Citywide Fury

"…Who!"

"Evans."

Lake kicked the door open and walked straight towards Evans, a Black federal agent with dreadlocks who had just stood up from behind the counter. Lake spoke directly, "I need your EAA shipping records."

Evans’s face immediately changed.

Crash!

A Glock 17 was slammed onto the counter, instantly creating a spiderweb of cracks on the glass.

Lake chuckled lightly, then looked at Evans expressionlessly. "I know you have them. I want the shipping manifest for the last few months. If you don’t give it to me?"

"Heh."

"Bang!"

"Ah!"

"I’ll kill you."

Lake tilted his head, watching Evans collapse onto the ground, clutching his thigh after a gunshot. Without looking back, he then fired towards the shop entrance.

Bang!

Several young Black men immediately scattered like birds and beasts.

Lake wasn’t worried about them calling the police at all, because they wouldn’t.

There were unique survival rules in this Hell’s Kitchen area. Here, they would only seek help from illegal organizations, not from the local precinct.

In fact, the local precinct turned a blind eye to many things happening in the Hell’s Kitchen area.

If there was any precinct in the NYPD that was publicly known to be corrupt, it was the 36th Precinct, which was responsible for the Hell’s Kitchen area.

Of course.

There was no evidence on the surface.

"Fuck!"

Evans, lying on the floor, clutching his thigh and enduring the pain, looked up and glared at Lake. "Damn it, I haven’t sold any EAA in months, not a single one. Who would want a sissy pistol like that?"

Lake tilted his head. "Makes sense."

But.

After Lake nodded in agreement with Evans’s words, he raised his pistol and pointed it expressionlessly at Evans’s chest. "Shipping manifest."

Evans: "…"

Ten minutes later.

Lake walked out of the second-hand store and recycling shop behind him, ignoring Evans’s pained, low groans from inside. He looked expressionlessly at the dozen or so gang members who had surrounded his car.

These dozen or so gang members also had their own weapons.

Lake chuckled and took a step forward.

Whoosh.

These dozen or so gang members took a step back.

Lake advanced again.

The gang members retreated again.

"Heh."

"…"

Lake chuckled lightly, put away his Department of Homeland Security ID, opened his car door, and with a roar, drove away, speeding towards the 36th Precinct.

In the afternoon.

Lake, who was staking out the NYPD’s Major Crimes Division, received a message from the 36th Precinct.

Six tagged, still exquisite-looking used EAA handguns were placed in the evidence box. All six EAA handguns sold by Evans in the past few months were there, not a single one missing.

These were all confiscated from Hell’s Kitchen.

This was the 999 incident.

The 36th Precinct understood the meaning of the codename 999, and so did Hell’s Kitchen. As long as they didn’t want the NYPD to launch a full-scale invasion, when it came to matters with the codename 999, especially when Hell’s Kitchen was involved, they could always provide the precinct with a satisfactory explanation.

Or…

Perhaps that was the reason Hell’s Kitchen had survived this long.

"Take these to the forensics lab for ballistic testing."

"Okay."

"Where’s George?"

"He hasn’t returned yet."

Lake nodded and said, "George should have some good news to bring back."

All six EAA firearms sold in Hell’s Kitchen are accounted for. This suggests that the incident wasn’t carried out by someone from Hell’s Kitchen. Of course, it’s not impossible that a buyer from Hell’s Kitchen purchased a new EAA and turned it in themselves.

However, that possibility is very slim.

Setting aside whether he could afford a brand-new EAA pistol, just consider this: if someone dares to gun down a law enforcement officer, would they really be that sharp?

Night was falling.

George returned.

With George came a junkie.

"Hardy Burton, a junkie. He bought an EAA pistol two months ago. It wasn’t found in his room. When we found him, the guy was high."

George looked at the junkie lying in the observation room, still in his own world, and shook his head. "They only sold three there. The other two have already been sent to the forensics department for ballistic testing."

Lake stroked his chin, staring at the junkie in the observation room, saying nothing.

A junkie, high out of his mind, shooting a law enforcement officer?

It made sense.

But…

Something felt off.

With the junkie in his current state, nothing useful could be extracted. They’d have to wait until he came down from his high to interrogate him.

Still, having a lead was a good thing.

Lake pulled his gaze away from the junkie, greeted George and Beckett, and prepared to leave.

"Lake."

"Joe."

At the police station entrance, Lake smiled at Joe, who had followed him out and called his name. "What’s up?"

Joe shrugged. "My car broke down. Mind giving me a ride home?"

Lake replied, "Of course not."

When Lake was still with the NYPD, he had been resistant to carpooling with Joe. However, if Joe were like Beckett and George, Lake wouldn’t have minded becoming friends with him. As long as they didn’t carpool.

