44. Blood Gang Assassin
Holden brought Dean to an office on the third floor, where a female clerk was waiting.
“Shirley, please register our hero, Dean Lu, as a volunteer. Don’t worry about his age—the chief has given special approval.”
“There are fewer and fewer young people as full of justice as you,” the woman said, retrieving several forms from the filing cabinet and handing them to Dean. “So, after you graduate, are you planning to apply to the LVPD police academy?”
“Maybe,” Dean replied, taking the forms and settling at a nearby desk. The forms were similar to the questionnaires he’d filled out at the Silent Hunter gun shop.
He finished in a few minutes.
The woman collected the forms. “Once your background check comes back clear, you’ll be scheduled for sixteen weeks of training. You can attend sessions during your free time. After you pass everything, you’ll officially become an LVPD volunteer.”
“What sort of training is involved?”
“Law, first response and first aid, simulated dispatches, physical training, and so on.”
Dean nodded, not quite understanding but suitably impressed.
With the registration complete, the background check would take a few days, and the LVPD had no further tasks for him right now.
Holden led him straight out.
As they exited, Dean’s gaze landed on the blindingly white SUV parked under the awning. Holden’s expression changed instantly, as if a tough guy had spotted a stunning beauty.
“Nice. It’s way better looking than my Mercury Colony Park. Does the license plate 19800502DNL mean something special?”
“It’s the date I was reborn.”
“Fantastic. I love this car.” Holden glanced over at his own patchwork-colored station wagon not far away, pondering for a moment.
“How about we just take your car?”
“Okay, but you’ll have to cover my gas.”
…
“Head south… get on the highway, go straight,” Holden said, sitting alone in the back, arms stretched wide to feel the soft couch seat, looking utterly at ease.
“Dear passenger, please state your destination,” Dean announced, clearing his throat in jest.
“Henderson City, 389 South Red Maple Avenue, an old house in the suburbs. We’re going to find Alvin Garcia. Male, forty-eight, about six feet tall, two hundred pounds, short brown hair, blue eyes…”
“A suspect?” Dean asked.
“It’s a long story.” Holden, always considerate, explained in detail.
“Three months ago, I came across a case while giving a lecture at the LAPD. A Chinese family of three who ran a restaurant in Chinatown were brutally murdered. The only witness was their homeless neighbor, Alvin Garcia.”
A Chinese family, wiped out?
Dean’s face darkened, his hands tightening on the steering wheel.
“What kind of monster would do that? Why?”
“Don’t get worked up, buddy, and don’t do anything stupid. Listen. Based on Alvin’s testimony and my sketch, the police caught a suspect—a core member of the Bloods.”
“What’s the Bloods?”
Dean, quietly, pulled another loaded Colt .45 ACP from the glove box, swapping it for his empty sidearm.
“There are two major Black gangs on the West Coast: the Bloods and the Crips. They were originally formed to protect Black people from Mafia harassment and racial discrimination, but now they’ve changed.”
“Their main business now is robbery and dealing ‘herbs.’”
“The two gangs are mortal enemies, constantly fighting turf wars, with several major brawls every week. Countless members are killed or wounded, and innocents often get caught in the crossfire. They’re the two greatest scourges of the West Coast.”
“So, they’re Black crime organizations,” Dean realized.
Holden continued, “The suspect was a member of the Bloods. The day before the trial, Alvin Garcia—the key witness—fled Los Angeles, terrified of Bloods’ retaliation and refusing to testify.”
In a vast country like America, especially in these days before the internet was widespread, information traveled slowly. Finding someone determined to hide was like looking for a needle in a haystack.
“And then? Don’t tell me the Bloods’ killer was acquitted in court.”
“Unfortunately, there was no other decisive evidence implicating the killer,” Holden admitted, pupils contracting, his tone suddenly cold.
“But that’s not the end of it. In Las Vegas, I heard that Alvin Garcia has a relative living in Henderson. He’s very likely hiding there.”
“This isn’t really police business, is it? Catching the killer doesn’t benefit you. You’re responding purely out of duty?” Dean suddenly found this moralizing guy a lot more likable. “Didn’t expect you to be all tough on the outside and soft inside, with a real sense of justice.”
“Wrong. I want to understand the psychology behind the killer’s actions—why a core member of a Black gang would wipe out an entire family,” Holden said seriously. “Someone from such a unique background is worth interviewing. But first, he needs to be put behind bars.”
“So next, we need to find Alvin and persuade him to testify again?” Dean asked loudly, glancing at his system panel, hoping to trigger a new event like “Find Alvin Garcia,” but nothing appeared—something was still missing.
“The killer’s name?” Dean turned the wheel, guiding the car onto another street.
Holden noticed his shifting expression, as if seeing right through him.
“Kid, take a look at your rabbit-red eyes in the mirror. Are you addicted to killing? You like fighting, fine, but you have to work with me, follow the rules, principles, and limits. Got it?”
Dean said nothing, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
…
Henderson lay southeast of Las Vegas, less than an hour’s drive from downtown.
