then at his companion who was still yelling wildly, and finally at the brakes he shouldn't have stepped on.

"I wanted to park! I wanted to pay the ticket! Why the hell did you shoot?!"

The driver screamed in despair, but after the equally incoherent man in the back seat held a dagger to his neck, he could only slam his foot on the gas pedal.

"Buzz—!!!"

The modified Mustang, streaking with sparks and leaving behind the window that hadn't been closed, sped off like a madman.

Bob, clutching his bleeding left shoulder and side, knelt on the ground, his face deathly pale, watching the taillights of the car disappear at the end of the street, wincing in pain.

"Miller! Calling... hiss... calling for backup! Everyone!"

"Those sons of bitches have gone mad! Tell everyone in Seattle to stop those three rabid dogs!"

Miller felt as if his eardrums had been pierced with steel needles, and a buzzing sound filled his ears.

But he paid no heed to his ears; Glock was haphazardly shoved back into its holster, and he pounced on Bob on all fours.

"Bob, Bob, hang in there!"

Blood was gushing out of Bob's left shoulder and side like a tap that had been turned on.

The dark red liquid spread instantly across the grayish-white cement floor, filling the air with a fishy stench.

"Damn it! Damn it!"

Miller stared blankly at the wound, which revealed bone beneath.

But in that very instant, the memory that Bob had emphasized came back to mind.

If you don't know what to do, press on the bleeding point.

If that still doesn't work, call in all the damn support and call in reinforcements.

He ripped the walkie-talkie off his shoulder, and, with a sob in his voice, shouted into the microphone:

「10-13，10-13！（警员倒地）1-Adam-12遭遇伏击！」

"My partner got shot! Repeat, my partner got shot!"

"Located at the intersection of Second Avenue and Bell Street, we need emergency medical assistance, we need all the damn support!"

"The suspect is driving a black, modified Ford Mustang and is fleeing eastward; the vehicle is heavily armed!"

After shouting that, Miller didn't even have time to hear the other party's response before throwing the walkie-talkie aside.

With his hands, which trembled as if he were in the late stages of Parkinson's, he desperately tried to pull at the first-aid kit on his tactical vest.

With a tearing sound, the Velcro was ripped open, and the hemostatic powder and tourniquet fell to the ground.

"God... don't die... please, Bob, don't die here..."

Miller muttered incoherently as he picked up a piece of tactical hemostatic gauze and pressed it hard against Bob's still bubbling side wound.

"Cough cough... Pfft..."

The intense pressure caused Bob, who was already on the verge of fainting from the pain, to suddenly spit out a mouthful of bloody saliva.

He struggled to open his eyes and saw Miller riding on top of him, his face covered in tears and snot. He was instantly furious.

"Damn it... I'm not dead yet! You're fucking killing me..."

"Miller, you little brat, if you keep wailing... I'll definitely strangle you first..."

"Don't talk, Bob! You'll be alright!"

Miller pressed his weight onto the wound, his hands covered in blood.

"..."

Bob gasped in pain, his eyes glazed over. He raised his uninjured hand and slapped Miller on the head.

"Stop yelling at me... Get to work! That's a shoulder! You can't use a tourniquet on a shoulder... Put a tourniquet on me, you idiot!"

"Also... keep an eye on our surroundings... in case they turn around and attack again..."

"Wait for the ambulance... until then... don't fucking let me fall asleep..."