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

Lyon glanced up at the outside and saw the new recruit named Miller gripping his pistol tightly, his face pale.

But at least he didn't embarrass himself by squatting on the ground to vomit, and he even blocked several black men who were trying to cross the pedestrian crossing and frantically taking pictures with their phones.

"They did a decent job; at least they didn't mess things up at this crucial time."

Lyon made a mental assessment.

Meanwhile, Bob checked the Mercedes owner's driver's license and documents, confirming that he was just an unlucky victim who had been brought back from there.

The middle-class man in the expensive suit was quite frightened, but he didn't lose a single part of his body.

In such a rear-end collision, as long as he wasn't hit in the head on the spot, his only losses might be an increase in next month's insurance premium and some psychological trauma caused by the shock.

"It's nothing, that guy was just scared."

Bob walked over, glanced down at the lifeless black man on the ground, then at Leon's blood-soaked hands, and his lips twitched.

"I'm telling you, Leon... do you think there's any point in continuing to use this thing?"

Bob lowered his voice and muttered in a volume that only the two of them could hear.

"That guy's lungs are full of lead. Every time you press on them, blood bubbles come out. His soul is probably already floating up to the top of Mount Olympus."

Leon didn't speak, but pressed down a few more times with all his might. When he felt that the body had completely lost all life, he slowly stood up.

He pulled a disinfectant wipe from the side pocket of his tactical vest, casually wiped the bloodstains on his hand, and began whispering in Bob's ear.

"I have to leave some material for those office bastards in the IA to say I haven't fulfilled my humanitarian obligations."

Bob sighed, reached out and patted Leon's shoulder heavily, his eyes filled with the recognition of a seasoned veteran for an elite, and a hint of relief at surviving a close call.

"Thanks, buddy. If it were just me and that rookie Miller today, I'd probably be lying there right now. I owe you a big meal, any steakhouse in Seattle, you name it."

Leon crumpled the blood-stained wipe into a ball and tossed it aside. He glanced at Bob, his eyes deep, and said abruptly:

"Police Warning."

Bob was stunned for a moment, not quite understanding.

"What?"

"I have to say, that police warning you just gave was pretty professional," Leon said, a smirk playing on his lips, and gave Bob a look.

Bob paused for two seconds, then the wrinkles on his old face suddenly smoothed out, revealing a knowing and understanding smile.

He was referring to the instinctive shout he uttered, "Police! Don't move!" as he fired his gun in Lyon.

The two corroborated each other's statements, making it even harder for Lyon to be found fault.

"Hey, I got it. Leave the rest to me."

Bob winked at Lyon.

It's nothing more than describing in the report how fast the black guy drew his gun and how he ignored what I said.

However, as Bob turned to get the yellow caution tape, he couldn't help but have some doubts.

He knew for a long time that Leon was ridiculously strong, but this was, after all, the first time Leon had ever been involved in a gunfight in front of him.

This kid seems not only strong, but also very cautious, even a bit too cautious in his opinion.

The black man on the ground was clearly a low-level scum whose brain had been damaged by fentanyl or some other enhancer; the car was probably stolen too.

Even if Leon had shot him dead, in Seattle's security climate, it would have been just a routine investigation.

"It's so great to be young, you never seem to get tired."

Bob shook his head and began to put up bright yellow strips around the scene.

At the far end of the street, Lyon could already see the flashing lights of an ambulance and the silhouette of the police sergeant's large SUV.

[Mission: Handling the violence in front of Seattle Trust Bank - Completed]

[Summary: Armed robbery suspect killed, successfully protecting public safety]

Participation rate: 85%

[Reward: 300 Justice Points]

The 300 points earned instantly dispelled much of the gloom Lyon felt from the smell of blood and gunpowder.

These 300 points are enough for him to gain another 1 point in his attribute.

But he forcibly suppressed the urge to add points immediately.

Now is not the time to become stronger; there are still troubles to deal with.

The ambulance siren grew louder as it approached, finally stopping abruptly beside the damaged Cherokee.

Two paramedics in dark blue uniforms, carrying heavy first-aid kits, jumped out of the vehicle and nimbly crossed the cordon.