It was Nevada’s second most populous city after Las Vegas and Reno. Thanks to its proximity to the gambling capital and cheaper real estate, many people had moved to its newer neighborhoods in recent years.
But compared to Las Vegas—where malls and hotels were everywhere—Henderson’s development lagged behind and was patchy: half the houses along the streets looked brand-new and prosperous, while the other half were shockingly rundown.
Red Maple Avenue lay deep in the old city near the mountains, an area worn, desolate, and neglected.
Dean parked the car. He and Holden searched the street side by side.
A sense of desolation and decay hung thick in the air. Looking down the street, Dean saw neither cars nor a single living soul.
One house was overgrown with vines, its windows and roof gaping with holes, clearly long abandoned. Another had been torn down to a heap of rotting lumber. Farther down, a house was charred black, as if it had burned.
“Holden, are you sure Alvin would hole up in a dump like this?”
“I’m not omniscient. How should I guess what he’s thinking? I don’t even know who owns this house,” Holden admitted. “It’s just a possible hideout.”
Fifteen minutes later,
They found 369 Red Maple Avenue, a two-story wooden house standing alone by the roadside, with no front or back yard, its yellowed boards bearing the marks of age.
…
They checked the trash cans by the curb—empty.
Climbing the steps, they came to the front door.
Bang, bang…
Bang, bang…
They knocked for a full minute.
No answer.
“This place has been empty for ages.” Holden mused, touching the doorknob and windowsill. When he pulled his hand back, it was coated in a thick layer of dust.
He stepped back, eyes drifting to a faint handprint on the balcony railing above, lost in thought.
Meanwhile, Dean crept close to the wooden door, focusing his mind on the system.
With a thought, he activated the “God’s Eye” function.
In an instant,
His vision went black, then lit up again, seeing through the wood into the room beyond—a five-meter radius from the door.
No lights.
It was pitch black.
A sliver of sunlight filtered in through a kitchen window, providing Dean with a dim view—
The mechanical lock on the door was broken, but a push bar was sealed tight.
Directly inside was a slanting wooden staircase, with a sofa, coffee table, and TV to the right.
The coffee table was empty.
No signs of human activity.
But as Dean’s gaze returned to the staircase, he froze.
A flashy pair of red sneakers appeared at the top, moving slowly down the steps.
Next came dark-skinned legs, red athletic shorts, a T-shirt marked with a red star—
Finally, a head, so black it gleamed, entered Dean’s “God’s Eye” view.
Young—maybe twenty, face expressionless, cold as iron. The striking contrast between his skin and the red clothes left Dean with a vivid impression.
The Black man gripped a gun in both hands, crouching as he crept downward.
Clearly, he intended to sneak up to the door and give the two outside a deadly surprise—send them both to kingdom come.
…
The next moment,
An invisible “Shadow” shot from Dean’s body, transforming into a ghostly armor that blocked the door, ready for any sudden gunfire.
Dean, still in “God’s Eye,” lowered his voice to the man beside him.
“Holden, didn’t you say the killer was a core member of the Bloods?”
“Yeah, a relative of the boss.”
On the stairs, the Black man paused, body suddenly rigid as a wooden statue.
“Then isn’t it possible they’d send a gang hitman to Henderson to silence Alvin, the only witness, and tie up loose ends?”
Dean enjoyed the look on the man’s face inside, raising his voice for effect.
“First, they’d have to find him!”
“What marks do the Bloods have?”
“They love red—usually have something with red stars on them,” Holden finally blurted out. “Why do you ask?”
The man inside’s face changed—and he moved!
Bang!
A sudden gunshot shattered the street’s silence.
A hole burst open in the white wooden door; sunlight streamed through, lighting up the darkness.
“Watch out!”
Dean and Holden both dived aside, rolling off the porch to either side of the house.
Holden swiftly drew his gun from his suit, breathing deeply, his face pale with tension.
Clearly, the Behavioral Science expert was no fighter.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
Three more shots ripped through the wood, whistling past them outside.
Inside, footsteps pounded, followed by two voices shouting in thick Black accents.
The ceiling above thundered as someone ran.
Through “God’s Eye,” Dean saw the first Black man had charged down the stairs, half his body hidden in the hall, cautiously peeking out and firing a shot every couple of seconds.
He was less than five meters from Dean.
Meanwhile, a foot appeared midway up the stairs—someone else. Farther away, out of “God’s Eye” range, Dean couldn’t see.
So there were two hitmen?
Dean’s heart pounded, eyes blazing with anticipation.
Take them out!
Bang!
A bullet whistled past his head, kicking up dirt behind him.
Dean, suppressing his excitement, asked,
“Holden, am I allowed to shoot back? By your theory, if I kill them, does that make me the serial killer you keep talking about?”
“…”
“Shoot back! It’s legal and justified—I’ll cover for you!” Holden, half-crouched like a gorilla with its rear in the air, didn’t dare move.
“Just what I was waiting for!”
Dean drew the Colt from his shoulder holster, flipped the safety, racked the slide, braced his left hand on the railing, and sprang back onto the porch like a cat.
