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

The burly man was in a frenzied state, slamming his aluminum baseball bat heavily against the C-pillar of the Mercedes, producing a piercing metallic clang.

The Mercedes driver huddled in the driver's seat, frantically honking the horn.

"Seattle Police! Get down on the ground! Now!"

Bob stopped about five meters away from the man, gripping the Taser with both hands, the red laser sight flickering on the burly man's thick hoodie.

The burly man ignored him completely. He didn't even turn his head. He let out a low growl like a wild beast and smashed the rear windshield with another blow.

"Go to hell, you damned bureaucrat!"

The burly man suddenly roared.

"Hold!"

Bob cursed and promptly pulled the trigger.

Two Taser probes with wires shot out with a "snap" and accurately pierced the strong man's back.

Logically, a 50,000-volt high-voltage current would instantly take over the target's nervous system, causing him to fall straight down like a piece of wood.

But reality didn't follow the script.

The burly man only convulsed violently for a moment; his legs didn't even bend.

He turned around abruptly, and the electrified wires seemed so fragile in front of that technologically advanced and ruthless body that he snapped them in one swift motion.

His pupils were so dilated they almost filled his entire eyeballs, and his eyes were filled with a primal, murderous desire fueled by rage.

In that instant, the burly man dropped his baseball bat and swiftly reached for his lower back.

From Lyon's perspective, the world seems to be in slow motion.

He saw a rusty .38 revolver at the burly man's waist, his fingers trying to hook into the guard.

Without any hesitation, the Glock 17 completed its push-fire and eye-level maneuver in a fraction of a second.

He felt the cold touch of the thick gun handle against his palm, which made his heart, which should have been pounding wildly, as steady as a rock.

At the same time, Bob had just thrown away the Taser, which had become scrap metal, and was about to draw the pistol from his waist with his right hand.

His observation skills were not as good as Lyon's, and he didn't see the black man's revolver in his back waist, but he wasn't blind; the other man's movements clearly indicated that he was going to draw his gun.

Years of accumulated survival instincts made his temples throb violently. Seeing that Leon was about to fire, he subconsciously let out a distorted roar.

"Police! Don't move!"

Almost at the same second, Lyon also issued a warning as per protocol.

"Drop it! Drop it!"

Their shouts overlapped.

However, Lyon had actually pulled the trigger before he finished his speech.

For frontline patrol officers, this kind of shouting is not really to give the other party time to react, or to expect the person about to draw their gun to surrender, but more to complete the notification of legal procedures.

In the free United States, where everyone carries a gun, if you actually wait for the suspect to hear the instructions and decide whether to obey before deciding whether to fire, your family will most likely receive a neatly folded American flag at your funeral very soon.

Action is intention.

"Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!"

Five sharp, rhythmic gunshots ripped through the damp, cold air of Seattle.

The Glock 17's slide recoiled rapidly, ejecting five hot, gunpowder-smelling brass-colored cartridge cases from the ejection port. They bounced on the concrete floor with a crisp metallic clang.

Leon didn't resort to any dramatic scenes like wrist injuries; that would be playing with his life.

Normally, once fire is opened, the sole purpose is to "continue firing until the threat ceases."

The most effective way to stop them is to fire a barrage of shots at their torso.

Sparks erupted from the muzzle as five 9mm bullets, arranged in a triangular pattern, precisely pierced the burly man's chest within fractions of a second.

The immense impact brought the black man to a standstill. His body, stiffened by the drugs, lurched backward, and before he could even fire his .38 rifle, he crashed heavily onto the asphalt.

The smell of gunpowder quickly filled the humid air.

"1-Lincoln-14, firefight, suspect shot and down! Call an ambulance!"

Leon pointed his gun at the fallen body with one hand, while his other hand gripped the walkie-talkie on his shoulder, giving a rapid-fire report.

