Chapter 188 A Slave of Three Surnames

I highly recommend "Why Are You, a Beautiful Cop, Always Thinking About Going Back to the East?" Click to enter the story world.

Leon waded through the blood-stained puddle, his military boots climbing the wooden stairs leading to the second floor.

Simon, Chloe, and Ward followed closely behind, the tactical flashlight beams of their four CQBR assault rifles sweeping back and forth in the dimly lit stairwell, cutting through the billowing smoke.

In the second-floor corridor.

Lamar's few remaining men and Darrell's last few henchmen were hiding behind the overturned leather sofas and load-bearing pillars.

The sudden cessation of gunfire on the first floor, along with the heavy and orderly sound of tactical advances, plunged them into extreme panic.

"The cops! The cops are coming up!"

A gangster with a bloodied face screamed hysterically, leaning half his body out from the edge of the sofa, blindly firing his Glock pistol down the stairs.

The bullets hit the stair railing, sending splinters of wood flying everywhere.

But the special operations team's counterattack was so swift it was almost desperate.

Lyon kept moving, relying on his abnormal muscle memory and dynamic vision, and slightly raised the muzzle of his gun.

"Bang!"

The gangster who poked his head out had his forehead explode instantly, and his body slumped back against the sofa like a rag doll.

Meanwhile, Simon and Ward emerged from Lyon's flanks, taking turns providing cover fire.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

Precise short bursts of fire.

The thug, who was hiding behind a food cart and trying to reload, was shot three times in the shoulder and chest. The huge impact pinned him to the wall behind him, and then he slowly slid down, leaving a glaring trail of blood on the wall.

Chloe then pointed her gun directly at the last survivor trying to escape at the end of the corridor and pulled the trigger, firing indiscriminately.

The 5.56mm bullet instantly tore through the man's back, and the body rolled twice on the wooden floor of the corridor before becoming completely still.

The last remaining resistance in the second-floor corridor was completely crushed. The special operations team's overwhelming firepower made dealing with a few amateur gangsters as easy as crushing a few bedbugs.

Leon, gun in hand, trudged through the spent cartridges and sticky blood on the floor, making his way deeper into the corridor.

At the end of the corridor, outside the door of the private room whose one-way glass had been completely kicked open.

Darrell leaned against the wall, his left hand tightly clutching the bleeding penetrating wound in his right shoulder, and he had also been shot in the abdomen.

His face was deathly pale from blood loss, and he was breathing rapidly. A large pool of dark red blood had formed beneath him.

He didn't even have the strength to lift the gun, and the blood-stained submachine gun fell to the ground half a meter away from him.

Hearing the approaching footsteps, Darrell struggled to lift his head.

The blinding light from the tactical flashlight made him squint.

When his eyes adjusted to the light and he could see Leon's face clearly, Darrell's pupils contracted sharply.

Last night, in the backyard of O'Connor Funeral Home.

The plainclothes policeman who killed the boss was staring at him with the same look he had when he saw a dead man.

"Cough...cough cough..."

Darrell suddenly smirked, letting out a hysterical, grotesque laugh. Each cough brought up copious amounts of bloody froth, which dripped down his chin and onto his chest.

"It's you... Hahaha... It really was you, you son of a bitch."

Darrell leaned against the wall, the excruciating pain from his wound causing his facial muscles to twitch wildly, but he still stared intently at Leon, his eyes showing no pleading, only relief and extreme mockery.

"Lamar, that idiot...we've all been fucking played by you."

He was breathing heavily, his voice hoarse, yet he was surprisingly tough at a time like this.

"Those old bastards who've been taking our money for over a decade suddenly started cutting ties with us like they'd seen a ghost... And these patrolmen outside, moving like mad dogs... And today, that idiot Lamar's crazy, aggressive attack..."

Darrell gasped for breath as he uttered words intermittently.

"It was all your doing... right?"

"I thought Marcus was dead, and that we could stabilize the situation by killing Lamar... Turns out you've been watching us the whole time."

"You bunch of trashy clerks who take taxpayers' money, you usually use the dirty money we give you to drink coffee, and now you're doing something else... using methods that are dirtier and more underhanded than those of us who hang out on the streets."

Darrell turned his head with difficulty and glanced at the corpses lying haphazardly in the corridor.

