More than a dozen motorcycles suddenly pulled up outside the city's SWAT headquarters.
Brother Tiger parked his motorcycle, called his wife over, and instructed her, "Once we get inside, start crying. Cry as loud as you can."
"Don't worry, honey. When it comes to throwing a screaming tantrum, nobody can beat me," Brother Tiger's wife said, patting her chest.
"I shouldn't have bothered saying anything. As if I don't know what you're like. I've had more than enough of it over the years." Brother Tiger was speechless.
Then he continued, "And tell Fat Tiger and the other kids to cry as soon as they get inside. Make it sound as pitiful as possible."
"Well..." Brother Tiger's wife looked troubled. "What if they can't cry?"
"Useless idiots," Brother Tiger couldn't help cursing. "If they won't cry, smack them until they do, then take them in."
Brother Tiger's wife gritted her teeth. "All right, honey. I understand."
"Good." Brother Tiger nodded, then called to his buddies. Instantly putting on a frightened, grief-stricken expression, he hurried toward the duty room.
Seeing this, the women behind him immediately began wailing.
"Help..."
"Murder..."
"Someone robbed us... and beat us up... is there no justice anymore..."
Even the children kept wiping away tears. They had no choice—their mothers' slaps had hurt too much.
Hearing the commotion, the officer on duty saw more than twenty people file in. Five or six of the children had gauze wrapped around their heads, their faces bruised and swollen as they kept wiping away tears.
The duty room immediately descended into chaos. The women's wailing, in particular, could be heard two streets away.
People passing the entrance to the criminal investigation headquarters stopped and kept peering inside.
The officer on duty immediately grew tense. With so many injured children, something serious