North American Detective: I am Proficient in All Kinds of Gun Quick Draws
Chapter 65 - 64: Ambushed_1

Chapter 65: Chapter 64: Ambushed_1

Harry rarely traveled far. On the plane, he was slightly excited, looking around. Gradually, Harry noticed something was off.

He tapped Dean, who had been silent the entire trip and was feigning sleep with sunglasses on. "Buddy, why does it seem like I’m the only Black person on this flight?"

Dean turned his head, pulled down his sunglasses, and pretended to look around in surprise. "It does seem that way, doesn’t it? Why is that?"

He had known all along what Texas was like.

Texas was a hotbed of white supremacy and concentrated racism, rife with severe discrimination. Mexicans of mixed heritage—Black and White, White and Indigenous, or White and Asian—were common enough not to attract much attention. But Black people... it was a different story for them.

However, for this trip, they might need a helper. Lawrence had his reservations, and it wasn’t convenient for him to come, so Dean had no choice but to coax Harry along. He hoped the officers from the local Texas precinct would consider Harry’s status as a detective and not make the situation too awkward.

Thinking of this, Dean gave him a heads-up. "By the way, Harry, we don’t have jurisdictional authority here, nor are we armed. Once we get there, if you encounter any unfair treatment, just bear with it for now. I’ll make sure you get even, I swear!"

Harry scratched his head. "Okay, but for some reason, hearing you say that makes me feel even weirder. I have a bad feeling about this."

Harry, your intuition is spot on.

Dean smiled without a word and put his sunglasses back on.

...

「Four hours later.」

Del Rio Airport.

Among a throng of taxi drivers vying for passengers, Dean noticed an old white man holding a sign with his and Harry’s names on it.

Dean immediately led Harry, who was looking around curiously, over to the old man and greeted him, "Del Rio Police Station?"

Seeing Dean, the old man lowered the sign and grumbled, "I really don’t understand why you two had to come all the way out here. Such a hassle."

"My best buddy is from Texas, and he always says you have the best booze and women here. I’ve always been skeptical," Dean said, shaking the old man’s hand. "But smelling the alcohol on you, I know he wasn’t lying."

This old man drove here drunk. DAMN!

The old man, however, was amused by Dean’s words and laughed heartily. "Yes, your buddy didn’t lie! I’m Malago, a senior officer from the Del Rio Police Station. I like your spirit; we definitely need to have a drink tonight!"

"I’m Detective Dean. Looking forward to tonight," Dean responded with a smile.

With just a few words, the two of them hit it off.

Harry, not wanting to be left out, tried to join in.

"Wow, buddy, did you drive here after a few drinks?" Harry extended his hand to Malago with an overly familiar attitude. "I’m Detective Harry. Old pal, smelling the alcohol on you, I feel like we speak the same language."

"Get lost, nigger!" Malago’s expression changed the moment he saw Harry. He glared at him and then looked at Dean with displeasure. "Detective Dean, don’t tell me he’s also from your department. Don’t they know we don’t welcome niggers here?!"

Harry stood there, dumbfounded. It had been a long time since anyone had called him a nigger, especially after he became a detective.

And the person saying it was also a police officer.

Dean was equally speechless.

It was just as I’d feared.

It seemed Del Rio’s proximity to the border meant the members of this station were even more deeply influenced by the culture of white supremacy.

He quickly stepped between Malago and Harry. "Malago, Harry is an excellent detective with extensive connections in Los Angeles. There’s no need to be so harsh."

Malago sneered, "Suit yourselves. But I’m not letting him sit in the front seat of my car. The backseat, maybe—that’s where I usually put prisoners!"

FUCK!

Even with Dean’s earlier warning, Harry couldn’t hold back. He raised his fist, ready to punch the old bastard.

Dean grabbed Harry’s fist, his own expression turning cold as he looked at Malago. "It’s getting late. We should head to the Del Rio Police Station."

HMPH! Malago snorted. "Dean, I take back what I said. Any white man who mixes with niggers is an idiot. You barely look old enough to shave, you’re not fit to drink with me. Go drink your milk!"

With that, he turned and walked away.

The old bastard!

A cold glint flashed in Dean’s eyes. He whispered to Harry, "Harry, just bear with it for now. Once our business here is done, I’ll help you teach this asshole a lesson."

"Okay." Harry, remembering he was unarmed, deflated.

Now he finally understood what Lawrence had meant.

First day away from Los Angeles.

I miss home!

...

The airport was still over a hundred miles from the Del Rio Police Station.

Harry, head hanging, sat silently in the back, behind a metal grille separating him from the front seats.

He trusted Dean.

For safety, Dean took the passenger seat.

That way, if Malago, the old bastard, tried anything, Dean could take him down immediately.

Malago probably mistook Dean for a "pure-blooded" white man, so he didn’t object.

Due to the earlier confrontation, the atmosphere in the car was tense.

The old guy had an obnoxious personality but a wild streak. An M4 rifle lay under his seat, next to two empty bottles of a local Texas beer. Malago’s right hand still gripped a whiskey bottle. Most people might smoke a cigarette while driving. Malago, however, took a swig of whiskey every few minutes.

If it weren’t for the wide lanes and the sparse traffic and population out here, Dean, for safety’s sake, would have insisted on driving himself.

As the car drove on, the surroundings became increasingly desolate. A vast, ochre-colored desert stretched as far as the eye could see; the occasional plant was a startling sight.

The scene resembled the opening of a bloody horror film.

Perhaps out of boredom, Malago tossed Dean a palm-sized glass flask from a box beside him. "You look like you’ve got Italian and Ancient Roman blood, just a bit light on the body hair. Doesn’t look very manly."

As he spoke, he pulled open his shirt, revealing his hairy chest.

Dean, considering they’d need the local police’s help and not wanting to sour relations further before they left, didn’t refuse Malago’s offer. He casually twisted off the cap, downed the liquor in one gulp, and then exhaled a strong breath of alcohol. "Good stuff. Would’ve been even better chilled."

Malago stared at the empty flask, dumbfounded. "FUCK! That ain’t beer, buddy! I admit, I was wrong. You’re no wimp."

Just as Dean was about to say something—

BANG!

A gunshot echoed across the wilderness.

A bullet struck the police car’s left side-view mirror, dead center.

"Ambush!" Malago reacted instantly, skillfully spinning the steering wheel. The police car drifted into a shallow ditch beside the road. Simultaneously, he grabbed the M4 from under his seat and, without looking, fired back in the direction the shot had come from.

Amidst the RAT-TAT-TAT of gunfire, Malago’s face was flushed with a wild excitement. "Haha! Must be some panicked illegal immigrants! Dean, call for backup! I’m gonna make a big bust today!"

They probably mistook me for a cop tracking them, that’s why they fired.

Just one rifle! Malago was fearless.

He tossed the radio to Dean, kicked open his door, and dived out, preparing to engage the enemy.

The next moment—

RAT-A-TAT-TAT!

Dozens of bullets rained down from multiple directions, kicking up dust and shredding the grass in front of Malago.

There were at least four attackers, all armed with rifles!

FUCK!

Malago’s heart sank. His alcohol-flushed face turned grimly determined. He returned fire while shouting, "Dean, get in the car and drive! Get out of here! I’ll cover you!"

This is really bad! I hope I’ll still get to taste my daughter’s home-brewed beer after today...