"Over the past ten years or so... how much blood our branch shed in the West District to build this foundation, and tonight you've single-handedly wiped it all out."

Darrell grinned, revealing blood-stained teeth, and spat a mouthful of blood at Leon.

Blood dripped onto the ground less than half an inch from Lyon's military boots.

"You think you've won? You think you can control the West End?"

Darrell's voice grew weaker, but the malice in his tone grew stronger.

"Without us keeping things under control... this street will be in complete chaos. Just wait and see how those new stray dogs tear the West District to shreds. You'll pay back the debt you owe the boss sooner or later."

"I'd like to see how you, cop, get out of this mess..."

He wasn't interested in Darrell's dying curse or his long-winded rant about the streets, nor did he care what the future of the West Side gangs would look like, and he had no interest in explaining his purpose to a gang leader or justifying how justified it was for him to kill Marcus.

He only cared about the Justice Points that were about to be credited to his account on the system panel, and the absolute principle of physically eliminating all potential trouble.

"Click".

Leon flicked the fire selector switch on his CQBR rifle with his thumb, setting it to single-fire mode.

He raised the muzzle of his gun, the cold barrel pointing directly at Darrell's forehead.

Darrell stared at the dark muzzle of the gun, his bitter laughter abruptly ceasing, but he did not close his eyes.

"Bang."

Darrell's head slammed heavily against the wall behind him, a spray of red and white blood erupting from the back of his head. His body slid down the wall and into a pool of blood.

The echoes of the gunshot reverberated through the corridor for a few moments before finally subsiding completely.

With Darrell's death, the entire second floor of the club fell into a suffocating silence.

Only the water pipe on the ceiling, which had been blown apart by a stray bullet, was still leaking water, dripping.

Ward, holding his CQBR rifle, cautiously scanned the corpses scattered on the ground. After confirming that there were no survivors, he turned to look at Leon.

"Sir, the second floor has been cleared. Should we call in the patrol officers from the perimeter to clean up the area?"

Ward's voice was calm and steady, and his hand was already reaching for the walkie-talkie at his waist.

Lyon raised his left hand, which was gloved with a tactical glove, and directly stopped Ward's movement.

"Wait. Don't rush to call for reinforcements."

Lyon's gaze passed over Darrell's corpse and landed on the several tightly closed wooden doors at the end of the corridor.

"Search each private room one by one. I don't want a madman with a gun to suddenly jump out of some cabinet and shoot them all when the forensic team comes in to take pictures."

"Yes."

The four of them split up and kicked open the doors of the private rooms one by one along the corridor.

"Bang."

Lyon kicked open the door to the largest private room in the middle of the corridor.

A strong smell of blood hit the air.

There were no signs of a fierce firefight in the private room, only two corpses.

One was an old man wearing a burgundy suit, and the other was a fat man with a thick gold chain around his neck.

Both men were shot cleanly and efficiently, either getting headshots or having their throats pierced.

Lyon's gaze swept over the two men before landing on the one-way glass window of the private room, which had been completely kicked open.

Cold wind mixed with rain poured in through the hole, causing the gauze curtains in the private room to flutter wildly.

Lyon narrowed his eyes.

Combining this with the female assassin he had just encountered in the back alley, he immediately understood who was behind these two.

Why would that woman go to such lengths to sneak in at this time? Was it just to kill these two gang leaders?

But this doesn't make sense. If she was hired by Lamar or another gang, there's no need for her to escape in such a sorry state.

Leon kept this question to himself. He said nothing, but simply waved his hand, signaling his team members to continue moving forward.

At the end of the corridor is the club's restroom.

The fluorescent tubes inside flickered and emitted a crackling electrical sound.

Lyon held his gun, his military boots treading on the slippery tiles.

He walked to the first cubicle, raised his right leg without hesitation, and kicked open the wooden door of the cubicle.

empty.

The second room was also empty.

He continued until he reached the very back of the restroom, to the door of the last stall.

The door was locked from the inside.

From inside came heavy, panting breaths, tinged with sobs.

Lyon raised his right leg, and his military boot, carrying terrifying force, kicked directly at the plastic door lock.

"boom!"

The door was kicked open instantly, slammed against the wall, and bounced back.

The blinding beam of the tactical flashlight instantly locked onto the figure huddled in the corner between the toilet and the wall.

Trey clung tightly to the toilet tank like a turtle hiding in its shell, curled up in the narrow corner.