Old Bob, standing behind him, finally drew his pistol. He was breathing heavily, his eyes showing a hint of lingering fear, but mostly a predictable, blank expression.

He glanced at the black man on the ground, then at the composed Leon, and his lips twitched involuntarily.

Those five shots were far too safe.

"Miller! Stop standing there! Look around!"

Bob yelled at the terrified newcomers, "Watch out for those homeless people! Don't let anyone near them!"

"Cover me, Bob."

"Leon said in a deep voice, his Glock 17 still pointing diagonally forward, and he continued to advance steadily with tactical steps."

"Roger that, I'm covering for you."

Bob held the gun with both hands, the muzzle pointed at the still convulsing body on the ground. Although his breathing was rapid, he didn't forget to get down to business.

The burly black man was now lying paralyzed in a pool of blood, with several gruesome holes torn in the fabric of his chest, and blood was spreading rapidly along the fibers of his clothes.

Lyon walked up to the suspect and kicked the rusty .38 revolver several meters away, making sure it was out of the suspect's reach.

Immediately afterwards, he knelt down on one knee and put his entire weight on the back of the burly black man.

"Hand! Give me your hand!"

Even though the suspect seemed unable to control his sphincter at this point, Leon still yelled the order, and according to the Seattle Police Department's SOP (Standard Operating Procedure), handcuffing was the first step without fail.

He roughly grabbed the suspect's two limp arms and twisted them behind his back.

"Click."

The crisp sound of Smith Wesson's handcuffs snapping shut rang out.

Lyon quickly reached out and groped the sweatshirt, which reeked of sweat and urine.

There were no other guns on his waist, and in his pocket were a few crumpled one-dollar bills, a small plastic bag containing white powder, and two used needles.

"Watch out for the needle," he cursed inwardly, his fingers carefully avoiding the deadly trash.

After confirming there were no other threats, Leon straightened up, but he didn't stop.

He glanced at Bob, gesturing with his chin towards the damaged Mercedes:

"Bob, go check on the Mercedes driver and see if he's injured."

As he gave the orders, Leon pulled a first-aid kit (IFAK) from his tactical vest.

"Miller, keep guarding the perimeter. Don't let those bastards filming short videos get too close!"

"clear."

Bob immediately understood and put away his gun, then walked toward the Mercedes that was still honking its horn intermittently.

Lyon knew perfectly well that this guy was dead.

Five 9mm bullets, at that distance, would probably have rotted the lungs to a pulp. Even a miracle couldn't save them.

But he had to save him.

If he doesn't save him, the body camera footage will become irrefutable evidence in court against him for "intentional disregard for life," "excessive use of force," "malicious murder," or something similar.

In the United States, police officers can certainly fire directly at suspects within regulations, but once they confirm that the suspect is no longer a threat, they must immediately transform themselves into angels saving lives; otherwise, the millions of dollars in civil damages could bankrupt Lyon instantly.

"First aid is being administered!"

Leon shouted something, mainly for the microphone to hear.

He forcefully tore open the suspect's blood-soaked hoodie, slammed two chest seal patches with one-way valves onto the bubbling bullet hole, then clasped his hands together and began CPR.

With each press, I could feel the shattered organs under my ribs being squeezed.

Fresh blood squeezed out from between his fingers, slippery, warm, and with a strong rusty smell.

This feeling is wonderful.

He had just personally inserted five bullets into this body, and now he was going to great lengths to pretend to pull the other person back from the clutches of death, just so that those shrewd lawyers wouldn't have a pretext to sue him.

"Call dispatch center," Leon said, pressing his hand on his microphone. "The suspect is subdued, has multiple gunshot wounds, and is undergoing CPR. We need emergency medical services (EMS) to be on the scene immediately."

"Received, 1-Lincoln-14. The medical team (EMS), Sergeant 1-Kilo-5 (District Supervisor), and follow-up support units are on their way and are expected to arrive in three minutes. Keep the channel open."