American Detective: From TV Rookie to Seasoned Cop

All four lanes were completely blocked, with the cars in the other three lanes inching forward every couple of minutes, moving five or six meters at a time. Only the lane occupied by the convoy of six Suburbans seemed stuck, as if welded to the pavement. Five minutes had passed, and there hadn't been any movement.

A gust of wind kicked up, blowing trash and flyers discarded along the roadside. The sight distracted Jack for a moment. It made him feel like whistling a tune from "Titole," evoking the vibe of an old western standoff.

It reminded him of the iconic "Santa Cena Border Crossing" map from Call of Duty 19, a scene that mirrored the current situation almost perfectly.

The area between the U.S. and Mexican border checkpoints was technically a gray zone under international law—similar to international waters. Neither U.S. nor Mexican law enforcement had the authority to act here.

This was why Matt had said earlier that if anyone were to make a move, it would be at the border. He had been referring to this exact zone.

That broken-down vehicle ahead was no coincidence, and everyone knew it. But reality wasn't a video game. In a game, you wouldn't have innocent civilians sitting in every car.

If things spiraled out of control and a firefight broke out, who knew how many people might get caught in the crossfire.

The best approach now was to identify the attackers ahead of time and neutralize them before they could act. Otherwise, the consequences would be disastrous.

As Jack thought about this, he carefully observed every vehicle around them, paying particular attention to closed-off trucks and heavily packed cars, scrutinizing their passengers for any suspicious behavior.

What he was looking for were telltale signs—tattoos, nervous expressions, and anyone who might be carrying weapons.

Jack had worked as a patrol officer before, and this was an area where his skills came in handy.

A modified F-150 camping truck slowly moved forward, its windows covered in black tint. Jack's gut instinct kicked in, but when he saw the two bearded Texas cowboys in the driver's seat, he decided to look elsewhere.

Even Jane had picked up her Noveske N4 rifle, which she had borrowed after cleaning Jack's gun the previous night. She also wore a high-end, unmarked bulletproof vest and armor plates that Jack had provided.

"Left, second lane. Red Impala, at my 10 o'clock," Jack said, eyes lighting up as he spotted the target.

These guys were making it a bit too obvious. Four men sat in the car, all with tough, menacing looks—Latino, some with buzz cuts, others completely bald. They didn't exactly blend in.

Jack wasn't judging them based on appearance alone. What really stood out was the skinny guy in the passenger seat, covered head to toe in tattoos—a classic gang enforcer look.

"Roger that. Confirming, left side, second lane, red Impala," came the reply from Michael, Matt's partner, who was in the car behind them.

Jack lowered all four windows in the car. Sure, the bulletproof glass could stop bullets, but it also prevented them from firing back. If they needed to strike first, they had to be ready.

"Left side, third lane, green Civic," one of the Delta Force soldiers in the other car reported.

There was a click as Alessandro unfolded the stock of his M5A3 submachine gun, reclining his seat slightly and aiming the silencer-fitted muzzle out the window.

"Gun!" Alessandro tersely reported.

"They've got a gun, left side!" Matt echoed loudly.

"What's the rules of engagement?" a Delta operator asked over the comms.

"We can't fire until they make the first move," Matt replied.

"Request permission to investigate on foot!" someone suggested.

"Stay in the cars. Follow their lead. If they step out, then you step out."

Hearing Matt's response, Jack pulled the parking brake and placed his HK417 rifle on his lap, gripping the gun with his right hand and resting his left on the door handle.

The game was now on. Everyone was showing their weapons, sending a clear signal: We know you're here.

At the back of the convoy, a yellow Texas shepherd dog began barking furiously from a pickup truck, as if even the animal could sense the tension in the air.

But whether due to sheer recklessness or sheer stupidity, the tattooed guy in the red Impala made his move, his eyes locked on the convoy as his hand instinctively reached for the car door.

"Get out!" Matt ordered at the same moment.

"Follow me," Jack said to Jane as he swiftly opened the car door, shouldering his HK417 with the muzzle trained on the red Impala. His steps were quick, with precise movements from the shoulders down, showing no unnecessary swaying.

Although this team hadn't practiced together before, the experience of operators like Matt, Michael, and the well-trained Delta Force members naturally formed them into an L-shaped formation, avoiding the deadly overlap of crossfire.

That movie-style surround-and-attack method, as if teammates had invulnerability shields, didn't happen in real life.

The hitmen made a fatal mistake—they hesitated. By the time Jack and the others were three or four meters from their car, their barrels almost pointing at their faces, only the tattooed guy had opened his door. The others were still fumbling, barely managing to crack open their doors.

"Stay calm! Easy, easy!" Jack called out loudly in Spanish, his tone as if he were soothing a child. At the same time, he kept an eye on the green Civic, where the Delta soldiers had surrounded the vehicle, and the hitmen inside hadn't even opened their doors.

"Easy! Easy! Put the gun down!" Matt shouted from Jack's right, also in Spanish.

Sweat was dripping down the tattooed guy's forehead, stinging his eyes as he blinked furiously. His right hand, clutching a SIG Sauer P226DAK, twitched nervously as if cramping.

These guys had definitely taken drugs before heading out. Jack flicked the fire selector on his HK417 to full-auto mode.

Matt, meanwhile, was still making a final attempt to de-escalate the situation. "Don't do it! Put the gun down! Do you want to die?"

The tattooed guy hesitated, glancing around in desperation. Seeing that the car behind him was also surrounded, a look of hopelessness spread across his face. Jack's finger was already on the trigger, poised to fire.

Just as the guy started to lift his gun, Jack squeezed the trigger.

Matt's G28 and Alessandro's M5A3 fired at the same moment. In the blink of an eye, the three hitmen in the red Impala were dead before they could get off a single shot, including the driver, who wasn't even holding a weapon.

Meanwhile, the four hitmen in the green Civic flinched at the sound of gunfire but didn't dare move under the gaze of Michael and the Delta Force operatives.

Jack thought Michael would order the men to throw out their weapons, and that would be the end of it. But to his surprise, Michael deliberately shifted his aim away, and the Delta soldiers began making subtle, alternating movements, even turning their bodies slightly away.

They're dead men, Jack thought. Sure enough, the moment the hitmen in the car saw the guns pointed at them waver, they yanked open the doors, thinking they could catch them off guard.

But in the next second, the guns swung back, and a volley of automatic rifle fire erupted.

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