He was wearing an ill-fitting, oversized suit; the clothes that were originally meant to portray him as a puppet boss had now become a ridiculous burden.

When he saw Leon standing in the doorway with a rifle, Trey's bladder instantly went out of control, and a warm liquid flowed down his trouser leg onto the tiles.

"No...don't shoot! Officer Vance! It's me! It's me!"

Trey let out a scream and scrambled toward the door.

Overwhelmed by extreme fear, he couldn't stand up and could only lie on his stomach in front of Lyon's military boots like a dog, clutching his head tightly with both hands, terrified that his head would explode like the people outside.

Just the night before last, outside a safe house on the outskirts of Tacoma, he hid in the shadows of the bushes and watched as the man broke through the window and killed Marcus and his two heavily armed bodyguards in thirty seconds.

Trey knew that the man in front of him was not the kind of normal police officer who would read the Miranda warning according to procedure; he was a pure killer in a police uniform!

In his mind, which was racing with fear, Trey frantically calculated his chances of survival.

He didn't know I was a Mexican spy; he probably thought I was just an ordinary informant, at most a minor leader under Marcus.

Trey swallowed hard, forcing down the tremor in his voice, and lifted his face, which was covered in tears and snot.

"I'm one of them! Officer! I didn't have a gun! I didn't do anything!"

Trey started rambling incoherently, "The night before last at the safe house, I was the one who relayed Marcus's message to the police station."

"After you killed Marcus, to save my own life, I stabbed myself twice in the shoulder and also hit my head, pretending to be a survivor who risked his life to protect the boss. That's how I got past Darrell and the others' questioning!"

He tried to force a fawning, awkward smile and continue to claim credit.

"After that old bastard Darrell found out, he wanted to support me as a puppet to take power, so he pretended to hold a banquet to kill Lamar."

"But how could I dare to go against you?"

"It was me! I texted Lamar from the bathroom, telling him Marcus was dead and that there was an ambush! That's why Lamar led his men in to fight them to the death!"

The more Trey talked, the more he felt his logic was flawless.

"I'm the one who let them fight like dogs! Officer Vance, I'm the one who helped you gather them all together, making it easy for you to catch them all in one fell swoop!"

"I can continue to be your informant! I'll definitely get my hands on all the Blood Gang's money laundering records and smuggling routes! I can help you control the entire West Side underworld!"

Lyon lowered his head, his steel-gray eyes coldly watching the stray dog ​​at his feet, which was desperately wagging its tail and begging for mercy.

Hearing Trey's self-righteous boasting, he remained expressionless, but deep down he was already calculating the score.

Good guy.

What kind of amazing creature is this?

While Lyon was keeping watch outside Marcus's safe house, he had already confirmed with Carlos that Trey's true identity was that of a high-ranking mole within the Mexican drug cartel.

The reason I didn't kill him was purely to protect Carlos's identity as a double agent from being exposed.

But now, the situation has completely changed.

Lyon mentally counted the ingredients for Trey.

That bastard, he originally rose to become the head of a Blood Gang branch and Marcus's confidant.

Then, for some reason, this guy became a high-ranking mole planted by the Sinaloa Cartel in Marcus's inner circle. The night before last, he watched Marcus get killed by him and even mutilated himself to save his own life, pretending to be a loyal subject who would fight to the death.

Today, after Marcus's death, he went and became the puppet leader supported by Darrell.

In order to protect himself, he turned around and sold Darrell's trump card to his arch-rival Lamar.

Now, facing his own gun, he didn't hesitate to sell out the entire Blood Gang, wanting to become his informant.

Mexicans, Marcus, Darrell, Lamar, and now the police.

Leon looked down at Trey on the ground.

This guy is a complete traitor. If Lu Bu from the Three Kingdoms period were alive today, he'd probably respectfully offer this kid a cigarette and ask him for advice on the art of switching sides.

Moreover, Trey was the only survivor who witnessed the entire process of his assassination of Marcus.

Lyon's gaze grew increasingly cold.

If we keep him around as an informant, that bastard will definitely sell his secrets to the Mexicans.

At that time, those drug lords driving armored vehicles along the border will definitely come looking for trouble.

This kind of utterly shameless, disloyal, and entangled transnational drug trafficking group is utterly useless; keeping him around is only disgusting and creates a threat.