After three days of strict inspections, the underlings started slacking off—some played cards, some drank, and they almost forgot what their own boss was called.

Steven Clark and his two companions quickly noticed that Franklin Grant's gang was dead drunk tonight, with only two patrolling outside shivering in the cold wind.

Seeing the situation ease up a bit, Steven Clark tried to use the Flying Tigers' hand signals to direct the operation, but Sir Howard ignored him and David Carter had no idea what he was doing.

Helpless, the three split up to search for the target truck.

Ten minutes later, they regrouped. Sir Howard knocked out a patrolling gang member with an iron palm strike, entered the target truck, and successfully found the missing service pistol.

Besides that, there were quite a few long guns in the truck, like AKs and the like.

“Boss, what do we do?”

Steven Clark asked Sir Howard; leaving so many guns behind wasn’t an option either.

Sir Howard pondered for a moment. He and Steven Clark would drive the truck, David Carter would go find Jack Linton, and they’d split up to retreat. At the same time, he and Steven Clark would draw attention so the other two could get away first.

After all, Jack Linton wasn’t a cop—there was no reason to make him act as cover.

“So unlucky, about to retire and still risking my life. If I’d fought this hard a few years ago, I’d have had the capital to run for Governor of Hong Kong.”

Sir Howard grumbled to himself. Only when David Carter's figure faded into the darkness did he slam the gas pedal and drive the truck out of the parking lot.

……

“Hey, Uncle David, how come only you came back? Where are the other two?”

“We split up. The boss told me to act with you. When you see their truck rush out, we run in the opposite direction.”

David Carter got into the passenger seat, suddenly remembered something, and hurriedly fastened his seatbelt.

“This isn’t called ‘acting’—it’s called running away.”

Jack Linton silently gave a thumbs up to the plan of splitting up. He didn’t mind helping, but risking his life was a hard pass.

Bang!!

In the dimly lit parking lot, a truck sped out, smashed through the barrier gate, and roared toward the end of the road.

Franklin Grant's men, dead drunk, broke out in a cold sweat when they realized the truck had been stolen, but it was too late—they could only line up and watch the truck drive away.

Well, not all of them. They struggled a bit, raised their pistols, and fired a couple of shots at the truck’s departing silhouette.

Doing something was better than doing nothing.

“Idiots, this isn’t a movie. Do they really think they’re sharpshooters?”

Inside the car, David Carter scoffed: “Jack Brooks, want to bet? If they actually hit it, I’ll…”

Bang!

With a loud bang, the truck’s rear tire went flat, and the whole wheel flew right off.

The truck staggered like a drunk, swerved into the roadside bushes, and with a crash, flipped over.

“Holy crap, how the hell did that happen?” x2

Staring at the miraculous shot, Jack Linton and David Carter blurted out in unison, then stared at each other wide-eyed.

“Jack Brooks, why are you looking at me like that?”

“Go on, you’re the cop.”

“But I only have a .38 with six bullets! There are seven or eight guns on the other side—how could I possibly win?”

David Carter shook his head like a rattle drum. His beloved gun had a range of thirty meters and only six bullets. No way he could take them on.

“There’s an M4 in the trunk. Sir Howard and Steve Clark are waiting for your support. Don’t panic—the problem’s huge, but panicking won’t help.”

Jack Linton gave a thumbs up, telling David Carter not to worry.

“No way, you must be mistaken. That’s just a firewood stick.”

“If you won’t do it, I will!”

Jack Linton glanced into the distance and saw, under the streetlights, the gang members in the parking lot were overjoyed, all rushing toward the bushes with their pistols.

He quickly got out, grabbed the M4 from the trunk, and looked extremely serious.

“Uncle David, how do you use this gun?”

“……”

……

Over at the truck, Steven Clark and Sir Howard crawled out of the cab cursing. They’d made it ninety-nine steps, only to trip on the last one.

“Steve Clark, how do you drive? Are you blind?”

“Boss, you were the one driving!”

“Say that again and I’ll smack you to death.”

Sir Howard snapped, thinking it served Steven Clark right for never getting promoted—he had no sense at all.

He lay down in the grass and fired a burst at the figures running toward them. Gunfire rang out, and the group all hit the ground.

Not a single one was hit!

No helping it—the night was too dark.

It was late, overcast, and there were no buildings nearby—just a few streetlights, some of which weren’t even working.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang—

Sir Howard opened fire, and the other side wasn’t to be outdone. They didn’t have automatic rifles, but they had numbers—each with a pistol, using the darkness for cover, so they weren’t afraid.

Steven Clark joined the fight, forming a crossfire with Sir Howard, firing shot after shot.

It looked professional, but in reality, both sides were just shooting by chance—hitting anything was pure luck.

That’s how real firefights are. The idea of mowing down a crowd with a single burst is a myth—no one’s dumb enough to stand still like a target.

The gang members crept closer and closer. Because of the distance, Sir Howard and Steven Clark's accuracy gradually improved. Pressured by the threat of death, the gang members kept their distance, continuing to resist stubbornly.