Chapter 1: Extreme Counterkill

　　The gun in front of him was a Glock 17—just one glance and you could tell.

　　Raymond Brooks could even tell that this was a fourth-generation Glock 17.

　　There are five generations of Glock 17. The differences between the first and second generations are not obvious; the third generation added a tactical rail at the front of the slide; the fourth generation started adding markings on the slide; the fifth generation removed the finger grooves on the grip. These are the more obvious external changes of the Glock 17 pistol.

　　But to be honest, it was only because the gun was pressed against his forehead and he could see the "gen 4" engraved on the slide that Raymond Brooks confirmed it was a fourth-generation Glock.

　　What kind of person, with a gun pressed to their head, would still bother to identify the model of the pistol?

　　Someone like Raymond Brooks.

　　Let alone having a gun to his head—even if he got shot, as long as he wasn't dead yet, Raymond Brooks would have to figure out whether he was hit by a 9mm Parabellum round or a .45 ACP round.

　　As a military enthusiast, as someone who has no gun in hand but always has one in mind, being able to identify the model of the gun is the limit of what Raymond Brooks can do at this moment.

　　With his hands tied behind his back, tape over his mouth, and a gun pressed to his forehead, Raymond Brooks was forced to kneel on the ground.

　　At this moment, all Raymond Brooks felt was regret and fear.

　　He regretted ever coming to Mexico, and even more so coming to Tijuana—otherwise, he wouldn't have been kidnapped.

　　He feared that if the kidnappers shot him dead here, not even his body would be left behind, and no one would even know he had been killed.

　　After forcing Raymond Brooks to kneel at gunpoint and seeing that he was obediently motionless, the kidnapper who brought him in put away his gun, then looked at the only person sitting in the room and said, "Boss, we found him in the city. He just got out of a taxi, so I brought him here."

　　The kidnapper handed a small bag to the boss. Inside were Raymond Brooks's passport, phone, plane ticket, and a wallet.

　　The boss sat on a white plastic chair, wearing a pair of Air Force 1s, jeans, a light gray linen suit jacket, and a light pink shirt underneath. His hair was meticulously styled, a carefully groomed mustache above his lip, and he reeked of strong cologne.

　　From the outside, the kidnapper boss looked like a trendy guy, and didn't seem all that vicious.

　　But the man standing behind the boss looked much more menacing—he was probably a bodyguard, holding a submachine gun that he never put down.

　　Almost out of instinct, Raymond Brooks couldn't help but identify the submachine gun and confirmed it was an MP7.

　　Raymond Brooks didn't dare look too much at the boss, but the boss scrutinized Raymond Brooks for a moment, then unzipped the small bag, rummaged through it, and took out Raymond Brooks's passport from the compartment for documents.

　　He didn't even open the passport at first, just looked at the cover and started shaking his head. When he did open it and carefully checked the visa page, the boss immediately tossed the passport onto the round table with a look of disgust.

　　"He's Chinese! You idiots brought me a Chinese!"

　　The kidnapper who brought Raymond Brooks in looked a bit confused and said, "What's wrong with being Chinese?"

　　"What's wrong? If a Chinese gets kidnapped, the Chinese Consulate in Tijuana will contact the Mexican Foreign Ministry, the Foreign Ministry will contact the Tijuana police, and the police will come to me for the person. That way, not only will I not get any money, but I'll also be in a lot of trouble. Understand?"

　　The kidnapper was still confused. He made a puzzled gesture and said, "But he can't call the police, and he has no chance to contact the consulate."

　　The boss picked up Raymond Brooks's passport, turned to the visa page, and said, "Look at his visa. He just entered Tijuana today, and there's only one visa in this passport, and it's a tourist visa. Normally, that means there's no one in Tijuana willing to pay his ransom. That means we can only have him or his family pay the ransom, and if his family isn't stupid, they'll contact the embassy. It's simple logic. Now do you get it?"

　　After hearing the boss's words, the kidnapper was silent for a moment, then pointed at Raymond Brooks's small bag and said, "There's his bank card in there. Get the PIN out of him and withdraw all the money from his card."

　　The boss shrugged and said, "This guy is obviously broke. There won't be much money in the card. It's not worth going to the ATM and getting into unnecessary trouble."

　　The kidnapper looked at Raymond Brooks suspiciously and said, "He's broke?"