Both hands gripping the Colt.
Right foot slammed the door.
The “Shadow” blocking him kicked too.
The combined force boomed—the door flew open!
Dean ducked to the left of the frame.
Blazing sunlight poured inside, sweeping away the shadows.
Startled, the two Black men at the hall and stairs rained bullets on the entrance.
The air whined, spent shells clattered.
Most bullets whizzed harmlessly outside, chewing up the floor and sending up splinters.
Two bullets pierced the doorframe, striking where Dean crouched—but his ghostly armor stopped them cold, dropping them uselessly to the floor.
Dean commanded the “Shadow” to clear a line of fire for his Colt.
His expression was focused and calm.
Suddenly, he was back on the training range, firing at stationary targets.
His LV1 shooting skill exploded into action.
Bang! Bang!
His wrist jerked, muzzle rising.
The acrid scent of gunpowder filled the air.
Two .45 rounds left the Colt, crossing five meters to smash through the stair rail, striking the Black man’s chest dead on.
In an instant, the kinetic force hammered his nerves and spine.
He gave a short, sharp scream, then his body stiffened, head and shoulders exposed.
Dean instinctively fired a third shot.
A burst of blood exploded from the man’s head.
You killed the target with an M1911A1.
Proficiency +10
Shooting LV1 (10/200)
…
Two to the chest, one to the head—one life ended.
Dean turned to the stairs.
The second man on the upper floor had just finished a magazine and was reloading. Under Dean’s icy gaze, he shuddered involuntarily.
He spun and fled deeper upstairs.
Dean didn’t rush up in pursuit. Instead, he darted into the living room, circling swiftly.
At the same time, his “God’s Eye” function worked like a bat’s sonar, tracking the “little bug” upstairs.
He was pressed against the corridor wall, gun trained on the stairs, waiting to fire the moment anyone appeared.
But he would be disappointed.
Dean confirmed there was no third person upstairs, then suddenly aimed at the ceiling and gave the second assassin the highest courtesy—
Bang, bang, bang!
Wood splintered as holes blasted through the floor.
A wail, then a heavy thump.
Bang!
A fourth shot rang out.
The wailing stopped.
You used an M1911A1… pierced the target’s neck, causing a fatal wound.
Target dead.
Proficiency +9
Shooting LV1 (19/200)
…
Less than a minute, and the fight was over.
Dean exhaled, exhilarated, savoring the adrenaline rush and a trace of thrilling joy.
Compared to Lake Mead, these enemies’ firepower was nothing. He’d won overwhelmingly.
And in close-quarters combat, the “God’s Eye” made sure he always had the advantage—a truly powerful cheat.
Now the house was calm.
Only the sound of him methodically clearing his gun, and blood seeping from wounds, disturbed the silence.
…
“That’s it?” Holden, both hands gripping his gun, appeared slowly at the door. He gazed at the fallen Black men, the glaring pools of blood, and his unscathed companion, exhaling deeply as he holstered his weapon.
“Lucky I brought you along. How many hitmen were there?”
“Two. There’s another body upstairs.” Dean re-holstered his Colt.
“You were pretty ruthless—don’t you want to keep one alive for questioning?” Holden asked regretfully.
“Did you see what happened? This was a shootout. You want me to go easy?” Dean tapped his temple, still shaken. “You have any idea how close I came to getting my head blown off?”
Holden laughed.
“Don’t play dumb, buddy. I’ve been meaning to tell you—your acting is terrible. When you charged through that door, you looked as excited as if you were at a disco.”
Dean’s face froze.
Holden headed up the stairs. Upstairs he found the second Black man, sprawled in a pool of blood, neck a mangled mess.
“No wonder you handled the Lake Mead incident single-handed. But where did a guy your age learn these skills?”
“What? I can’t hear you,” Dean deflected. “You’re FBI—how come you’re not good at shooting?”
“My department isn’t a combat unit. I value brains over brawn,” Holden replied calmly.
“Fine, let’s get serious. What do we do with the bodies?”
“I’ll call the police now,” Holden reassured him. “Don’t worry—this was self-defense. Legal, justified, and I’m the witness.”
“Besides, these LA gangsters-slash-hitmen came looking for trouble in Las Vegas. No one will shed a tear for them.”
“Cops all over the country couldn’t care less about dead gang members.”
“But we’ll need to coordinate our statements. When they ask how the shootout happened, you’ll have to surrender your weapon again. Sorry, that’s the rule.”
“No need for a lawyer. If they ask why we were here, just blame it all on me.”
They quickly got their stories straight.
Holden marveled repeatedly at Dean’s luck—his shots through the ceiling had hit the target dead on.
Was this guy the goddess of fortune’s illegitimate son?
Suddenly, a voice at the door interrupted their discussion.
“Officers, I heard the commotion from across the street,” a cautious, brown-haired, blue-eyed man poked his head in nervously. “Are all those Bloods scum dead?”
“Alvin Garcia? We’ve finally found you!”