“…… The latest update from the Joint Defense Command says they have successfully killed the militants who had previously carried out the attack at the Boston branch of the Rohms Group. Under the personal command of the Joint Defense Command and the President, the TF of the Allied Cosmos Force and the Romans Group, as well as the local military police, cooperated to finally kill the attacker in the sewers, but due to the fierce fighting, the body of the attacker was damaged, so it was not possible to immediately confirm the identity, and the Joint Defense Command will announce the results later, and whether he was related to the attack in New York...... In addition, national security adviser Xia Xun was witnessed at the scene, as a cabinet member and a close associate of the Rommens group, it is very likely that he personally commanded the arrest operation......"

-- Liberty Television special program.

***

At half past six in the morning, 25-year-old Boston Police Department Superintendent Emeritus, Mahan. Burton walked out of the 24-hour coffee shop, coffee and a chicken falafel that had just been put on the shelf, and walked across the street into his police car.

Mahan glanced at the on-board computer and found that there were no new call records, so he calmly inserted the coffee cup into the groove behind the gear lever, then threw the plastic bag containing the chicken falafel on the empty passenger seat, relaxed himself, and then picked up the car walkie-talkie.

"Main Station, 173 begins patrolling along Newbury Street."

"Reception, uh...... Superintendent Burton, you're not on today's shift schedule. ”

"This is 173, I'll take a look at it, it's okay to be alone."

"Received by the main station, we are now on level 4 alert, please be careful."

"173 received."

It has been a full year since Mahan retired from the army, and Mahan, who joined the army at the age of 22, served in the 82nd Division and participated in many combat operations on the Mexican front. Later, he participated in the Washington counterattack with the troops, was unscathed under the treacherous mines and snipers, and even participated in the Washington Liberation parade as the first echelon.

However, his good fortune came to an end a year ago, when a shrapnel pierced his helmet and armor, stabbed him in the socket of his left eye, and punctured the eyeball. The military doctor had to declare that he was no longer fit to serve in the front-line combat units with great combat intensity after removing his eyeballs.

Mahan turned down a transfer to the second-tier army or a job in the National Guard, and went straight back to his hometown of Boston to become a police officer — another good option for some disabled soldiers who didn't want to be calm and wanted to vent their energy, as boring as looking at warehouses and not having to do a lot of paperwork in the National Guard.

Therefore, the League has set up special posts for these veterans in various regions. For example, the rank of honorary superintendent does not have actual corresponding command rights, but he enjoys the treatment of superintendents, which is much better than that of ordinary patrol officers.

Moreover, for such veterans, the local police department also gives some preferential treatment as much as possible - veterans who choose to become police officers are generally just not suitable to continue to fight on the high-intensity battlefield, but their strong physique and rich combat experience are naturally not a problem to deal with bandit gangsters, especially soldiers from elite units like Mahan.

Mahan fastened his seatbelt. Then start the engine and push the gear lever. At six o'clock in the morning, there were no cars on the street, and as he turned the steering wheel, he reached into a plastic bag with his right hand and took out a sandwich.

After a day of tossing and turning yesterday, it stands to reason that today is not his duty - although under the highest alert. But the police are not TFs, and they still have to take shifts off.

However, he still got up early at five o'clock, ran along the riverside trail to the police station, got his car and began to patrol, partly because he maintained the strict routine of a soldier. On the other hand, it is also because of the attack that took place yesterday in the Romons group.

Almost everyone in the entire police station stayed up all night searching for the attacker, and according to his character, naturally he couldn't sleep in bed, but he couldn't ask his partner to work overtime too, so today's patrol will be completed by him alone.

On the other hand, he himself did not feel that there was anything particularly dangerous about the attackers - the agents were not necessarily as strong as battle-hardened soldiers, and his combat effectiveness was not comparable to that of the weak rookies of the Rohms security forces, and when he was in Washington with the ACA paratroopers, these private security guards were probably still cleaning the toilet in the training camp.

Holding the steering wheel with one hand, Mahan expertly opened the plastic box of sandwiches with the other and took a gentle bite.

In fact, he was a native of Boston, born in an apartment near Old South Suburbs, to middle-class parents of three brothers, and he had walked down Newpoli Street countless times, most of the neighborhood he knew well, and over the past twenty years, many people had moved and moved in, and there were new residents in the years he had been in the military, but as soon as he came back, he immediately visited the new residents of these neighborhoods.

Like traditional Americans, Mahan has a community spirit in his bones that has been left over from the colonial era.

Mahan drove slowly down the street, patrolling and munching on a chicken sandwich, and every time he passed a small building, he always had a few familiar faces in his mind, maybe not names, but he knew what the owner of the house looked like.

Suddenly, Mahan was stunned for a moment, then slipped the sandwich in his hand into the bag, threw it into the passenger seat, held the steering wheel with both hands, quietly turned the police car to the side, parked in a parking lot, and then picked up the radio.

"173 call the main station."

"Reception."

"Please help me check if the residents on the third floor of 55 Newpoli Street have reported a long-term trip?"

"Reception, wait a minute."

Mahan removed the microphone from his mouth, reached out and touched a pistol pinned to his waist, and at the same time as a reassuring feeling came from the cold metal, the voice of the operator of the main station sounded in the stereo.

