Chapter 184 Mission Triggered

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The door was unlocked, and inside was a dimly lit corridor leading to the club's kitchen and back-of-house area.

She expertly checked the magazines and then crept into the corridor.

Her goal was clear: find the leader named Darrell, force him to reveal Old Tooth's whereabouts, obtain a fake passport, and then disappear from the city completely before the Seattle police could react.

If anyone gets in our way, kill them all.

Before Eva's toes had even crossed the corner of the corridor where a pile of smelly beer barrels lay, the ear-piercing sound of rubber tires screeching against asphalt tore through the night sky from the direction of the club's main entrance.

"squeak--!!"

At least five or six cars simultaneously slammed on their brakes on the street outside the main entrance.

Eva's grey-blue eyes narrowed instantly.

She simply turned sideways, completely shrinking her body behind a half-open wooden door to a storage room next to the corridor, and held her breath.

……

Outside the main entrance of the club.

The four henchmen temporarily transferred from the casino who were in charge of guarding the door were leaning against the metal security door, smoking out of boredom.

Before they could even make out the license plates of the Ford sedans and pickup trucks blocking the road, their windows rolled down in unison.

"Go to hell, you old geezers!"

A black thug with a face full of acne and bloodshot eyes from taking an overdose of enhancement drugs leaned most of his body out of the car window, holding a long gun in his hand, and pulled the trigger.

"Da da da da da—!"

The deafening gunfire instantly shattered the silence of the street.

Before the four casino henchmen at the entrance could even draw their guns, bursts of blood erupted from their chests and necks. Their bodies were riddled with bullets, bouncing twice against the metal door before finally slumping limply onto the steps.

……

A few blocks away, in a dark alley on 10th Avenue.

Two black Lincoln Navigators with their engines still running were parked on the side of the road.

Inside the carriage, two other low-level bosses from the West District who were in charge of underground smuggling routes were sitting in the back row, cigars between their fingers, nervously staring at their phone screens.

They had also received a meeting notice from Darrell tonight, but they had no intention of showing up on time.

Tonight, with news of Marcus's death flying everywhere, attending that kind of trap would be pure suicide.

Their plan was to stall until Darrell and Lamar had settled their differences, or until it was confirmed that it was truly just a peace negotiation, before stepping forward to pledge their loyalty.

When the dense sound of automatic weapons firing from the direction of the Pink Swan traveled into the carriage on the night wind, one of the fat leaders' hands, which was holding a cigar, trembled violently.

"Fuck..."

The fat leader swallowed hard, then kicked the back of the driver's seat. "Drive! Turn around immediately! Go back to the safe house to the south!"

The driver jerked the steering wheel, and the two Lincolns sped out of the alley without even turning on their headlights, disappearing into the rain in the opposite direction.

They will acknowledge whoever wins as their leader, but before that, they won't shed a single hair on their heads.

……

"Bang! Crash—!"

Lamar kicked open the glass door of the Pink Swan's main entrance, which was riddled with holes.

He excitedly twisted his neck, strode over the corpses on the ground, and walked into the empty first-floor dance floor.

Behind him, more than twenty drug-addicted thugs surged in like hyenas smelling blood.

Holding MAC-10s and various types of pistols, they were shouting wildly as they blindly fired at the ceiling and the private rooms on the second floor.

"Darrell! You little rat hiding in your hole!" "Get out here!"

Lamar raised the extended magazine Glock in his hand and fired several shots at the center of the second floor.

……

In the VIP room on the second floor.

Darrell suddenly collapsed behind the leather sofa, clutching an M1911 pistol tightly in his hand, his face ashen.

"What's going on?! Why are they opening fire on the first floor?!"

Jimmy was so frightened that he dropped the cigarette he was holding onto his crotch, and scrambled to the back of a solid wood wine cabinet.

"These mad dogs didn't follow the rules! They knew we had an ambush!"

Darrell gritted his teeth, veins bulging on his forehead.

He turned to Fat Mike in the corner, "Have your men hold the stairwell! Absolutely do not let them rush up!"

Fat Mike, his massive frame huddled behind a load-bearing pillar, roared into the walkie-talkie, sweating profusely:

"Open fire! Everyone at the stairwell, open fire! Anyone who dares to back down, I'll skin them alive!"

