Chapter 169: Two to the Chest, One to the Head

Avar Miller lived in the Fordham neighborhood, located in the western part of the Bronx.

This area was predominantly populated by Latinos and Black residents, with a small percentage of Caucasians and almost no Asians.

Furthermore, the teenage pregnancy and birth rate in this district was higher than in any other area or community in New York City.

Later on, this place would be known as one of New York's top ten most dangerous districts. Once night fell, the NYPD avoided coming around here, a vivid testament to its rustic, free-spirited, and harmonious local culture.

However, during the day, the neighborhood didn't look half bad.

Fully armed, Roan drove Ryder into the community, spotting numerous street vendors selling goods and several Black children running about the streets.

"We need to be extra careful here, Roan."

Seeing the relaxed and calm expression on Roan's face, Ryder, sitting in the passenger seat, silently tightened his grip on his Glock 18 and lowered his voice:

"This neighborhood doesn't welcome the NYPD, and they certainly don't welcome the FBI."

Ryder insisted he wasn't a racist, but the undeniable fact remained that crime rates were simply higher wherever there was a large Black population.

Though not particularly large, the Fordham neighborhood was home to over a dozen Black gangs.

"Don't be nervous, Ryder. You just need to trust the gear we're wearing."

Roan turned the steering wheel to guide the SUV down another street, chuckling as he patted the tactical vest and weapons on his body.

As usual, Roan was dressed in a combat uniform, wearing a plate carrier over his chest, with pouches at his waist holding ten flashbangs and ten extended magazines, alongside two Glock 18s holstered at his sides.

Ryder's equipment was practically identical to Roan's.

Considering their combat skills as well, as long as those gang members didn't ambush them simultaneously at the exact same location, the rest shouldn't pose too much of a problem.

Seeing the composure on Roan's face, Ryder's anxiety gradually began to subside.

Bullets were the anchor for peace of mind, and the heavy gear on their bodies was absolute ballast.

Every agent in Special Squad Five now held an instinctive faith in Roan, and Ryder was no exception.

After driving forward for another few minutes, the SUV slowly came to a halt beside a dilapidated two-story building.

Pushing open the car doors and stepping outside, a few passersby caught sight of the heavily armed Roan and Ryder, and decisively chose to detour around them.

One of the survival wisdoms for living in this area was simple: never be curious, and stay far away from anything that looked dangerous or troublesome.

This building housed a small motel. Ryder pushed the door open, intending to question the Black owner at the front desk, but Roan caught a sudden scent, his brow furrowing deeply. After scanning the layout of the lobby, he abruptly drew his pistol and aimed it straight at the man.

"???"

Ryder was momentarily stunned, but immediately raised his own handgun on reflex.

Yet the moment Ryder lifted his arm, the Black owner—though clueless as to how his cover had been blown so quickly—did not hesitate for a second. He immediately drew a pistol from beneath the counter.

Bang! Bang!

Bang!

Three gunshots rang out. The moment the Black owner made his move, Roan resolutely pulled the trigger.

Two bullets struck him in the chest, and one hit him squarely in the head. The Black owner's eyes closed as his body collapsed backward onto the floor.

"Ryder!"

Having successfully dispatched the motel owner, Roan quickly pulled Ryder down to take cover behind the front desk.

Bang, bang, bang—

Sure enough, the very next second, a flurry of gunfire erupted from the stairway, hammering into the exact spot where the two agents had been standing just moments before.

Ignoring the slippery sensation of the motel owner's pooling blood, and though unsure of what exactly was happening, the battle-hardened Ryder immediately raised his pistol and returned fire.

Not only that, Ryder had even picked up a trick from Roan. Seizing a brief gap in the gunfire, he fished a flashbang from his waist and hurled it toward the stairs.

Boom!

A blinding flash of white light and a deafening explosion detonated inside the stairwell, immediately followed by a chorus of wails from the enemies.

