North American Detective: I am Proficient in All Kinds of Gun Quick Draws-Chapter 67 - 66: Harvest_1

Dean’s nerves were taut as he crept forward. It was the only place nearby offering concealment. He pushed through a patch of weeds. Dean was stunned. Below him was a slope.

Several cars were parked askew in the open space, bodies lying helter-skelter in between—a scene reminiscent of a deadly gangland double-cross.

At the bottom of the slope, the road curved just ahead.

It was no wonder the four gunmen had ambushed Malago’s patrol car so suddenly. If they hadn’t opened fire, Malago would have seen the scene as soon as he rounded the bend...

Dean noticed that on the side of a pickup truck, two men were leaning against the truck bed, apparently shot. Judging by their skin color, they were Mexican, like the gunmen.

The brief ceasefire up ahead made the two men uneasy. They occasionally craned their necks to look in Dean’s direction.

However, due to the terrain, Dean could easily see them, but it was difficult for them to spot Dean, who was watching them intently, through the cover of withered grass.

Just as Dean was pondering how to eliminate the two men below, Malago, with Harry in tow, each carrying a semi-automatic rifle, caught up from behind.

"Dean, are you okay?" Harry asked with concern, feeling ashamed for not having provided any help earlier.

"Shh," Dean signaled for them to be quiet, pointing downwards. "There are still two of the gunmen’s accomplices down there. Looks like we’re unlucky; we’ve stumbled upon their internal strife."

"These are Mexican drug traffickers!" Malago recognized the situation below at a glance. "We’re not far from the border. They must have had a problem during a deal and turned on each other!"

At the mention of internal strife, Malago’s breathing quickened significantly. As a lifelong Texan, he knew all too well what lay below: drugs and money!

Dean noticed his peculiar reaction. A slight smile touched his lips; he guessed Malago was getting ideas.

This is a good opportunity to test Harry, Dean thought.

He slapped Malago on the shoulder. "Harry, cover us from up here. We’ll go down and deal with them. Maybe we’ll get an unexpected reward."

After speaking, he gave Malago a meaningful look. This arrangement was to prevent Malago from entertaining any foolish notions.

Malago immediately realized Dean had seen through him. Recalling Dean’s phenomenal marksmanship from before, he dared not refuse and pulled out a strip of bullets from his belt. "These are for a revolver."

Dean accepted them.

After replenishing his ammunition, Dean and Malago slid down the slope from the side.

Meanwhile, Harry, positioned above, began firing wildly into an open area.

The two men by the pickup truck were immediately drawn by the gunfire, nervously aiming their weapons in that direction.

But they failed to notice two figures stealthily approaching from behind.

Once within fifty meters, Dean found his angle and fired two shots.

Almost simultaneously, a message flashed through Dean’s mind: Killed all Hala Family drug lords present. Wilderness double-cross case solved. Experience Points +600.

The message on the panel confirmed Dean’s ruthless marksmanship. Dean smiled faintly. 600 Experience Points banked. Sweet.

Malago, beside him, was startled by the gunfire. Worried that Dean might miss from such a distance and alert the enemy, he anxiously looked toward the pickup.

He saw that the two men were no longer visible in the back of the pickup; only two large splatters of blood had appeared near the front of the truck...

"Don’t be so tense," Dean said, twirling his gun. "Within fifty meters, even a coin can’t escape my bullet!"

"FK!" Malago couldn’t help but curse, feeling the oppressive force of Dean’s marksmanship up close. "Your shooting is definitely no worse than Bob’s!"

"Who’s he?"

"Bob is Texas’s top marksman. He can draw his gun and hit six clay pigeons in one second. He’s won the title of Texas Revolver Champion three times!"

The two chatted casually as they approached the vehicles.

Malago sighed. "It’s a pity he’s gotten old. I never thought I’d see a marksman comparable to him in my lifetime."

Beauty fades, heroes wane.

Dean whistled and laughed. "So, Malago, do you still think I’m soft?"