The dozen or so casino henchmen hiding in the second-floor corridor and stairwell corners were now suppressed by the intense firepower from the first floor, unable to even lift their heads.

Several henchmen who tried to peek out and fight back were instantly hit in the jaw and shoulder by stray bullets fired from the first floor, and screamed as they tumbled down the stairs.

"Charge! Slaughter them!"

Lamar's thugs roared excitedly, stepping on the bloodstains of their comrades and enemies on the stairs, and rushed up to the second floor with their guns in hand.

The defenses on the second floor were on the verge of collapse.

But Darrell was, after all, a cunning old fox who had been on the streets for over twenty years.

"Don't panic! These drug-addicted idiots have no aim!"

Darrell roared and leaned out from behind the box door, aiming his M1911 steadily at the chest of the thug charging at the front.

"Bang! Bang!"

Two .45 caliber bullets accurately broke the thug's ribs, and the huge kinetic energy sent him flying down the stairs, crashing heavily onto the dance floor floor on the first floor.

"Take cover! Shoot them in the legs and stomach!"

Darrell kicked open the door to the private room and gave orders to the panicked casino clerks and his men in the corridor.

Intimidated by their boss's ferocity, Darrell's men finally regained their composure. Although they hadn't received formal training, they were worlds apart from the casino's crew who had barely fired a gun.

Instead of blindly peeking out, they hid behind the thick load-bearing wall at the corner of the stairs, sticking their gun barrels out to suppress the fire below.

Lamar's men are fierce, but drug use makes their tactical movements extremely stiff, essentially using their bodies to withstand bullets.

Soon, the consequences of this mindless charge became apparent.

"Ah—my leg!"

A thug carrying a submachine gun had his kneecap shattered by a bullet fired from above the stairs, and he screamed as he collapsed to his knees on the steps.

His companions behind him didn't stop at all, stepping on his back and continuing to charge upwards. As a result, he was hit in the face by shrapnel from a shotgun, and rolled down with his face covered in blood.

The terrain advantage of the second floor began to come into play.

Darrell's men only needed to guard the narrow stairwell, while Lamar's men on the first floor were completely exposed in the open area without cover.

As five or six people on Lamar's side fell one after another, the fervor fueled by the drugs was extinguished by half.

The offensive was forcefully suppressed at the corner of the stairs on the first and a half floor. The two sides were separated by a wall and a row of railings, and they were locked in a fierce tug-of-war. The air was filled with the strong smell of gunpowder and blood.

Trey was lying on the toilet seat in the second-floor bathroom of the Pink Swan, covering his ears tightly.

The continuous bursts of automatic rifle fire, the muffled thuds of bullets tearing through flesh, and the hysterical screams outside the door assaulted his eardrums through the thin wooden door.

His whole body was convulsing violently, but a twisted smile involuntarily spread across his lips.

He survived, at least for now.

……

Two hundred meters away.

A black Chevrolet Suburban without any police markings was quietly parked in front of a closed donut shop on the corner of Eighth Street.

Harrison Reyes sat in the driver's seat, holding a cup of cold black coffee.

Those bloodshot eyes stared intently through the windshield at the flames rising in the direction of the Pink Swan Club.

His weathered old face, etched with the words "I want to die" and "I'm short of money," held no other expression at that moment.

"Damn, these stray dogs are really fighting."

Harrison finished his coffee in one gulp, casually tossed the paper cup onto the passenger side floor mat, and pressed the tactical radio communication button clipped to his collar.

"Boss, this is Harrison. Eighth Street, Pink Swan Club."

He glanced at the rearview mirror; in the back seat were the only two remaining ACU male crew members who weren't lying in the hospital and were still breathing.

The two burly men still had some bruises from the scrapes they had sustained a few days ago, and they were now holding CQBR short-barreled assault rifles, staring nervously out the window.

"The firefight has started. The sound of automatic weapons makes it sound like there are at least thirty or forty people."

Harrison's voice sounded extremely dry on the radio.

"Those drug-addled bastards stormed in through the front gate. There are only two of us here, and I'm not going to send them to their deaths. We're keeping watch from the outside right now."

Meanwhile, a few blocks away.

