However, the anticipated bullet did not hit him.
Instead, when the gunshot rang out from behind his head, it was the chanical dog that fell. The drone’s machine gun accurately hit the chanical dog’s machine gun mount on its back, completely destroying it.
Zhou Qingfeng quickly rolled over, his gaze eting the drone’s cara. Neither side made any further moves, as if locked in a silent standoff.
Until a few gunshots echoed not far away—Lux, acting as a bodyguard, aid and fired. Several bullets struck the drone with precision.
It wobbled a few tis before crashing to the ground like a broken toy, emitting a muffled "clang."
-----------------
The battle finally ca to an end, with the air thick with the sll of gunpowder and burnt debris.
The fire sprinkler system, triggered by the high temperature of the flathrowers, poured water down from the ceiling like a cold shower over the massacre.
Carl stood in the middle of the room, his face pale, unsure if the droplets on his forehead were sweat or water from the sprinklers.
He no longer dared to approach the balcony, only daring to pull the curtains in an attempt to obscure any potential gaze, as even that thin layer of fabric brought so sense of security.
The federal agents had paid a heavy price—more than half had died or been injured—just to completely destroy the six chanical dogs.
The room was a scene of devastation, with broken furniture, bullet-riddled walls, and the wreckage of chanical dogs lying on the ground, silently narrating the brutality of the battle.
Everyone was like a startled bird, hiding behind cover, not daring to move. Their eyes swept around warily, gripping their weapons tightly, ready to face the next wave of attacks at any mont.
Urgent calls ca through the communicators, agents desperately calling for support, their voices tinged with undisguisable fear.
They knew well that if a few more chanical dogs arrived, the survivors in the Presidential Suite might not stand a chance.
This was a terrifying battle, a revolutionary battle, with humans fighting against machines and losing terribly.
Zhou Qingfeng leaned against the wall, his clothes soaked by the sprinklers and sticking to his body, bringing bursts of cold. The "P320" handgun in his hand was now empty.
He crouched down, searching Director Schmidt’s corpse for two spare magazines and quickly reloaded. His gaze then fell on the downed drone.
The drone lay quietly on the ground, its bullet holes clearly visible, but the machine gun drum still had bullets, showing no signs of jamming.
Zhou Qingfeng inspected it carefully and found that it had been working fine without any malfunctions before being shot down.
This puzzled him even more—why did this drone attack the chanical dog but spare him?
He squatted next to the drone, his brows furrowed, replaying the recent scene in his mind. The drone’s cara had once locked eyes with him.
At that mont, he felt a bizarre calm, as if the drone was assessing him, not targeting him.
"This is strange... unless the person controlling the drone knows ," Zhou Qingfeng muttered softly, lightly touching the drone’s body, the cold tal clearing his mind a bit.
He looked up at Carl and the other agents, realizing they were still in a state of high tension, oblivious to the drone’s anomaly.
anwhile, in the second-class cabin, Helen cut the drone’s remote control fiber, quickly packed up the drone controller, stuffed the clutter into a trash bag, and placed it by the room door, waiting for her companions to clear it away.
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