Working as a police officer in Mexico Chapter 1632: 748: Gotta Admit, Some People Can Really Endur

Capítulo 1632: Chapter 748: Gotta Admit, So People Can Really Endure!

Early March 1996, Sunset District, Detroit.

In front of a slightly old but Victorian-style terraced house with a small garden, the atmosphere was tense.

A woman in her early thirties, with a pale face, tightly gripped an old double-barreled shotgun, the stock pressed against her shoulder, her finger on the trigger guard, trembling slightly.

Strapped to her back was a crying baby, and standing by her leg was her eldest son, Billy, about seven or eight years old. The little boy clutched a baseball bat tightly, like an enraged little beast, baring his teeth and letting out dissonant roars at the crowd in front of him.

“Get off my property! You vultures! Get away!” Martha’s voice was sharp with excitent.

Surrounding the fence were five or six people.

Leading them was Doug, the manager in charge of asset recovery from the bank.

He wore a suit, holding a folder in his hand, with a look of mixed impatience on his face. Beside him stood two n in “First Federal Bank” security uniforms, and two Detroit police officers, an older officer and a young patrolman with a hand nervously resting on his gun holster.

“Mrs. Connor, I’ll say it one last ti.”

Doug raised his voice, trying to drown out the baby’s cries and Billy’s shouts, “According to the contract, your mortgage is over 90 days overdue, and the bank has the right to repossess and auction this property, this is a legal procedure!”

“My husband is fighting for this country!” Martha almost scread, “He died in battle, once his compensation cos through, I’ll pay off the debt! I’m a military wife, I can apply for an extension! You can’t do this.”

Doug frowned, quickly flipped through the file, then looked up, “Mrs. Connor, we’ve checked with the military’s notification. Your husband, Robert Connor, has been classified as ‘missing in action’, MIA, in the Indiana operation, not ‘killed in action’, KIA. There’s a fundantal difference. Without official confirmation of death, the compensation payout is indefinitely on hold. We can’t wait indefinitely based on a ‘possibility’.”

A man with gold-rimd glasses, looking like a bank lawyer, impatiently pushed his glasses and mumbled to Doug in a low voice, not loudly, but distinctly in the tense silence: “…maybe that guy just couldn’t take it and ran away, who knows, it happens a lot these days…”

That sentence was like a sharp knife, instantly piercing Martha’s taut nerves.

“Shut the hell up!”

She abruptly swung the shotgun’s barrel slightly towards the lawyer, her eyes instantly filled with bloodshot, “Robert wouldn’t run, he loved this family, he died for his country, what do you bastards who sit in offices know? He died!!”

The baby was scared by the mother’s roar and started to cry loudly.

Seeing the gun barrel waver, the young patrolman imdiately drew his revolver nervously, pointing the barrel to the ground, but shouted sternly, “Ma’am! Put the weapon down! Put the gun down imdiately! Or I will take necessary action!”

“Mom!”

Little Billy saw the policeman draw his gun and scread in terror, but he didn’t retreat, instead driven by the instinct to protect his mother and brother, he charged forward with the baseball bat, targeting the lawyer who had just spoken the insulting words, “Don’t you dare talk bad about my dad!”

“Billy! Co back!” Martha cried out in horror.

The scene spiraled out of control instantly.

The young patrolman saw a little boy charging with a bat towards his “protective target”, overwheld with nervousness, instinctively lifted his gun, retreating while warning again, “Stop! Kid! I said stop!”

“Bang!”

The shot rang out.

It wasn’t Martha’s shotgun, but the patrolman’s revolver.

The bullet precisely struck the chest of the oncoming Billy Connor.

The little boy’s movent halted abruptly, looking down in disbelief at the red spreading rapidly on his chest, the baseball bat clattering to the ground.

He opened his mouth, wanting to say sothing, but only blood foad out, then he limply collapsed.

Ti seed to freeze.

Martha watched her son fall in a pool of blood, the pair of eyes that were filled with anger and vitality just a mont ago instantly lost their spark.

Her mind went blank, as if the sound of the entire world disappeared, leaving only the tearing pain in her heart and the ringing screech like a siren.

“Bil…ly…?”

The next second, complete madness consud her.

“Ah—!!! You killed my son! You killed my son!!!”

She let out a shrill cry that didn’t sound human, her sanity completely snapped. She leveled the double-barreled shotgun in her hands at the crowd in front of her, without hesitation she pulled the trigger!

“Boom—!!”

The loud sound of the gunfire shook the entire quiet street.

The air was thick with gun smoke.

…

That night, the news spread like a virus throughout Detroit and even California’s circles of veterans, particularly via phone lines and the erging internet forums.

“They killed the Connor family! Robert went missing on the front line, the bank seized his house, the police shot his son, then drove his wife mad!”

“Martha is dead too! She still had a baby on her back!”

“Bleed for Arica, co back to tears?! What the hell kind of logic is this?!”

“First Federal Bank! And the Detroit Police Departnt! They need to give an explanation!”

In Detroit, at a veteran association outpost known for toughness and unity—the “Old Corps” bar, a group of n dressed in old military uniforms or work pants exploded in anger. The air was thick with the sll of beer, ash, and rage.