Lyon was driving his Ford Explorer smoothly on the slippery asphalt road.

Ward sat on the left side of the back seat, his whole body taut like a fully drawn bow.

This veteran tough guy, once known for his sullen and taciturn demeanor in the patrol team, now had a constipated expression on his face, and an undeniable sense of awkwardness emanated from his entire body.

His gaze swept across the carriage, but he dared not linger on his two new colleagues.

Chloe, sitting in the passenger seat, was applying lipstick while looking in the rearview mirror.

She was wearing her signature black coat and white shirt, with an outrageously short white miniskirt and black stockings, making her stand out in the carriage.

"Bang bang bang! Rat-a-tat-tat!"

Harrison's report came over the radio, accompanied by the sound of heavy gunfire in the background.

Chloe's hand, which was applying lipstick, suddenly stopped.

Her deep blue eyes suddenly became frighteningly bright, and she leaned closer to Lyon.

"Boss, did you hear that? What a beautiful symphony."

Chloe stuck out her tongue and licked her bright red lips, her voice carrying a sickly tone. .

"Should I go over and give them a surprise? Like before, I can quiet that building down in just three minutes."

Simon, sitting on the right side of the back seat, pushed up his black-rimmed glasses that had no lenses.

He wore a sophisticated gray trench coat, and the gentle smile that was characteristic of a refined scoundrel still lingered on his lips.

"Chloe, explosions are indeed an art form, but their overuse can lead to viewer fatigue."

Simon slowly adjusted his cuffs. "I prefer to wait until they've splattered their brains out, then go in and savor those expressions of despair. That's the real masterpiece."

Ward felt a chill run down his spine as he listened to the conversation between these two lunatics.

Ever since those two lunatics openly criticized his clothes, he now subconsciously reaches for his sidearm whenever he's in the same space as them.

He turned to look at Leon in the driver's seat, his eyes filled with a pleading look.

Leon completely ignored the reactions of the few clowns in the carriage; his gaze was fixed on the glaring blue notification box that suddenly popped up on his retina.

[Emergency Mission Triggered: Stop a Large-Scale Gang Fight in the Eighth District]

[Mission Objective: Suppress the riots and arrest or kill key leaders.]

[Mission Reward: 4000 Justice Points.]

Lyon held the steering wheel with one hand and pressed the headset with the other.

"Harrison, well done. Stay where you are and don't send the guys to their deaths."

"If those gangsters want to die, let them die a quick death. As long as the fire doesn't reach the civilian areas, consider it a free movie."

After cutting off communication with Harrison, a petite, tired figure with dead fish eyes suddenly flashed through Leon's mind.

Mia.

The girl he dragged from the patrol team into the ACU, who was specifically responsible for writing those nonsensical compliance reports for him, is now huddled alone in the West Precinct office.

"Mia's probably going to be working herself to death in the office again this time..."

Lyon sighed inwardly.

Mia had been working through two consecutive nights on the compensation application, the on-site investigation report, and the absurd document that blamed the C4 explosives on the dead mercenaries, barely managing to finish writing them only after downing seven cups of espresso.

If he were to take over tonight's massive gang conflict involving dozens of people and the use of automatic weapons, the ensuing reports on site containment, ballistic analysis requests, and kill reports would undoubtedly pile up into a small mountain.

"Once this matter is settled, I'll have to treat her to a nice meal using public funds."

Leon shook off his minor guilt and reached for the police walkie-talkie microphone on the center console.

"Dispatch center, this is ACU Commander Vance."

"A large-scale gang fight broke out at the Pink Swan Club in the 8th Street area."

"Immediately relocate all units currently patrolling the streets of the West District, regardless of whether they are issuing tickets or buying donuts, to the outskirts of Eighth Street to stand by."

"Have them close all intersections from 7th Avenue to 10th Avenue. Not a single fly is allowed to get out without my order."

"Roger that, Commander Vance. All available units are being mobilized."

The female operator at the dispatch center replied nervously.

"Hold on tight."

Leon threw down the walkie-talkie and slammed his right foot on the gas pedal.

The Ford Explorer's massive body let out a deep roar in the rainy night, its four tires leaving two deep water tracks as it headed straight for the Eighth Street.