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

Just as Lyon was gritting his teeth over a pot of tomato noodles, his cell phone, which was lying on the stove, rang.

He checked his phone and saw an urgent recruitment message in a community church contact group:

[Urgent Notice! The volunteer scheduled for the 3 PM relief point in the community square is unavailable due to unforeseen circumstances. We urgently need one more person to assist with food distribution. God bless every selfless person!]

"Fuck God, God's busy helping that old man Bitden count his money right now."

Lyon couldn't help but mutter a curse under his breath.

The "Old Braden" he mentioned was Reverend Anderson of the local church, a typical white religious businessman.

That guy's specialty is wearing a smart suit or a priest's robe and standing on the platform to persuade blue-collar workers who earn less than a thousand dollars a week to donate their tithes.

As a result, this old man received the donation and immediately went to pick up a brand new Lincoln.

As for things like pipes that need repair in the community, he would always just say, "God has a plan."

Then they outsource all the dirty and tiring work at low prices, or simply trick the naive young men in the community into doing unpaid work.

Lyon had lived here for two years and had long seen through the charlatans' greedy faces.

Based on his temperament in his previous life, he wouldn't even glance at this kind of information; he would probably spit on it.

But in this free America, he couldn't.

The neighborhood where this apartment building is located, though poor, is full of blue-collar redneck men wearing dirty Decathlon overalls and with national flags stuck in their truck beds.

These people may not have a good impression of the government, but they are truly fanatical about God and the country.

As one of the few police officers in this community, Lyon's identity is actually quite complicated.

If you are a model neighbor who goes to church every week and occasionally distributes relief food, these rednecks will treat you like one of their own when they see you on the street, and they will give you a lot of face when you handle neighborhood disputes.

But what if you dare to publicly declare yourself an atheist who doesn't believe in God?

Haha, those guys who always have a grudge against the police could smash all your windows in a heartbeat and shoot your car a few times while they're at it.

You should know that unless they're really desperate, these redneck guys all have guns at home. The so-called "small caliber guns get out of America" ​​means that no one wants to easily make enemies with these guys.

"I can't let my public image crumble..."

Lyon gritted his teeth and shoved his phone back into his pocket.

Since he can't go out and mob with a gun during his leave, he can go to the community square to hand out bread to the poor guys and solidify his "devout white cop" persona, right?

He ripped off his vest, tossed it into the washing machine, pulled a simple gray hoodie from the closet and put it on, then walked to the corner of the living room and opened the gun cabinet.

Several large weapons of varying lengths were neatly hung inside.

Besides the few service guns issued by the police station, there are also many other valuable items he obtained through the system or by trading privately.

He had originally reached out to grab a Sig Sauer P320.

The grip of this gun is indeed excellent, and its pointing accuracy is superb.

But before Leon could even touch the gun handle, he pulled his hand back.

"Never mind, this thing has been making headlines all over the news lately."

He recalled a briefing he had just seen a few days ago, in which a US soldier's Sig Sauer mysteriously jammed while he was being pursued, and there were also rumors that the gun had a serious risk of accidental discharge upon falling.

Although the manufacturer has been trying to win him over, he doesn't want to accidentally sprain his toe while bending over to hand out bread to his poor friends.

"It still has to be Glock, even though it's a bit ugly."

He casually grabbed a Glock 19, skillfully checked the chamber, and after confirming it was full, stuffed it into the concealed holster on his lower back.

He pushed open the apartment door, enveloped by the damp, chilly afternoon air of Seattle.

In the past, you would have needed to wear at least a jacket when going out in this temperature.

But now, Lyon is walking in the cold wind and even feels that the wind is quite refreshing on his face.

"Is this the power of 15 points in Constitution?"

He walked all the way to the community square and saw Reverend Anderson standing behind a makeshift folding table, giving a professional, kind smile to a few passing residents.

This old man is probably fifty-eight years old this year. His hair is neatly combed, with a few silver strands at his temples, making him look both wise and kind.

He also wore a pair of gold-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose.

The dark wool coat he was wearing was impeccably tailored, made of thick and sturdy material; one coat alone could probably be worth more than half a month's salary in Lyon.

A long queue had already formed on one side of the square, mostly homeless people from the nearby community, single mothers receiving welfare, and a few thugs with shifty eyes.

Reverend Anderson turned and saw Leon striding towards him, then his expression changed to one of surprise and delight.

"Oh! Look who's here! Our brave Officer Vance!"

Anderson's loud voice deliberately attracted the attention of many people around him.

"I knew God would guide these most steadfast children back to Him, especially when we need help."

Lyon cursed inwardly, "If God really was guiding me, he should have sent me straight back to China," but his face quickly switched to a resolute, professional expression.

"Pastor, as you know, it is my honor to be a part of the community."

Lyon stepped forward, his voice neither too loud nor too soft, just loud enough for the few rednecks watching nearby to hear.

"Even though I just experienced an unpleasant incident of violence, I still feel that serving my neighbors brings me peace of mind."

Several redneck men in line nearby turned their heads when they heard this.

One of the burly men in greasy overalls gave Leon a thumbs up:

"Well done, officer! I heard about what happened this morning; those scum deserve to go to hell!"

Pastor Anderson nodded in satisfaction, pointing to a basket of unopened, cheap whole-wheat bread and some canned goods nearing their expiration date, and said:

"Great! Mrs. Smith, who was originally in charge of this area, has sprained her back, so you can take charge of distributing food to them there."

"Remember, Lyon, every loaf of bread represents a gift from the Lord."

"Of course, Pastor, I will personally deliver this gift to them."

Lyon walked behind the basket that smelled sour and musty and grabbed a loaf of bread.

As soon as he looked up, he saw a familiar face in the line. It was the homeless thug who had given him the middle finger and shouted "the police are killing people" not far from the shooting scene that morning.

The other party clearly recognized Leon as well.

The thug's arrogant expression vanished the moment he met Leon's eyes; he shrank back and shifted his feet nervously.