"Great job!"

On the front desk ledger, Roan successfully located the room where Avar Miller was staying. He gave Ryder's shoulder a satisfied pat, then gestured for him to look at the cabinet he had just opened.

Ryder turned his head and saw the lifeless body of a young Latina girl lying inside the cabinet, her eyes still wide open.

Clearly, this girl had been the real receptionist of the motel.

"The smell of blood was too heavy, and my sense of smell is quite sharp."

Casually offering an explanation while meeting Ryder's admiring gaze, Roan stated the room number assigned to Avar Miller, then spoke in a low voice:

"Call for backup. Let's finish this quickly."

"Got it!"

Following the order, Ryder immediately pressed his comms unit. Roan, meanwhile, sprang up and vaulted right over the front desk.

On the stairs, several young Black men were sprawled out on the ground wailing, while a few others were bent over trying to drag them back up to the upper floor.

Spotting Roan's figure, the youths attempting the rescue turned pale in unison and raised their weapons toward him.

Before they could react, Roan—mid-air as he cleared the desk—lobbed another flashbang directly toward the staircase.

Boom!

The instant the flashbang detonated, Roan squeezed the trigger of his Glock 18.

Bang, bang, bang—

A rapid string of gunshots echoed out, and the staircase was instantly splattered with vivid crimson.

Ryder finished transmitting the backup request and hurried to join Roan's side.

Standing at the base of the first-floor stairs, Roan tossed two more flashbangs upward, raised his left hand with a brief gesture, and spoke concisely:

"You take the left, I'll take the right!"

"No problem!"

Taking the lead, Ryder rushed up to the second floor, quickly gunning down two Black men who attempted to attack him, before sweeping the various rooms along the left corridor.

Roan walked onto the second floor with a completely expressionless face. He pressed his back against the wall of the stairwell, aimed his gun at a downed, armed gang member who was still twitching on the floor, and pulled the trigger to deliver a finishing shot.

Since the man still held a weapon in his hand, Roan had no intention of letting either himself or Ryder fall victim to a surprise attack born of negligence.

However, Roan did not aim for the heads of these men; instead, he targeted their left and right chests.

Once today's incident concluded, both he and Ryder would undoubtedly face scrutiny and investigation.

Blasting these people in the head at point-blank range would simply hand ammunition to the individuals who had already been targeting Roan, giving them something to criticize.

In everything he did, Roan always preferred to think a few steps ahead.

Especially now, while Verinis was still lying in a hospital bed.

Swapping in a fresh magazine, Roan vanished in a blur of motion, moving at high speed to inspect every single room on the right side of the corridor.

The first few rooms were completely empty. But as Roan drew closer to Avar Miller's room, a heavily built Black man wielding a submachine gun suddenly leaped out from around the corner.

Catching sight of Roan, who stood a head shorter than him, the burly man flashed a grin.

Muzzle flash roared into the open air.

Bang, bang!

Bang!

Three gunshots sounded, and the smile on the big man's face instantly froze.

The next second, numbness flooded his limbs, and he completely lost control of his body. Before he could unleash a sustained burst from his submachine gun, the weapon slipped helplessly from his grasp and crashed to the floor.

Staring down at the heavy-set man's corpse, Roan blew softly on the barrel of his Glock 18, lowered his head, and spat onto the floor:

"Looking that ugly, and what are you even smiling about?"

Advancing into the room in a tactical posture, he found a white male lying on the floor with a gunshot wound to the chest, while the room's window had been completely shattered.

The white man was not Avar Miller, but his facial features bore a distinct resemblance to him.

Stepping over to the window and inspecting the glass shards, which clearly showed impact marks from the inside out, Roan deduced that someone had jumped out to escape.

Turning around, Roan bent down to check the wounded white man's condition to see if he was still breathing, when the man suddenly coughed up a mouthful of blood and whispered in a strained, desperate voice:

"Help..."