pdf-ebookys Chapter 56 Accidentally Shot Several People in Self-Defense
Chapter 56 Accidentally Shot Several People in Self-Defense
Chapter 56 Accidentally Shot Hundreds of People in Self-Defense
The police convoy was still several kilometers away from the Mexican gang's suburban factory.
Thick smoke could already be seen rising from the horizon outside the car window.
The black column of smoke was blown eastward by the afternoon wind, leaving a wide streak across the gray-blue sky.
Brock sat in the passenger seat of the lead police car, one hand on the door handle and the other holding the walkie-talkie to his ear, but there was nothing but static.
He placed the walkie-talkie on his lap and stared at the plume of smoke.
As the convoy rounded the last bend, the entire factory came into view.
Several corrugated iron factory buildings were all on fire, with flames spreading out from the ventilation openings on the roofs. The orange flames appeared somewhat white in the sunlight.
People were lying haphazardly in the open space between the factory buildings, stretching from the main gate all the way to the depths of the factory.
Several officers stood there for several seconds after getting out of the car, only snapping out of their daze when Brock yelled at them.
Brock pushed open the car door, his combat boots stepping onto the gravel road.
His first glance didn't fall on the still-smoking factory buildings, but rather on the reporters' car at the factory gate.
Li Enzheng was standing in front of the car, with a video camera set up in front of him. A middle-aged reporter wearing glasses was holding a microphone to his mouth.
Ben Yurik.
A special correspondent for the New York Gazette spent an entire night outside the police cordon during the Warehouse Street case.
Brock could certainly guess that the reporter was invited by Lee En, but he hadn't yet figured out the purpose behind it.
"Get moving, guys! Set up the cordon!"
Brock turned around and yelled at the officers behind him, then glanced at the dilapidated factory buildings, his lips twitching slightly.
"Get two large trucks to move the body!"
He strode towards Li En and Ben.
Standing to the side, I heard the reporter's question and realized that the battle must have just ended and the interview had just begun.
"Officer Lee Eun, what's going on here?" Ben held the microphone in front of Lee Eun, his tone calm.
Li En turned to the side, pointed to the factory behind him with his thumb, and made a casual gesture.
"Officer Frank and I were on patrol when we passed by and noticed something was wrong, so we got out of the car to ask them a routine question."
Brock's lips twitched.
This place is in the suburbs; it takes forty minutes to drive here from the police station, and you have to honk your horn the whole way.
According to the Manhattan Precinct's jurisdiction, this area is indeed under their control, as stated on paper, but no one has ever come to patrol it.
It didn't exist a decade or so ago, and it certainly won't exist now.
Ben Urick is a veteran reporter for the New York Gazette, having covered Hell's Kitchen for longer than many local police officers have served.
He knew, of course, that no one ever patrolled this place.
"Officer Lee, aren't you deliberately targeting the Mexican gangs here?"
"What does 'targeted' mean? It simply means asking a routine question."
Li En glared at him, her expression and tone perfectly matched.
The cameraman next to them moved the camera from Lee Eun's face to Ben's face, and then back again.
Several police officers who were setting up a cordon slowed down their work and listened intently in this direction.
I didn't intend to get entangled with Li En over the issue of word choice, so I took a breath and continued to ask.
"Then why did a routine interrogation turn into a large-scale firefight?"
He made a gesture to the cameraman as he spoke.
The cameraman took two steps back, squatted down, and adjusted the angle.
Put Li En and the factory buildings behind him that are emitting thick smoke in the same frame.
The composition is perfect: a column of black smoke, orange flames, and a policeman in special operations uniform standing in front of the ruins.
As Brock watched the cameraman's movements, something suddenly clicked in his mind.
He suddenly turned to look at Ben.
"Is this a live stream?"
"certainly."
Ben nodded without even lifting his eyelids.
Such a big news story deserves an emergency live broadcast.
The wireless earpiece in his ear was playing the sound from the control room.
The ratings are still rising, keep asking questions, don't stop.
Brock opened his mouth and mouthed something, then immediately shut his mouth when he saw the camera lens turning in his direction.
The muscles on his face switched from anger to seriousness in a fraction of a second.
Live streaming and recorded broadcasts are two different things.
There's room for maneuver with pre-recorded videos; if anything that shouldn't have been filmed is captured, it can simply be cut out.
Live streaming is another matter.
Everyone sitting in front of their televisions, including those at the Mexican gang's headquarters in the city, is watching the same scene at the same time.
Wouldn't that expose everything?
Brock started giving Lee a meaningful look.
He stood at an angle out of the camera's view, his eyelids blinking as fast as a neon sign.
The frequency was almost as high as that of the broken blue light tube outside the Kina bar.
Li En glanced at him, smiled, and made no reaction.
"At the time, Officer Frank and I were conducting a routine questioning."
Lee En turned her face back to the camera, her tone as calm as when they were discussing the patrol route.
"Two men suddenly pulled out guns at the factory gate. In self-defense, Officer Frank and I also pulled out our guns and fought back."
"Thanks to years of training, we quickly defeated both of them."
"But more armed enemies appeared in the factory."