One of the middle-aged white men glanced at Leon's blood-covered hands and the mangled corpse, then looked up at Leon with a look of helplessness that said, "Here we go again."

He crouched down, perfunctorily felt the suspect's half-cold carotid artery, then examined the dilated pupils, before turning to his colleague and shaking his head.

"Announcement time: 10:24 AM, death at the scene."

Although Leon knew two minutes earlier that the guy had gone to meet his maker, he certainly wouldn't say something like "the suspect is dead" on the radio.

In Seattle, or indeed throughout the United States, patrol officers do not have the legal authority to declare someone dead.

If you write "I confirm he is dead" in your report, the Department of the Interior's lawyers can use that detail to sue you until you question your very existence.

"Officer Vance, did you attend medical school? How did you bypass the medical examination and directly determine that the person had lost vital signs?"

Therefore, he could only say "fell to the ground" or "subdued".

The rest must be left to these professionals who wield scalpels or stethoscopes.

As the ambulance siren turned to a low, standby mode, a black Ford Explorer SUV pulled up behind the patrol car.

The car door opened, and a burly, middle-aged white male police sergeant stepped out.

This is Sergeant Danfoss, the field supervisor of Leon's branch office and Leon's direct superior.

He is just over forty years old this year. Due to his long-term fitness habit, his dark blue uniform shirt is clearly defined by his chest and latissimus dorsi muscles.

He exuded the kind of toughness that old-school policemen develop from smoking and drinking coffee, even though he had deep forehead wrinkles.

He glanced at the brass shell casings scattered on the ground, then looked at Leon, who was calmly wiping his hands, and his brows furrowed into a deep frown.

That face, which was already dark from staying up late for a long time, looked even darker now.

"Vans".

Danfoss strode over, the equipment on his belt clanging dully with each step.

"Are you serious? You've only been back from your administrative leave for less than two weeks, what happened?"

"Do you think the coffee on your paid leave is better than the coffee at the police station, so you have to make a fuss so you can go home and stay there?"

Lyon immediately straightened up, his face displaying the perfect innocent subordinate expression. He even puffed out his chest, his tone sounding exceptionally righteous.

"Sir, your words have seriously damaged the professional enthusiasm of a patrol officer who is fighting on the front line of maintaining public order."

"As a member of the Seattle Police Department, I was just doing my duty to maintain public safety."

"At that time, the suspect had already demonstrated an intent to kill, according to Section 15, Paragraph 3 of the Police Manual and the Graham v. Connor standard."

"All the actions I have taken are based on ensuring public safety and protecting the lives of police officers."

"To be honest, I think Seattle City Hall should give me a red flower instead of letting you bully me here with this kind of prejudiced workplace bullying."

"Sir, I'm doing this to save taxpayers money on subsequent trial and detention costs."

This incredibly smooth combo was so powerful that Bob next to him was trying hard to suppress his laughter.

Danfoss's lips twitched twice. He knew, of course, that Lyon was talking nonsense, but there was absolutely nothing wrong with what he said.

"Stop with your nonsense, Lyon. Save that for those old fogies in the Internal Affairs Department."

Danfoss sighed, the sharpness in his eyes softening slightly. "Are you alright?"

"Great, except these tactical boots might be ruined, and the bloodstains on them will be hard to wash off."

Lyon shrugged.

"That's fine then."

Danfoss nodded, his expression turning serious.

"Following the standard operating procedure (SOP), take the Glock out of your belt, eject the cartridges, lock the slide, and then hand it to me."

Without a word, Lyon deftly removed the magazine, pulled back the slide to ensure the chamber was empty, and finally handed the still-smelling gunpowder to Danfoss.

As the object of the shooting, the gun will be sealed as evidence.

"Go sit in the car. Before the Internal Affairs Department personnel come to take your statement, you are not allowed to discuss anything about the case with Bob or Miller, understand what I mean?"

Danfoss put the gun into the evidence bag and gave Leon a look that said, "I'm protecting you."

"Understood, sir."

Lyon made a zipping gesture, then turned and walked toward the patrol car.