The End and a Greeting

Delong leaned against the cold, rough brick wall, his body sliding down uncontrollably.

Each time he tried to exert force, the excruciating pain in his chest and abdomen, as if tearing his soul apart, made his vision go black, and caused large gushes of warm, sweet-smelling liquid to rise in his throat.

He couldn't help but open his mouth and vomited a mouthful of foamy blood, which clung to his stubbled chin and leather jacket, emitting a strong smell of rust.

Bullets. At least three, maybe more. He could feel them burning, churning, and swirling inside his body, taking away his heat and his strength.

My vision began to sway and blur, and my ears were ringing. The previous frantic shouts, gunshots, and engine roars all became distant and distorted background noise.

Only his own heavy, labored breathing, like a broken bellows, and the faint yet clear sound of blood gushing out of his body, were so real.

His intact left hand was still gripping his silver Colt Python revolver tightly. The gun was heavy, and normally, holding it symbolized strength and authority, but now it felt like a massive boulder, making his arm weak and limp.

He tried to raise his hand, pointing in a certain direction—perhaps towards those dark figures who were methodically clearing the battlefield and finishing off their still-moving subordinates on the ground—but his arm only twitched in vain, and the muzzle of the gun fell limply to the ground, leaving a shallow mark in the pool of blood.

Is it over? The Wild Dog Gang? Delong? Just like that, like a wild dog, he died at the gates of his own stronghold, at the hands of this... this group of silent killing gods who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere?

He was unwilling to accept it! The raging fire that had sustained him through humiliation, rallied his men, and prepared for bloody revenge was now extinguished in the face of the cold reality of his rapidly draining life force, leaving only a bone-chilling cold and... fear. The fear of death.

He didn't even see how the attackers opened fire; he only remembered the three black Land Rover crashing in like hellish chariots, followed by a deluge of bullets. His men, those who had been clamoring to skin the Asia Monkey alive just minutes before, fell like stalks of wheat.

He, hiding behind Camaro, was still hit by a bullet that came from who-knows-where. The excruciating pain caused him to collapse to the ground, watching helplessly as it all happened.

Footsteps.

The heavy, steady, unhurried sound of combat boots stepping on the ground mixed with blood and broken glass came from afar and stopped in front of him.

Delong struggled, extremely slowly, to lift his heavy eyelids. His vision was blurry, but he could still see.

A pair of thick combat boots, stained with mud and dark red blood, stopped less than a meter in front of him. His gaze moved upwards with difficulty, revealing dark combat trousers, followed by a combat uniform jacket of the same color, stained with gunpowder and some other unknown dirt.

Finally, there was a face—completely covered by a black skull mask, revealing only a pair of eyes. Those eyes, peering through the holes in the mask, were cold, indifferent, and devoid of any emotion, like Butcher looking at meat still twitching slightly on a chopping board.

The man tilted his head slightly, as if confirming Delong's identity, or perhaps enjoying his pathetic, dying state.

Then, the combat boot was lifted up.

The movement was slow, yet carried a casual yet incredibly precise force, stomping hard on the back of Delong's left hand, which was still gripping the revolver!

"Snap!"

The faint cracking sound was drowned out by Delong's suppressed groan of pain. A sharp pain shot through the back of his hand, and his already weak fingers completely loosened their grip. The silver Colt fell with a "thud" into the thick pool of blood beside him, splattering a few dark red droplets.

Delong was writhing in pain, his vision blurred, and he could barely muster the strength to scream. He could only stare at the masked man with his increasingly blurry eyes, filled with despair and confusion.

The masked man seemed completely uninterested in the fallen gun. He didn't even glance down at it. He lightly rubbed the back of Deron's hand with his boot, seemingly just to ensure Delong was completely incapacitated, or perhaps simply as a habitual insult.

Then, the masked man bent down.

He was very close, so close that Delong could smell the stench emanating from him—a mixture of gunpowder, gun oil, sweat, and... death. Behind the mask came a deep, hoarse male voice with a distinct Vietnam accent, but with exceptionally clear English pronunciation, speaking steadily, even with a hint of... mockery?