"Hard as nails!" Malago admitted, completely convinced. "I must apologize for what I said earlier, Dean. No matter why you’re here, when we get to the Del Rio Police Station, I’ll make sure the guys give you their full support!"

Excellent. Dean’s right hand, hovering near Malago, twitched. He slipped the blade he’d kept ready to draw blood back into his pocket and shouted up the slope to Harry, "Harry, come on down! It’s harvest time!"

Harry had just witnessed Dean’s terrifying marksmanship firsthand.

He bolted down the slope excitedly, looking at Dean with the adoration of a young fanboy. "Dean, from the first time I saw you disassemble a pistol, I knew you were an expert!"

"Easy, Harry," Dean said, gesturing to the bodies strewn about. "Help check the scene. Malago and I will have a smoke."

"You got it."

At this moment, Harry was obedient and compliant. This was the first rule of survival he had learned in the slums: follow the strong!

Malago judiciously kept his hands away from his semi-automatic rifle and pointed to a Mexican corpse, explaining, "The tattoo on his body is the symbol of a Mexican family called the Hala Family."

In the United States, the era of family-style gangs was mostly over. Conversely, in Mexico, especially near the border, gangs often centered around families.

"Are they trouble?" Dean asked curiously.

Killing drug traffickers is much easier than painstakingly solving cases, Dean thought. But the risks are too high. And you have to stumble upon a suitable case by chance.

Malago shook his head unconcernedly. "Just a small family that only sprang up last year. Only a minor power with no real foundation would resort to double-crossing."

Cross-border drug trafficking hinges on reputation and channels. Without those, that little family could only try to seize the domestic market. The drug lords over there are much crazier than those in the United States.

As the two talked, Harry worked quickly and efficiently.

Soon, two opened cases, a pile of loose cash, and other miscellaneous items were strewn on the ground: a case of drugs and a case of cash—the classic drug lord transaction scene.

The three of them circled these items, each lost in their own thoughts.

Dean glanced at the other two and took the initiative. "Guys, I’ve got some bad news. Those gunmen belong to a Mexican crime family. If we don’t want to cause trouble for ourselves and our families, it’s best we remove all traces of our presence and don’t report this attack."

The gunfire had come too suddenly; they hadn’t had time to call for backup.

"What about these things and the bodies?" Harry swallowed hard, vaguely guessing what was coming. "And Malago’s patrol car is riddled with bullet holes. We can’t cover that up."

"Just dump the bodies in a car and burn them," Malago chuckled. "As for the patrol car, don’t worry. I’ll have my daughter drive over to handle it, along with this flour and the dirty money!"

In this no-man’s-land, dead people were as insignificant as dead ants.

Harry watched Malago’s nonchalant expression and suddenly realized: this wasn’t Los Angeles! Even in Los Angeles, several precincts had plenty of dirty cops with gang connections, some even forming their own factions within the department. Let alone a precinct on the border!

The thought sent a chill down Harry’s spine. He immediately stepped behind Dean and said decisively, "I’ll follow Dean’s lead."

Dean nodded. "Malago, call your daughter."

「Two hours later,」

a heavily built woman, whose arms were as thick as Harry’s thighs, drove an empty box truck to the scene. She was accompanied by seven grim-faced white men.

They worked in silence, dismantling Malago’s original patrol car and replacing damaged parts with new ones, erasing all traces of bullet holes.

By the time they left, the patrol car looked as good as new. The dirty money and the "flour" had also vanished. And Dean now held a lottery ticket promising a grand prize of one million US dollars—a guaranteed winner!

"Let’s go, guys," Dean urged. "I can’t wait to deal with Marina, find the runaway Bert, and then head back to Los Angeles to enjoy life."

With triumphant smiles, the three of them started the patrol car again and headed towards the Del Rio Police Station.

Behind them, billowing black smoke rose into the air. The harsh desert wind howled, as if recounting to the world the story of what had transpired there.