CHAPTER 92: CHAPTER 88: THE REAL MASTER OF LOS ANGELES (FIRST SUBSCRIPTION!)_1

Lincoln Farm was situated in the suburbs, some distance from downtown Los Angeles. It was surrounded by only a few small towns, each with a population of just over two thousand, their residents living far apart. However, due to its proximity to downtown Los Angeles, transportation infrastructure was quite developed.

Dean and the others, nestled among dozens of police vehicles, were hardly conspicuous. Red and blue lights flashed, and sirens blared incessantly. On both sides of the road, private cars, forced to clear the way due to traffic control, lined the area. Curious drivers gazed at the rare spectacle, as if they were in "Vice City," witnessing the birth of a new Los Angeles five-star model citizen.

Within the police convoy, two heavy box trucks were the most eye-catching. They had armored exteriors with cold metallic paint, "SWAT" sprayed on their sides, and hefty heavy machine guns mounted on top of the carriages, complete with ammo chains ready to be fed—they were veritable armed light-armored personnel carriers. Unless hit with an anti-tank missile, these vehicles were an overwhelming presence in an urban environment.

Some tabloid reporters, too strapped for cash to dispatch helicopters to the primary scene, could only race their cars in pursuit of the convoy, aiming most of their cameras at the SWAT transport trucks in the procession. One could easily predict that tonight’s news headlines in Los Angeles would see an absolute explosion in ratings.

Dean, Harry, and a few others were in one vehicle. Lawrence drove with intense focus. Harry, head down and biting his lip, was sending texts nonstop. Phoebe pulled out a small cross from her bosom and assumed a meditative posture. Everyone was somewhat silent. A damp chill seeped through the window, touching Dean’s arm. He stretched out his hand, felt the moisture on his fingertips, and murmured, "It’s going to rain..."

「Nightfall came.」

As the view outside the windows dissolved into pitch black, the fierce sound of gunfire gradually reached their ears. In the distance, firelight flared. The machine guns on the armed helicopters overhead roared, leaving long trails of orange flames across the night sky. The first television station helicopter they had spotted was nowhere to be seen. Only, not far from the combat zone, a pile of helicopter wreckage burning on the ground testified to its final fate. It had been shot down. This battle had escalated beyond everyone’s initial expectations.

Just then, the convoy slowly came to a halt and began to disperse in all directions. The pagers on everyone’s chests crackled with electronic static: "All units be advised: approach the farm, immediately check your equipment. Form squads to surround and hold positions. If you encounter any non-police personnel, you are cleared to shoot to kill. Repeat, you are cleared to shoot to kill!"

"Get out of the car!"

Dean took a shallow breath, donned his thermal imaging goggles, and, gripping the M4 automatic rifle he rarely used, was the first to step out of the vehicle. In this life or his last, he had never experienced such a grand scene. Lawrence and the others fared even worse. They instinctively followed Dean, moving towards Monet and the rest of their team. Throughout the entire Fourth Platoon, the only one who seemed genuinely excited was probably Robert, standing behind Old Hunter. The naive young man, cradling an M249 machine gun with a heavy box of ammunition belts slung over his shoulder, provided a significant sense of security to the others.

Monet adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, betraying no hint of panic as he issued orders, "Alright, folks, the situation at the farm is not looking good. This is the Dagger Gang’s main hideout. These bastards haven’t just dug an underground base here; they’ve also stashed a large arsenal of military hardware. The other party, currently unidentified, is equipped with highly advanced weaponry, including guided rockets. They’ve also laid numerous trip mines around the farm, making it extremely difficult for our people to breach the perimeter. Our mission is simple: lock down the surrounding 50-meter area."

Monet paused for a moment, then lowered his voice, "Remember, if anyone comes out, shoot on sight! The higher-ups don’t want any of these people alive by morning."

Everyone was taken aback. This was clearly an additional directive received only by those at the captain level, like Monet.

Harry’s expression changed noticeably. "Captain," he asked, "what if our own people head towards our position?"

They were responsible for the blockade. However, the initial teams had already forcibly cleared the outer obstacles, and the SWAT heavy armored vehicles, along with their personnel, had pushed onto the farm grounds. According to Monet’s orders, the likelihood of friendly fire was dangerously high.

Monet’s stance, however, was unyielding. "Everyone who went in received orders not to approach our perimeter. Their job is to flush out the people inside. If friendly fire occurs, no one will be held accountable!"

This statement was rather thought-provoking. The area had become an encirclement, and the surrounding residents had already been evacuated. If the true intention was to eliminate everyone, they could have simply allowed the military to saturate the area with firepower, turning it into a killing field. The Dagger Gang had an underground base for shelter. Monet’s orders seemed more aimed at those unknown assailants attacking the farm.Unfortunately, as the night deepened and the searchlights on the vehicles were all switched off, Dean, wearing his thermal imaging goggles, couldn’t make out Monet’s expression. Otherwise, he might have been able to deduce something.

Under Captain Monet’s direction, the members of the Fourth Platoon, with Robert, the ex-soldier, as their core, used their vehicles for cover. They donned raincoats, concealed themselves in the darkness, and waited quietly for their prey to walk into the trap. The officers from other precincts and members of the Detective Bureau were likely deployed similarly, transforming the entire northern section of Lincoln Farm into a death zone.