But now?

That problem didn’t exist. Lake was with the Department of Homeland Security, and Joe was with the NYPD.

Brooklyn.

Lake got out of the car and looked up at the apartment building, asking Joe, "Did you move?"

Joe nodded. "Yeah."

His previous home held too many painful memories, so Joe had sold it and moved into this apartment building.

After all, people have to look forward.

That’s a good thing.

Lake thought to himself, chuckled with Joe, and said, "Alright, see you tomorrow."

Joe smiled and turned towards the apartment building. "See you tomorrow."

There was no story about going up for coffee.

Just a story of friendship between colleagues.

Lake got back in his car and started the engine.

"Bang!"

"…"

Lake’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the apartment building where the gunshot had suddenly come from.

He got out of the car.

After entering the apartment, he found Joe lying at the stairwell, clutching his chest, blood gushing out.

"Fuck!"

Lake rushed to Joe’s side, scooped him up, and kicked open the apartment door.

Got in the car.

Started it.

Doing a hundred miles an hour.

Fortunately, the closest hospital to Joe’s apartment building was only two blocks away.

Half an hour later.

George, Beckett, and the others arrived at the hospital.

"How is he?"

"Still working on him."

Lake’s expression was grim; this was a provocation right under his nose.

Soon.

The emergency doctor emerged.

The group quickly gathered around him.

The emergency doctor nodded, and George and Beckett immediately breathed a sigh of relief.

Nodding meant YES.

Shaking the head meant NO.

Nodding meant the patient had been successfully resuscitated.

The doctor said, "However, the patient lost a lot of blood and will need to remain in the hospital for observation for a few days."

After speaking.

The doctor returned to the emergency room.

Just then.

George’s phone rang.

He hung up.

George said to Beckett and Lake, "A reporter from the Bugle Daily just called. They said they received a call from someone claiming to have just killed a law enforcement officer."

In fact.

This call had come in when the second officer was killed, but the reporter at the time didn’t take it seriously. Furthermore, his boss, upon hearing the news, prevented him from notifying the police.

This was going to be their exclusive story.

It wasn’t until just now, when the caller rang again and mentioned shooting a female officer in the chest, that the reporter, who was having dinner with his wife and daughters at home, realized the gravity of the situation and quickly contacted 911.

The reporter was quickly brought back to the NYPD.

His phone was also confiscated and sent to the lab for analysis.

The NYPD building was brightly lit.

In fact.

Ever since the first officer shooting incident, the lights in the NYPD office area had not gone out. All officers had their leave canceled.

In the Chief’s words, it would end when they caught the son of a bitch.

Dead or alive!

A team of officers had also been dispatched to seal off the Bugle Daily. After the shooting incident, the NYPD had begun broadcasting to all citizens, asking them to contact the police immediately if they had any leads.

What was the Bugle Daily’s deal?

Exclusive news?

If they wanted it so badly, the NYPD would give them exclusive news, even taking a screw from their newspaper office as evidence. Did that count as exclusive news?

Soon.

The sources of the two calls were traced. Both were public phones near the crime scenes at the time. The precinct was urgently reviewing the surveillance footage from the areas around those public phones.

There was no need to check the surveillance footage for the public phone in Queens; the NYPD wasn’t holding out much hope. For now, their hope rested on the surveillance footage from Brooklyn.

However…

There was still no news from the surveillance side, but George, who was urgently interrogating the drug addict in Brooklyn, had a lead.

The addict had sold his identification documents for a hundred dollars.

Who?

Unknown.

Where he lived.

The drug addict knew nothing. He was high on drugs at the time. He wouldn’t hesitate to sell his wife, if he had one, to get what he wanted, let alone his ID.

The black market dealer from Queens was also brought in.

The black market dealer felt wronged. Selling illegal firearms was a shady business to begin with. They had agreed that if he provided the name, they wouldn’t bring him in, but here he was, being dragged in.

Who would dare do business with him in the future?

The black market dealer, feeling rather miserable, wanted to call his lawyer.

Lake said expressionlessly, "You can call your lawyer, but if you do, I’ll spread the information you provided about the lead tomorrow. Do business, go to hell."

Black market dealer: "…"

Was he really that overbearing?

The black market dealer opened his mouth, wanting to accuse Lake of intimidation, but seeing the large patches of bloodstains dulled on Lake’s suit, he finally said dejectedly, "I’ve told you everything I know."

"Think, and think for me. The third handgun, who did you sell it to? Don’t tell me you don’t know. You just participated in the New York TV memory master competition last month. You remember things from half a year ago, but you don’t remember things from two months ago?"

"…"