"DeLong, right? (Delong, right?)"

The sound wasn't loud, yet it pierced Delong's chaotic consciousness like an icicle. Did he know him? Did he recognize himself?

The masked man didn't seem to need his answer. He continued in that steady, accented tone, each word like a pronouncement of judgment:

"My boss..."

He paused, as if to emphasize something.

"... says hello."

My boss... sends his regards.

The boss? Which boss? Is it... is it that group of Asia at the airport? It's them! It must be them! That young Asia who hasn't said much! He not only has those bodyguards in black suits, but he can also mobilize... mobilize ABZ? What the hell is going on?!

Endless regret, fear, and a final burst of madness flashed through Delong's eyes like a final burst of energy before death. He wanted to scream, to curse, to question, but only gurgling sounds of blood and foam came from his throat.

After the masked man finished speaking, he straightened up. He no longer looked into Delong's eyes, his gaze sweeping coldly across Delong's forehead as if searching for the most suitable spot.

He raised his automatic rifle—a short and powerful AKS-74U, the muzzle still emitting a faint puff of smoke from firing. The muzzle was lowered, held steadily against the center of Delong's forehead.

The cold, metallic touch was the last clear sensation Delong experienced in this world.

He didn't even have time to react, or even to close his eyes, which were filled with resentment, fear, and confusion.

The masked man's finger rested on the trigger, and he pulled it smoothly and decisively.

"Bang!"

The gunshots sounded particularly crisp and short in the empty, blood-soaked streets, carrying a sense of impending doom.

Delong's head slammed backward, hitting the rough brick wall with a dull thud. A horrifying bloody hole instantly appeared between his eyebrows, and dark red blood mixed with grayish-white substances sprayed backward onto the wall, forming a rapidly spreading stain.

His last remaining consciousness, like a candle blown out by the wind, sank instantly into boundless darkness. His wide, lifeless eyes still stared blankly ahead, but could no longer reflect anything.

The masked man glanced indifferently at the limp, lifeless corpse, as if merely confirming that his job was done. He put away his gun, turned away, and didn't look at it again.

Not far away, the other ABZ members had also finished their cleanup. They quickly began inspecting the battlefield, collecting any potentially valuable items (mainly weapons and drugs), and dragging several bodies to relatively secluded corners, their methods professional and efficient. The entire process was silent and swift, without a single unnecessary exchange.

The masked man who was leading the group (perhaps the same one who had just executed Delong) raised his hand and made a few simple sign language gestures to the other members.

Everyone immediately stopped what they were doing, like robots receiving a command, and quickly and orderly retreated towards the three black Land Rover. They opened the car doors, filed in, and moved smoothly without the slightest panic.

"Bang, bang, bang..."

The car doors closed one by one, the sound muffled.

The engines roared again, their tires grinding over the blood-soaked, ravaged ground. The three Land Rover slowly reversed, turned around, and just as they had come, without turning on their glaring headlights, relying only on their dim parking lights, quickly and quietly drove away from the clearing that had just been thoroughly cleansed by death.

They arrive like thunder, and depart like ghosts.

All that remained were spent shell casings, twisted vehicle wreckage, corpses lying haphazardly in various positions, and an overwhelming, nauseating stench of blood and gunpowder. Under the dim light of the streetlights and the faint glow of the distant city neon lights, a cruel and silent picture of death was created.

The wind seemed colder, howling through the empty streets and abandoned factories, stirring up scraps of paper and dust, but unable to dispel the thick atmosphere of death.

In the distance, from the direction of downtown Seattle, the faint sound of sirens could be heard, growing louder and more urgent as they approached, shattering the silence of this death zone. The flashing red and blue lights of police cars began to leap and approach on the horizon.

But everything has now settled.

The Wild Dog Gang, along with its crazed and humiliating leader Delong, are now a thing of the past. This bloody purge that took place in the shadows on the city's outskirts is like a stone thrown into a deep pool; the ripples it creates are only just beginning to spread deeper.