Time passed. The initial light drizzle gradually intensified into a heavier rain. The armed helicopter that had been providing suppressing fire was no longer visible. In the inky black sky overhead, bolts of lightning occasionally writhed and streaked, accompanied by thunderous roars that drowned out the sounds of gunfire and explosions from below.

Dean, Lawrence, and Harry were assigned to a position to the left of Robert and his group. Harry hunched down, shivering, and whispered to Lawrence and Dean, "Guys, I heard a rumor once... that the Dagger Gang is basically just a attack dog bred by the Carmen Family."

The prolonged stakeout in the pouring rain was both tedious and miserable.

Lawrence’s interest was piqued. "Which Carmen Family?"

Dean also leaned in, listening intently.

"The true rulers of Los Angeles," Harry said, pausing before adding, "Remember that case a while back? Senator Snetter’s family’s transfer funds were hijacked?"

"I remember," Lawrence replied, glancing at Dean. "I recall Dean got transferred from the Narcotics Division to our Homicide Division because of that case."

"Senator Snetter is one of the public faces of that family!" Harry dropped a bombshell. "My contacts on the street say that the stolen money was actually the Dagger Gang’s daily tribute to the Carmen Family."

"Daily?" Lawrence was stunned. That was over three million US dollars! Didn’t that mean the Dagger Gang was supplying Senator Snetter’s family with nearly a hundred million US dollars in cash every month? In the year 2000, that was an astoundingly exaggerated sum!

Dean was equally flabbergasted, a wave of retroactive fear washing over him. Thank goodness he’d been decisive enough to drop the case back then. Otherwise, according to Harry, he feared he wouldn’t have even made it out of California alive!

Harry, however, shook his head. "It’s not that much. That money is more like the Dagger Gang’s daily revenue. It needs special processing. What ends up with the Carmen Family is probably five or six hundred thousand US dollars at most."

"Tsk," Lawrence clicked his tongue. "That’s still an insane amount. One day of their take is more than we make in six or seven years of risking our necks."

Dean looked at Harry with a puzzled expression. Even if these matters weren’t top secret, how could a minor player like Harry know about them? Unfortunately, Harry’s dark skin blended perfectly with the pitch-blackness of his hiding spot. Dean could only discern a hunched, wretched figure, with his rear sticking out—what he termed ’Fasting’—through his thermal imaging goggles.

Just as he was about to press Harry for more details, suddenly—

TAP! TAP! TAP!

The crisp sound of ejected shells mingled with muzzle flashes that erupted like flames.

Robert had opened fire!

Intense gunfire also erupted from several other positions. The enemies within the encirclement were being driven towards the north side of the farm, clearly preparing to break out.

"Someone’s coming!" Lawrence yelled, gasping for breath. He aimed his rifle in the direction Robert was firing and joined the volley.

Seeing this, Dean reluctantly set his doubts aside and looked ahead.

Through the greenish tint of his night vision, seven or eight small, reddish blurs were scattered on the ground, resembling small animals of various sizes lying prone. They weren’t animals, but the dismembered remains of a body, or bodies, blown apart by Robert’s fire. The residual warmth from the limbs created this visual distortion.

Farther out, five or six much larger, humanoid red blurs hugged a low-lying depression in the ground. Only the faint red glow of their body heat confirmed they were still there.

"Lawrence, the terrain’s no good! Use the grenade launcher!" Monet’s voice, strained, managed to pierce through the cacophony of machine-gun fire.

Lawrence deftly retrieved the grenade launcher from his back, pulled a heavy round—the size of a baby’s fist—from his bandolier, loaded it, and took aim.

BOOM!

A muffled explosion, and a ball of fire streaked across the night sky, detonating precisely above the depression. When the flames dissipated, only three of the five or six scattered red blurs still glowed brightly.

"Nice shot!" Old Hunter shouted, barely looking up to offer his praise.

The next moment—

BANG!

A deafening blast shattered the air. The police car beside Old Hunter rocked violently as its entire front end exploded, showering Robert and the three others near him with shrapnel. Screams pierced the night.

Dean slammed a hand down on Lawrence, who was trying to get up, and roared, "Take cover! Cease fire! Heavy sniper!"

That gunshot! It was definitely a large-caliber sniper rifle! Judging by the sound, it was likely an M82A1—a Barrett. That thing, also known as an anti-materiel rifle, could easily punch through 22 mm of homogenous steel plate. If it hit someone, even wearing body armor, they’d be blown to bits!

That single shot seemed to be a signal. The three remaining red blurs in the depression scrambled to their feet, charging recklessly towards Dean’s group. They didn’t fire, instead zig-zagging in erratic, evasive patterns.

Dean kept a firm grip on Lawrence and Harry, who were itching to shoot. "Listen! Wait for those three to get closer, then you open fire! I’m going after that sniper!"

There was no time to worry about Old Hunter and his men. Based on the trajectory, the sniper was positioned behind them. And the M82A1 had an effective accurate range of up to 1,500 meters. At that distance, if they opened fire and revealed their position, they’d be met with bullets from the M82A1.

Without waiting for Lawrence or Harry to react, Dean shed all his cumbersome gear, wearing only his bulletproof vest. He took a deep breath of the cold air and, like a cheetah, vanished into the darkness.

He had to take out the sniper before the three approaching enemies reached them!