A hunched man wearing a leather apron—the kind that hangs around the neck, favored by Butchers—stood with about fifteen or sixteen burly, middle-aged women, loosely arranged in two rows.
They saw Dean and the others emerge from Mrs. Haas’s house.
The hunched man was about to step forward to greet them when suddenly, Robert, one of the muscular trio, ducked back into the house.
The hunched man’s expression changed; he wanted to stop Robert.
But Dean blocked his path, eyeing him curiously. "You’re Arthur?"
The scent from this man was so familiar, almost nostalgic.
The hunched man lifted his head. His brown eyes, unsettlingly like those of a hanged man, met Dean’s. "That’s right. Mrs. Haas said you were from the fire department. Apologies, but I know them well and I’ve never seen you before. I’ll need to check your identification."
He sensed a kindred spirit in Dean.
The way Dean looked at people held an indifferent quality—one Arthur didn’t recognize in himself, yet it was never concealed. It was the way the living look at a pile of rotting flesh.
This is the look of someone who’s handled corpses for a long time!
Arthur instinctively stepped back, his hands already moving towards the pockets of his grimy leather apron.
Dean, seemingly oblivious to Arthur’s movement, smiled warmly. "We were just transferred from Las Vegas to help with research, to ensure more accurate results. Since you’re all here, I might as well show my identification."
As he spoke, he reached into his coat.
Dean acted so naturally that Arthur almost dismissed his earlier unease as a misconception, withdrawing the hand that had been inching towards his leather apron.
The next moment, a dark gun muzzle was aimed at him.
Arthur gaped at Dean, who had just pulled a handgun from his coat and aimed it directly at him. His lips twitched, but he remained wordless.
Damn bastard! Doesn’t fight fair!
"Move an inch, and I’ll break your arms and legs," Dean said, smiling at the stunned Arthur, thoroughly pleased with his ever-improving acting skills.
The group of burly female helpers, witnessing this, gasped instinctively and retreated in unison.
They said it was a survey. Why are they pulling out guns?
Harry, who was behind Dean, seized the moment to flash his detective badge. "Los Angeles Police! This area is now part of a murder investigation. We need your cooperation!"
Hearing this, Arthur knew his luck had run out. His hunched back straightened in an instant, and his hands dived into his Butcher-style leather apron, pulling out a boning knife.
The next moment—BANG!
Several bullets, fired so rapidly they sounded like a single report, burst from Dean’s hip, precisely hitting the joints of Arthur’s limbs at close range. The seemingly old man staggered backward before collapsing to the ground like a dead dog.
It turned out that besides the gun in his right hand aimed at Arthur, Dean had another pistol hanging at his waist. Without even pulling it from the holster, he’d simply twisted his left hand and fired four shots.
"Wow," Harry looked on with admiration. "Buddy, when did you learn that American Iaijutsu rapid-fire technique? From the sound, I almost thought you only fired once!"
The technique Dean used was indeed the ’American Iaijutsu rapid-fire,’ a favorite tactic of old revolver duelists: shooting instantly from the holster!
With older revolvers, this technique required fanning the hammer to fire rapidly, hoping to empty the cylinder before the opponent could even draw.
Its only flaw? Unless it was committed to muscle memory, the shooter was more likely to hit their own foot than their target.
The semi-automatic pistol Dean used eliminated a step, making it faster to fire but also more dangerous; a slight miscalculation, and he could shoot himself in the hip or thigh.
Because of this, few people bothered to learn the skill anymore.
Facing Harry’s admiring gaze, Dean chuckled. Then, to Harry’s astonishment, he pulled the trigger of the gun in his right hand again.
The searing bullet path scorched off a thin layer of skin as it narrowly grazed Harry’s cheek.
Two female helpers had just drawn their pistols when .45 caliber bullets pierced their skulls. They wobbled and collapsed.
A nearby helper, spattered with blood from the gruesome headshots, froze in terror.
Harry touched his still-stinging cheek, then glanced at the fallen women and the handguns beside them. Only then did he realize what had just happened.
"FUCK! Everyone, hands on your head and get down! Don’t move!" He drew his own handgun and furiously roared at the remaining female helpers.
If Dean hadn’t reacted so quickly, I’d have been a goner!
The remaining female helpers, terrified, finally snapped out of their shock. They clung to each other, screaming and shakily squatting down.
The wooden door to the room was kicked open.
Robert burst out, guns in both hands, assuming a standard quick-aim stance as he nervously scanned the surroundings.
He had just gone inside when he heard the gunfire.
Seeing Dean and Harry were safe and sound, he finally breathed a sigh of relief. "You scared me to death! I thought you’d been shot."
"No one gets the drop on me!" Dean blew on the still-smoking muzzle of his gun, then gestured towards the group. "Before reinforcements arrive, you and Harry watch these people. Especially this little cutie wriggling on the ground. I hope he’s still alive when I come out."