"Confirmed, 173 note, 55 Newpoli Street, reported for long-term travel."

"173 understood, I'm going to check it out." Mahan spoke directly, and then paused, "I don't need support for the time being, I'll call if there's a need." ”

"Okay, be careful."

Mahan put down the microphone. Then I unbuckled my seat belt, opened the door, and stepped out of the car.

He cautiously walked out of the parking lot along the road, pressed his right hand on the holster, and walked to the back door of Building 55.

In his memory, the owners of Building 55 were a couple who had just moved from Chicago. They had reported their long-term trip to the police station a week earlier – residents who had been away from home for more than a month could report to the police station, and the police would be more mindful of these long-term ownerless homes when patrolling to avoid problems such as thieves breaking in or bursting water pipes.

But Mahan, as he drove by, noticed the curtains in the room and seemed to shake.

This kind of detail is unlikely to be noticed by the average police officer, and it will not be too much thought if it is noted, but Mahan seems to have been on the front line for too long. And there is an inherent reaction - on the battlefield, ignoring a bunch of unnatural grass can kill oneself and many comrades.

And when Mahan walked to the back door of the three-story building at No. 55, his fears were confirmed - the electronic lock had not changed, but there were some shallow scratches on the outside of the mechanical lock, which were traces of lock picking.

Mahan pressed his finger to the electronic lock, used police authority to open the door, and pulled out his pistol. Slowly walked into the room.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

Mahan lowered the muzzle gently, which was to be expected. The place where he saw the curtain shaking was in the room on the third floor, and he had to go up the stairs.

It's just that when Mahan walked to the top of the stairs, a black figure suddenly flashed out of the shadows, grabbed his wrist, and a sharp pain made him subconsciously drop the pistol. Immediately after, he felt his arm being pulled by a huge force, and his whole body somersaulted forward, falling heavily to the ground!

Mahan, who was violently attacked, had only one thought in his heart:

This turned out to be a TF!

Mahan had seen the combat effectiveness of TF at the front. Although he is definitely a strong person among ordinary people, he is no different from a baby in front of TF.

He opened his eyes, and before he could speak, a silver dinner knife was placed around his neck.

"Be smart, Mr. Officer."

Mahan endured the sharp pain coming from his back, and the hand of the siren reached for his waist and stopped abruptly.

But what made him stop was not the blade in the hand of the young man in black, but the face.

The face he had seen with his own eyes.

"Ling Yu?"

Ma Han subconsciously pronounced the somewhat unfamiliar name, and the young man frowned, because he was injured and urgently needed to rest, and his face was covered with sweat and extremely pale, and there was also a hint of surprise.

Because, Ling Yu also felt that the man in front of him was a little familiar.

***

Twelve hours later, the rain in Cambridge shows no signs of stopping.

Bean-sized raindrops smashed on the café's floor-to-ceiling windows, and even at noon, the sky was overcast, and the huge rain curtain blocked people's view and drove the already small number of pedestrians to shelter from the rain.

Bruce. Payne and Vivian. Ennige, at this moment, is also a member of this group of people who are sheltering from the rain.

"Isn't there any news from Ling Yu yet?"

Vivien, who was wearing a golden lolita dress, leaned on the table, turned her head sideways to look at Payne, who was holding a coffee cup and looked at the window that was actually covered with raindrops and couldn't see anything, and sighed, completely lacking her previous vitality.

"I'm still alive, my vital signs are stable, my wounds are healing, and nothing will happen to me."

Payne's voice was calm but somewhat monotonous, and he repeated the text message Arya had just sent him, somewhat deliberately avoiding a deep conversation with Vivien.

He's not good at dealing with children, that's Arya's job.

“…… Will Ling Yu be caught by those guys......"

Vivien pursed her lips, looking extremely impatient, but kept her voice down, after all, there were many people in the café who were also sheltering from the rain.

"No, it won't." Payne stretched out his finger and pointed to the TV above his head that was playing a boxing match, "If Ling Yu was really caught, the news would have exploded a long time ago, after all, this is a good opportunity to hit Kronos's company, and they want to catch him so much, naturally this is the reason." ”

"Oh......"

Vivien, who didn't know if she understood Payne's words, pouted and leaned on the table, reaching out and flicking the glass containing the children's drink, her white pantyhose legs flicking impatiently around the stool.

"Hey, uncle, how do you think I can understand what you're saying?"

Suddenly, Vivien looked up at the absent-minded Payne and asked.

"Uh-" Payne was stunned for a moment, a little unsure of how to answer the question, and just as he was frowning and struggling, suddenly, from behind Vivien, a clear female voice came.

"I think it might be a good choice to study well, right?"

"......" Vivien was stunned by the voice, and the girl looked up to see a woman in professional attire, with blood-red hair and black-rimmed glasses.

"I feel that if I can at least finish high school, I should be able to insert the topic, considering that there is no way to learn from experience, you can only rely on accumulation, this is the only way."

Completely unconcerned about Payne's hand on her waist and Vivien's unhappy eyes, the red-haired girl spoke to herself, as if she was familiar with the old and the young. (To be continued......)