Chapter 163: Shotguns and Flashbangs

Long Island, a seaside villa district in the Bay Shore area.

On the road outside the gated community, an operations vehicle slowly came to a halt, and two fully armed SWAT teams disembarked.

Rider caught the sea breeze, glancing at the distant beach and ocean glistening under the sun, as well as the lush vegetation inside the neighborhood. As he adjusted his tactical gear, he remarked:

"I never would have expected a guy like John to be holed up in such a gorgeous place."

Roan carefully inspected the bulletproof vest on his chest and his Glock 18. Hearing Rider's sentiment, he chuckled and said:

"You know how it is, just like in the movies—picturesque places always conceal unspeakable evils."

Before Rider could reply, the voice of a SWAT operative suddenly crackled through their earpieces:

"Target location reached. Four armed adult males spotted on the first floor of the target villa. The second floor is obstructed by barriers, status currently unknown."

"Copy that."

Exchanging a glance with Rider, both men immediately dropped the casual expressions on their faces. Roan spoke in a sharp, low voice:

"Team One, move immediately to the perimeter of the villa, take up assigned positions, and breach to execute the mission the moment conditions are favorable!"

"Solid copy!"

Receiving the order, the members of Team One moved out instantly without making a sound, advancing in a cautious tactical posture onto the lawn outside the villa.

Before they even reached their designated positions, the SWAT operative monitoring the scene from the front shouted out urgently:

"Enemies appearing on the second floor! We've been compromised!"

"Move, move, move!"

Hearing this, Roan immediately ordered the SWAT team to initiate a direct assault, drawing his weapon alongside Rider as they charged toward the villa.

Bang!

A SWAT operator swung a heavy battering ram, violently shattering the front door on the first floor of the villa, with the following operatives surging in right behind him.

"FBI!"

"Don't move!"

The SWAT members holding assault rifles shouted out commands while rapidly sweeping every room on the ground floor.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Seeing an individual on the first floor foolishly attempt to raise a firearm in resistance, the SWAT operator didn't hesitate, pulling the trigger and delivering a precise headshot.

Within seconds, the first floor of the villa was cleared. Roan and Rider stepped inside just as the area was declared secure.

"Clear!"

"Go! Go! Go!"

The SWAT operatives rapidly pushed toward the second floor, while Rider stood on the ground floor looking somewhat puzzled.

Tony had claimed the girls were locked in the basement, so where was the basement?

Observing the ground floor carefully, Roan quickly shifted his gaze to the large wardrobe tucked beneath the villa's staircase.

The doors of the wardrobe had already been swung open by the SWAT team during their clearance sweep. Roan stepped forward slowly, his Glock raised, and reached out to push aside the garments hanging inside. A concealed door angled away from plain sight appeared before his eyes.

***

Seeing this, Rider grinned broadly, giving Roan a thumbs-up. He immediately raised his foot to kick the door open.

However, Roan reached out and stopped him.

"?"

Rider looked confused, right before he watched Roan pull two flashbangs from his tactical vest.

"..."

Rider was utterly speechless.

Ever since Roan had transferred to the Major Crimes Division, expenditures on flashbang grenades alongside standard ammunition had skyrocketed, becoming the lion's share of every operational budget.

Roan remained oblivious to Rider's inner thoughts, and even if he had known, he wouldn't have cared.

Bullets have no eyes, and preserving lives is paramount. Using flashbangs to preemptively neutralize enemy resistance was undoubtedly the optimal solution.

As for the financial expenditure on flashbangs... Augustus was the supervisor of the Major Crimes Division; what did that have to do with him, Roan?

Augustus: "..."

Exchanging a glance with Rider, Roan counted down from three. The very second the door swung inward, he tossed both flashbangs straight into the darkness behind it.

Boom! Boom!

"Fu--k!"

With the dual detonation of the flashbangs, a man's agonizing roar echoed from within.

Rider rushed into the basement immediately. A man was lying on the floor, clutching his eyes, rolling around and wailing in pain.

With a swift kick, Roan rendered the man unconscious to spare him any further suffering. Bending down, he picked up the shotgun lying beside the man, briefly checked the action, and presented it to Rider with a smile:

"He was chambered and ready to fire."

If Rider had simply charged into the basement gun-first just now, at such close quarters, that shotgun blast easily would have punched right through the ballistic plates on Rider's vest.

The title of Close Quarters King wasn't just for show.

Murmuring a low expression of gratitude to Roan, Rider stared down at his own handgun and fell silent.

He was beginning to harbor serious doubts about his years of combat experience in SWAT.

Tearing the shotgun apart into a pile of useless fragments with a few practiced motions, Roan began to thoroughly inspect the basement.

The floor plan of the basement was only half the size of the villa's ground floor, yet it had been partitioned into three separate rooms.

One of the smaller rooms contained a chemical toilet, while the other two slightly larger rooms were packed tightly with scantily clad, traumatized women.

Just as Rider bent down to search the unconscious man for the keys to the rooms, a SWAT operator jogged down the stairs and reported:

"Sir, we've secured John. We found him hiding under a bed on the second floor."

"Good work."

Roan patted Rider on the shoulder, leaving the cleanup to him, and walked back upstairs out of the basement.

An hour or so later, the operation concluded with resounding success.

Under Roan's command, the SWAT team successfully neutralized six armed thugs and captured the ringleader, John—legally known as Wothum Turner—alive.

***

With both physical and testimonial evidence ironclad, John and Tony practically reserved permanent cells in the penitentiary.

However, a strict and brutal pecking order existed among inmates within the American prison system.

Scumbags like Tony and John, who trafficked and tortured women, were met with absolute hostility behind bars.

Menial, filthy labor fell entirely to them, while receiving casual beatings or having spit mixed into their food were considered minor inconveniences.

The real terror awaited them during shower hour...

---

Major Crimes Division.

On the television mounted at the front of the office area, a government spokesperson for the Long Island region was speaking smoothly in front of a forest of microphones.

The spokesperson glossed over the resolution of the [Seaside Pit Serial Murders] with a single sentence, steering the conversation instead toward local real estate development and commercial investments.

As for the reporters, the moment the spokesperson finished his lengthy prepared statement, they promptly discarded the topic of economic development and began shouting questions regarding the grizzly details of the case.

"Media outlets are always like this—the moment they encounter a serial killer, they get too excited to sleep," Lacy remarked as she packed up her desk ahead of closing time, venting her frustration:

"Yet they always choose to selectively ignore human trafficking cases tied to sexual exploitation."

Rider took a calm sip of his coffee and replied:

"Nothing we can do about it. They're the media, after all; they survive by chasing eyeballs for profit."

"It goes beyond just that."

Mona finished clacking away at her keyboard, snapped her laptop shut, and turned around with a smile to chime in:

"If you just look at the statistical comparison, as an average person, your chances of being murdered by your own pillow-partner are seventeen times higher than being targeted by a serial killer.

Naturally, the media prefers reporting on low-probability events."

Lacy nodded thoughtfully, while Rider, currently a married man, asked with deadpan seriousness:

"Mona, is that statistic actually accurate?"

"Isn't that just common sense?"

Mona shot Rider an irritated glare:

"Which married couple hasn't fantasized about knocking off their spouse at least once during a heated argument?"

"Uh..."

Ignoring the stunned silence that fell over Rider, Mona turned her gaze to Roan, who had remained quiet throughout, and asked with mild curiosity:

"Roan, what are you thinking about?"

(End of this chapter)