He hung up the phone. Dean glanced at Carlo, who had just tossed away his cigarette butt, and said indifferently, "Sit tight!"

Carlo: "???"

The next moment, VROOOM. Under the roaring of the engine, the tires screeched violently. After mustering enough power, the car sped off from its standstill, merging into the traffic.

Just over ten minutes later, the escort vehicle, which had been on the road for nearly forty minutes, appeared before the two men. This area was nearing the outskirts of Los Angeles, with significantly fewer buildings, but it was still within the city limits.

Upon seeing the familiar truck, Carlo, struggling to suppress the churning in his stomach, pulled out a map. He quickly pinpointed their current location and reported to Dean, "Boss, something's strange. There's only one road leading to the outskirts, and it's the coastal highway." This kind of highway would inevitably be lined with beaches and people out for leisure. It did not conform to the principle of concealment, because any accident could involve innocent civilians and blow the situation wide open. Conversely, even if the escort vehicle were ambushed along the way, as long as no innocent civilians were killed, the situation could still be maneuvered, allowing for a gradual recovery of the items.

Hearing Carlo's report, Dean's expression showed that this was to be expected. Eve's suspect is the current deputy of the Narcotics Division. He was originally the one expected to be promoted to team leader, but then Eve, due to her connections, was parachuted in. Therefore, taking advantage of Eve's unstable position to cause trouble and profit from it, while also bringing her down, would undoubtedly be the best choice. So, what would the other party do?

Dean first directed his gaze toward the black Ford following the truck. According to the surveillance information controlled by Little Mike, this Ford was very likely the armed escort transporting contraband, hiding two to four armed guards. It was also meant to oversee and prevent any internal theft by members of the Narcotics Division. After so many years dealing with drugs, the system within the Narcotics Division was actually quite rigorous. In this situation, how would the deputy Eve mentioned manage to steal from under their noses?

The truck was not traveling fast. It was nearing afternoon, and the traffic on the road was sparse. After crossing one more bridge, the truck would leave the Los Angeles city limits and enter the suburban highway.

It was at this moment that Dean's eyes narrowed. He pulled his vehicle to the side of the road, parked, and nudged Carlo, who hadn't yet reacted. "Grab your weapon, get out of the car!"

"Huh?" Carlo looked forward in confusion. Ahead, at the intersection before the bridge, traffic was light, and pedestrians were scattered, showing no sign of anything amiss. But trusting Dean, he obeyed, gripping his pistol tightly, and exited from the passenger side.

Carlo had just gotten out of the car when, on the bridge above and beyond their field of vision, a pitch-black hearse emerged from a lower blind spot, driving toward their side of the bridge. Flanking the vehicle, two imposing mounted officers clad in bulletproof vests and fully armed, one in front and one behind, escorted the black hearse, clearing the way. The sight was enough to make bystanders stop and stare.

Seeing this, Carlo looked at Dean in surprise. "Boss, your eyesight is incredible! This is the first time I've seen mounted police escorting a hearse. Did some big shot die?"

Dean silently pulled out the pistol from his waistband. "Carlo, tell me, when have mounted police on escort duty ever worn Kevlar bulletproof vests?"

Upon hearing this, Carlo took a careful look, and his pupils contracted violently. The scene before them changed again.

The hearse had now come down from the bridge and stopped at the intersection, opposite the Narcotics Division truck. Just then, a red sports car, seemingly out of control, suddenly surged from behind the hearse. It grazed the rear mounted officer and slammed violently into the back of the hearse.

The nearby mounted officer was startled. He quickly pulled out his pistol, aiming it at the interior of the red sports car. However, whatever he saw made him quickly lower his weapon and gesture to his colleague, who had disembarked up ahead, apparently confirming it was just an unexpected rear-end collision.

As a result, the truck, which should have proceeded, missed the green light. Having just started moving, it came to a standstill once again. This drew the truck driver's attention. As members of the Narcotics Division, they might have had a poor reputation, but they had undergone professional training. In terms of alertness, they were far superior to ordinary gang members.

The moment the truck stopped, two burly men immediately got out of the black Ford behind it and walked towards the hearse. Perhaps because of the mounted officers' attire, the two men didn't draw their weapons immediately, presumably intending to inquire about the situation and ascertain if there was any danger.

But that would be their last memory.

The next instant, the hearse driver, who had opened his window as if to watch the commotion, suddenly pulled out a submachine gun—slightly larger than an adult's palm and equipped with a long magazine—and sprayed bullets at the two burly men. Without a sound, both men were riddled with bullets and collapsed to the ground.

Horrified screams erupted from pedestrians on both sides of the road. A few young men and women scrambled for cover, diving under nearby buildings. Even an elderly, white-haired woman with a cane unleashed a surprising burst of energy, hopping and leaping to escape the intersection that had instantly transformed into a battlefield.