He turned to the side and pointed to the open space between the factory gate and the road.
The camera followed his hand as it turned.
It was a flat, gravelly area, without even a single telephone pole that could be used to dodge bullets.
"Look, this whole road is flat, there's no cover at all."
"So we made a decisive move and went straight into the factory, using the equipment inside as cover to launch a counterattack."
Brock was still winking at him, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes practically sparkling.
This is indeed a Mexican gang's factory, but they also have a headquarters in the city.
Even if Lee and Frank wiped out all the hundreds of people in the factory, there would still be at least a hundred people left in the city.
The Mexican gang members are probably sitting in their headquarters office right now watching this live stream, seeing Lee pointing at their factory that's been burned to ashes in front of the camera.
Seeing that Lee En was still acting, the extremely anxious Brock suddenly widened his eyes.
and many more.
Where is Frank?
He turned around abruptly, his gaze sweeping over the police cars parked at the factory gate, the two large trucks reversing, and the police officers setting up a cordon.
The modified police SUV was not among them.
Brock looked away, clenched his back teeth, and inhaled a breath of cold air from between them.
He originally thought that Li En just wanted to make a few cuts on the mayor's purse.
Threaten the Mexican gang to let the mayor know that his coffers are not secure, and then sit down at the negotiating table to discuss the port contract.
But Frank isn't here.
Where he went, Brock didn't need to ask.
This means they're planning to burn the money bag directly.
They didn't even leave a speck of dust for the mayor.
Brock stood there silently for a few seconds, then turned and walked toward the police line.
He stopped giving Li En meaningful glances and stopped trying to interrupt the interview.
He simply walked up to the nearest officer, patted him on the shoulder, and told him which direction to move the body.
He exited the live stream.
Ben Ullrick had no interest in Brock; the two were old acquaintances.
Block worked at the Manhattan precinct for thirty years, while Ben covered Hell's Kitchen for twenty years; the two brushed past each other at countless crime scenes.
Ben knew perfectly well that a seasoned veteran like Brock wouldn't utter any useful information in front of the camera.
It's better that he left; all the problems can be focused on the young police officer standing in front of the ruins.
"So, Officer Lee, you had a fierce firefight in the factory?" Ben turned the microphone back to Lee.
Li En's expression became extremely serious.
He shifted his gaze from himself to the camera lens, to the millions of eyes watching him from behind it.
His voice was also much deeper than before.
"Yes, we initially went into the factory to find cover in order to protect ourselves, but—"
He paused, turned around, and pointed angrily at the factory buildings that were almost collapsed from the fire.
"Once inside, we discovered that the factory was full of smuggled goods."
"This place is so big, it's full of smuggled goods, and everyone in it is a criminal."
puff.
The cameraman let out a very soft hiss, and his shoulders twitched slightly.
Ben turned around and glared at him. He was a veteran cameraman who had been on set for so many years, how could he still make such a basic mistake?
No matter what funny things the interviewee says, you must not laugh.
However, it took Ben several seconds to press the corner of his mouth back into place.
Not to mention the officers at the Manhattan Precinct, even someone who has lived in Hell's Kitchen for more than two years knows what kind of factory this suburban factory is.
It's not just Mexican gangs; Russian gangs, Irish gangs, and the Amick Cartel have all rented large tracts of land in the suburbs to do things they can't do openly.
Even ordinary residents know this, how could the police not know?
Ben carefully observed Li En's serious face.
When this guy was blatantly lying, the expression on his face was so sincere that you could almost believe he was really discovering for the first time that people were committing crimes in these factories.
"Hmm." Ben cleared his throat and switched the microphone to his other hand.
"So, Officer Lee and Officer Frank discovered this was a gang's hideout and then raided it?"
"No, it was just a passive act of self-defense, and in the process, we discovered that this place was a criminal den."
Li En stretched out his hand and waved it left and right.
Fine, if you say it's self-defense, then it's self-defense. I was already tired of playing word games with Li En.
He leaned forward slightly, holding the microphone closer to Li En's mouth, and asked the question that everyone watching on TV was waiting for.
"So—Officer Lee and Officer Frank killed all the gangsters in these factories?"
""
The moment those words were spoken, the entire city of New York seemed to fall silent for a moment.
In Lower Manhattan, a blue-collar worker commutes to work, standing on a subway platform with his coffee cup suspended in mid-air.
The restaurant owner on Eighth Avenue was wiping the glasses on the bar, the rag resting on the rim of the glass, and he was tilting his head, staring at the television hanging on the wall.
In a Wall Street office, several traders in suits simultaneously shifted their gaze from the Bloomberg terminal to a large screen in the lounge area that was playing the news.
In the lobby of the Continental Hotel, a middle-aged man sat alone in a corner booth, drinking whiskey. He placed his glass on his lap and tilted his head to look at the television above the bar.
At his workstation in the Randman & Zack law firm, Fogg pushed his swivel chair back half a meter, crossed his arms, and Matt next to him frowned.
Everyone waited quietly.
Everyone in New York knows there are gangs in those factories, that there aren't just a handful of people, that there are at least several hundred.
The young police officer in the television footage is still alive, standing in front of the camera with a clean face.
