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

Lyon abruptly released his grip on Perkins's hand and pointed to the dark industrial area outside the window:

"If the goods are transferred within this hour, I will personally send tonight's recording to Chief Sterling."

"Give her a good talking about at tomorrow's press conference how the FBI let Seattle's biggest drug lord escape due to procedural issues!"

Perkins broke out in a cold sweat down his temples.

He glanced at Leon's expression, which seemed ready to pull out a gun and kill at any moment, and then at the empty streets displayed on Kevin's computer screen.

He knew Leon was right.

If this is a trap, then now is the only window of opportunity.

"I...I'll contact Team Leader Hayes right away."

Perkins picked up the specially made satellite phone with trembling hands.

Lyon sat back in the passenger seat, his eyes fixed on the rain outside the window.

His body began to slowly secrete adrenaline, and the calmness of entering a hunting state made his fingertips feel slightly hot.

"Carlos, turn off all the headlights!"

"Jacob, take the safety off the gun!"

"Mia, grab your camera and recorder!"

"Bang!"

At that very moment, a muffled gunshot rang out without warning from the car radio's public channel, shattering the tranquility of the rainy night.

It was clearly the sound of a large-caliber rifle, completely different from the crisp "bang" sound of the Glock or cheap Tec-9 submachine guns commonly used by street gangs.

Immediately following was the sound of a walkie-talkie falling to the ground, and Harrison's distorted scream:

"Take cover!! There's a sniper!! Repeat! There's a sniper!"

"We were ambushed at point 3 in area C. My man was hit, damn it! He's on high ground, I can't see him!"

"Sizzle—"

The static, mixed with the gunfire from the officers, instantly drowned out Harrison's voice.

Perkins nearly dropped the satellite phone in his hand, his previous air of sophistication vanished, and his face turned deathly pale.

"A sniper? Here?"

"Stop staring! This is the evidence you wanted!"

Leon grabbed Perkins by the shoulder, shoved him back into his chair, and pointed a menacing look at the microphone:

"Tell Hayes that if his task force is still dawdling around drinking coffee, he should prepare to throw this shipment away! And while he's at it, he can hand it over to the Seattle Police Department's ACU to collect the bodies!"

"Tell him we're under suppression by military fire!"

……

My gaze pierced through the rain and focused on the roller shutter door of warehouse number 4, three hundred meters away.

The atmosphere here was also extremely tense.

The huge roller shutter door was tightly closed, and a few dim industrial chandeliers swayed overhead.

Darlis King, the younger brother of Marcus, the head of a branch of the West Side Bloods in Seattle, was pacing anxiously back and forth next to a black Cadillac SUV.

He looked to be under thirty, dressed in an incredibly expensive designer tracksuit and with a thick gold chain around his neck, but this outfit offered him no sense of security whatsoever.

He kept wiping the cold sweat from his forehead, his eyes fierce, yet revealing an undisguised panic.

In this era where using one's criminal past to support one's legitimate career, bigwigs like his brother Marcus have long since gone straight to the legal world.

Marcus, the older brother, is a businessman.

He would wear a bespoke suit, sit in his downtown office, have coffee with lawyers, launder money through car washes, barbershops, and shell real estate companies, and even attend fundraising dinners hosted by city councilors.

His criminal record must be cleaner than a virgin's bedsheets, free from any direct violent crimes.

A big shot can't afford to get their hands dirty.

Therefore, this dirty and tiring work that required risking one's life naturally fell to Darlis, the "good-for-nothing" younger brother.

For tasks like transporting drugs and weapons like this, he has to personally lead the team.

Only in this way, if something goes wrong, can the older brother stay out of it, use the clean money he earns to hire the best legal team, or preserve the family's foundation in this cruel jungle and abandon him as a pawn.

Although Darlis is nominally the second-in-command, he is actually a high-ranking enforcer and executive officer.

But that doesn't mean he's brainless.

On the contrary, he was very clear about what this mission meant.

"Damn it, why aren't those cops leaving yet?"

Darlis gritted his teeth and glanced back at his men who were loading boxes onto the truck.

For this operation, their branch has staked everything they have.

There's nothing we can do about it.

The recent clash with the Aryan Brotherhood was extremely fierce; it was a real war of attrition with swords and spears.

The top executives at headquarters suffered heavy casualties and simply couldn't spare any extra manpower to support this transfer.

If there weren't so few other people available, this kind of high-risk job wouldn't be assigned to their second-level branch.

But precisely because of this, it is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

If this shipment can be delivered safely, the large sum of cash and heavy weapons they receive in return will be enough to give their branch the most influence within the gang, and could even allow his brother Marcus to become the head of the West District.

At that time, Dalis will also be able to get a large piece of land, enough to retire in Miami even if he retires.

To ensure everything went perfectly, Darlis not only brought more than a dozen of the most daring and ruthless street shooters, but also spent a fortune, literally emptying the entire quarter's profits, to hire a tactical team of five retired soldiers.

Apart from one sniper who had been separated from the others, the remaining four men were currently surrounding the convoy.

They weren't wearing flashy gang uniforms, but rather uniform black combat suits and tactical vests without any markings.

He was holding an HK416 equipped with a silencer and a red dot sight. His movements were efficient and silent, a stark contrast to the group of thugs around him who only knew how to hold their guns horizontally.

"Boss, the obstacle clearing is complete."

A burly white man with a scar on his face and eyes as cold as ice walked over.

He is the captain of this mercenary squad, codenamed "Viper".

The homeless man who was dealt with so meticulously was the work of "Viper".

This wasn't for interrogation or to intimidate anyone; it was purely his personal way of relieving stress.

His long overseas combat career was marred by excessive killing and bloodshed, which led to severe PTSD. Of course, the large amount of military-grade enhancers may have also contributed to this.

In short, according to procedure, a veteran like him, who suffers from severe post-traumatic stress disorder and has antisocial tendencies, should have received long-term mandatory psychological intervention and isolation treatment.

But in the eyes of the U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs (VA), he was just a consumable.

The high cost of treatment and the potential for further investment led the government to turn a blind eye, giving him only a few bottles of painkillers and antidepressants before kicking him back into society.

Thus, a top-tier killing machine trained with taxpayers' money was transformed into a monster roaming the shadows of Seattle.

He didn't care who he was fighting for; as long as he got paid and could keep firing, he was willing to risk his life for anyone.