But neither side paid any attention to these innocent civilians.

The moment the hearse driver opened fire, the two mounted officers also drew submachine guns of the same model. They immediately laid down suppressing fire on the truck and the Ford, about ten meters away, while the pitch-black hearse charged toward the truck to prevent its escape.

The coordination was simple and brutally efficient.

The truck driver tried to maneuver away but ended up hitting the Ford behind him. By the time the hearse crashed into the truck, it was all too late.

"FK! They're wielding Grim Reaper's Claws!" Carlo's eyes widened as he watched the Narcotics Division escort personnel get mowed down in less than a minute, a curse escaping his lips.

These submachine guns, officially known as MAC-10s, had been banned from sale years ago due to their excessive lethality. They were a favorite among gangs and also known as a compact, enhanced version of the Chicago Typewriter.

Under such a hail of fire, armed with only two small pistols, Carlo believed that if he and Dean rushed out now, they would merely be adding two more names to the list of casualties.

Dean, too, was astonished by this group of ruthless bandits. He wasn't surprised by their firepower, but by the coordination and efficiency of their movements. Some provided suppressing fire, while others executed precise sweeping volleys. Critically, whenever someone reloaded, another would seamlessly maintain the barrage, ensuring no break in their firepower. This required an incredibly strong rhythm and attack coordination. These people are definitely not ordinary; they have a strong military discipline about them!

The Narcotics Division's team was pitiful; they didn't even have a chance to fire before being riddled with bullets.

This plunged Dean into confusion. These are all men from the Narcotics Division's Second Squadron, the deputy's people. Even if this is a setup to frame Eve, there's no need for such a massacre, is there? All his subordinates are dead. Even if he seizes power, his position won't be stable!

Damn, could these be actual robbers we've run into? Dean licked his lips. Doesn't matter! Real or fake, kill them first and ask questions later!

Dean patted Carlo, signaling his orders with hand gestures. "You stay here and draw their fire. I'll flank them from the side and wipe them out!"

Carlo's eyes widened. His lips moved; he wanted to say something, to try and talk some sense into this boss he had only recently started following.

But Dean gave him no chance. Using the cars parked by the roadside for cover, he moved like a lizard, using his hands and feet to retreat further from the intersection. Then, feigning panic like a terrified pedestrian, he sprinted towards the buildings across the street.

"FK!" Seeing this, a ruthless glint flashed in Carlo's eyes. He quickly scanned for nearby cover, drew his pistol, and aimed forward.

At that moment, the disguised bandits were climbing onto the truck, pulling at the corpses. One of the "mounted officers," spotting a pedestrian about fifty or sixty meters away running towards the other side of the street as if scared stiff, grinned. He swiveled his gun, about to pull the trigger.

The next moment, BANG. A bullet struck the truck's cargo bed near him, leaving a clear mark.

"Gunfire, eleven o'clock!" the mounted officer bellowed. The gun barrel, originally aimed in Dean's direction, immediately swiveled towards Carlo's cover, unleashing a precise spray of bullets.

Poor Carlo was pinned down by the overwhelming firepower, not daring to even peek his head out. Meanwhile, the other "mounted officer" was already sprinting towards the side of the road. The blind spot in that position was very small. If the two of them managed to flank him, dealing with their target would be easy.

At this time, on a distant rooftop, a man with a sullen face, looking through a scope, observed the scene below. He was just about to urge his companions to speed up when his pupils contracted. He spoke urgently, "Target, four o'clock! He's within ten meters!"

As he spoke, he swung his rifle around and pulled the trigger without hesitation. Sniping wasn't about random shots. The slightest error, and a bullet could veer significantly off course after traveling several hundred meters. The man didn't expect this hasty shot to hit the man sprinting with incredible speed; he only hoped his bullet would startle him, buying his companions precious seconds to react.

The next moment, an even more shocking event unfolded before the sniper's eyes.

The man, running like a cheetah, seemed to sense the danger. He suddenly leaped into the air, firing both pistols in mid-flight, even as the sniper's bullet grazed past him, shattering the car window just behind where he'd been. He then landed smoothly.

That meant if he hadn't changed speed, my shot would have hit him!

Before the sniper could recover from his shock, he witnessed an even more terrifying sight.

As the gunman landed, his two battle-hardened companions, despite their full protective gear, fell to the ground without a sound, motionless.

They were dead.

Dean effortlessly took out the two gunmen. His gaze turned fiercely toward the distant building. His pistol never stopping, he shot the limbs of the robbers attempting to start the truck. After confirming that the hearse was empty, he didn't hesitate for a second and charged towards the distant building.

Four people: two assaulters, one sniper, and one driver. This was a standard tactical unit.

Against such a professional team, Dean adhered to one principle: Annihilate them!

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