The factory behind him was burning.
Li En shook his head.
Everyone's heart sank.
The restaurant owner pressed the rag back onto the rim of the cup and spun it around.
Yes, how could two people possibly take down so many gangs?
"We didn't kill them all."
Li En's voice came through the television, steady and clear.
"I just accidentally hit them while defending myself."
Clang.
Someone dropped their coffee cup on the ground.
On Fifth Avenue, a pedestrian wearing a gray trench coat stands outside the glass facade of a shopping mall, looking up at the giant screen inside.
On the screen, a young police officer is earnestly saying to the camera: "It was an accident, an unavoidable event."
His coffee cup shattered at his feet, coffee splashing onto his shoes, but he didn't look down.
At that moment, the same scene was playing in front of every television set in New York.
Someone dropped something from their hand, and someone forgot to chew the food in their mouth.
Some people stood up from their chairs, while others just stood there, staring wide-eyed, their faces full of disbelief.
The cameraman zoomed in.
Lee Eun's face was framed in the center of the image, with sunlight shining on his jawline from the side; he looked very handsome.
This organization has prepared the language.
He has been a journalist for many years, interviewing politicians, gang leaders, and the families of victims who weep in front of the camera.
But he had never interviewed such a person.
He raised the microphone again, his professional demeanor suppressing all the surging distracting thoughts.
"So, in the course of self-defense, the two officers accidentally shot the criminals, causing their deaths and the factory fire, right?"
"Yes, that's right." Li En nodded to Ben.
When he last met this reporter on Warehouse Street, he could tell that Ben was different from those reporters who only chased after their spokespeople.
Dedicated, professional, and worthy of respect.
Ben took the microphone back and twirled it in his palm.
His gaze moved down from Li En's face, sweeping over his clean bulletproof vest, neat collar, and meticulously styled hair.
His tone changed, taking on the air of an evening news anchor.
The subtle irony that comes with reporting strange tales in the last few minutes of a program.
"Then, how come Officer Lee looks so clean after such fierce self-defense?"
The cameraman immediately adjusted the focus, zoomed out, and framed Lee Eun in the center of the shot.
In the video, Li En is wearing a full special operations uniform and holding an automatic rifle, but he is not wearing a helmet.
There was a little dust on the bulletproof vest, just the kind of dust you get while patrolling, a thin layer that didn't even cover the fiber texture.
There were no bullet marks, no mud stains from rolling on the ground, and no traces of intense firefights.
Li En glanced down at the bulletproof vest and patted his chest twice.
The layer of dust was loosened, slid down, and tumbled a few times in the midday sun.
The bulletproof vest looks no different from one that has just been washed and dried.
He raised his head again, facing the camera.
"Because I was lucky, I wasn't hit."
This will be followed up immediately.
"Despite such intense gunfights, Officer Li En's hair doesn't even seem to be messed up."
Li En raised her right hand, spread her fingers, and combed her hair from her forehead to the back of her head.
I did put some hairspray on my hair before leaving this morning; it's a new habit I've developed since coming into this world.
Back in the police station, I would see Brock every morning in the bathroom, pressing his hat brim down in front of the mirror until it just covered his eyebrows.
Each police officer has a fixed pose in front of the mirror: combing his hair with his fingers.
"That's because I pay attention to my image management."
The camera shook.
The cameraman's shoulders were heaving violently; he bit his lip tightly and his nostrils were flaring.
Ben Yurik raised his head and took two deep breaths.
He couldn't dwell on that topic any longer; the cameraman's professionalism was nearing its limit.
He adjusted his tie knot, squeezing out the last bit of sarcasm from his voice and replacing it with a deep tone reserved for evening specials.
"So, Officer Lee Eun—"
"Are you the Punisher?"
Li En paused for a moment, then gave a look of sudden realization, as if someone had reminded him of something he had almost forgotten.
"Oh, you mean this pattern?"
He turned around, with his back to the camera.
The cameraman immediately followed.
In the footage, a white skull is visible on the back of Lee En's special operations uniform, facing the camera.
It is exactly the same design that was photographed by firefighters on the wall inside the Keener Bar and published on the front page of the New York Gazette.
Exactly.
"That's right, this is the mark left by the Punisher."
Ben moved the microphone forward half an inch and lowered his voice even further.
"So, the incident at the Kinah Bar was also Officer Lee's act of self-defense?"
When he asked that question, he had already separated Lee En and Frank in his mind.
The Keener Bar is the punisher, the Amick Building is the destination.
The Warehouse Street case is the end point, the Port case is the end point.
The Punisher wrote "Punisher" in red liquid on the bar wall.
The marker left at the finish line is different after each action.
Sometimes there's nothing there; sometimes the safe just disappears into thin air.
Two people, two styles, but the same goal.
But these were just his intuitions; he had no evidence.
No one has any evidence.
Lee Eun turned around and faced the camera again.
He gripped the automatic rifle tightly with both hands, the muzzle pointing downwards, and smiled.
Sunlight streamed down from behind his shoulders, framing him in a thin halo of light.
"This is our police department's newly formed squad—the Special Forces."
"Our existence is to protect all citizens."
>