The shouts were shattered by the airflow, and his subordinates slipped away faster than rabbits... Staying a second longer would be disrespecting their own lives.
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The Chris Clan had been rooted in Hendry County for many years, with family mbers numbering up to a dozen, and they had been employing fifty to sixty residents from nearby villages and towns to manage farm affairs year-round.
Every year, there were also three to five hundred seasonal migrant workers serving their farm.
Although the family was known locally for being low-key, mysterious, and ruthless, few dared to provoke them lightly.
But when the roar of engines tore through the tranquility of the night, everyone on the farm realized that this clan had encountered unprecedented trouble.
This ti, it was not the usual law enforcent that would reason with them.
The FBI helicopters could only shine searchlights from the sky, acting as supporting characters. The real protagonists were those two gray-painted ’Osprey’ military transport aircraft.
The intense beams from the searchlights made it hard for anyone on the ground to see,
The mbers of the Chris Clan could only raise their arms, watching the embers of the bonfire fly with the sparks, enduring the blast from the rotors, and glancing at the dark sky with the corners of their eyes.
Behind the blinding light, the two ’Ospreys,’ like birds of prey in the night, circled for a mont before steadily landing in the open space in the center of the farm.
The bonfire on the ground beca the best guide for the pilots to land, and under the reflection of the firelight, the wheels were slowly lowered, and the rear cargo door thunderously opened.
A ’Roar’ light assault vehicle drove out first. The folded roll cage was re-erected, and an M2 heavy machine gun was mounted on top.
Twenty to thirty fully ard National Guard soldiers charged out of the cabin like wolves and tigers, moving swiftly and in an orderly manner, taking advantageous positions to control the entire scene.
Each soldier had received a $10,000 reward from Victor, and officers above non-commissioned officer ranks received double or even triple that amount.
This operation was personally ordered by the governor, and the official backing made everyone confident. The soldiers were like they were on drugs, treating the night raid like a war ga.
The mont they stepped out of the cabin, each exuded a fervor to bully the weak, as if engaging in a joyous real hunt.
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Old Chris sat in his wheelchair, barely raising his arm to shield himself from the oncoming rotor wind, watching helplessly as the barbecue utensils, food, and wine glasses scattered everywhere, creating a ss.
The other family mbers stood around behind him, both frightened and puzzled—who had they offended to warrant a military mobilization?
Several key mbers’ eyes flickered, already calculating how to escape amidst the chaos, but they were surrounded by fully ard soldiers, and their retreat was cut off.
By the bonfire, the servants busy with the barbecue hid far away, shivering in the shadows.
The flickering firelight revealed their terrified faces, this sudden incident was like a nightmare from which they couldn’t wake up.
When the whirlwind caused by the rotors slightly subsided, the ground debris had been blown away. Amid the soldiers of the National Guard, steady footsteps sounded from the darkness outside the bonfire.
The leader was Victor. He strode to the long barbecue table, unceremoniously kicking away the obstructing chair, scanning with a hawk’s gaze, and shouted, "Who’s Chris?"
Although the dozen family mbers were in a sorry state, their longstanding arrogance prevented them from stepping back. Old Chris’s youngest son stood up, raised his hand, and questioned, "Who are you?"
Before the words were even finished, a soldier turned his gunstock and swung without hesitation. The gunstock struck the other’s forehead heavily, producing a muffled thud.
The ’Clan Warrior’ scread, a large bump instantly forming on his forehead, blood running down his cheeks. Covering his head, he retreated back into the family group, not daring to make another sound.
After striking, the soldier paused, seemingly feeling his reaction was a bit excessive. He glanced back, worried about being scolded.
Victor stepped forward, patted the soldier’s shoulder, "Well done, you’ll get another ten thousand dollars later."
The soldier’s face instantly lit up with joy, and the other soldiers were even more envious.
Old Chris couldn’t bear to see his family mbers being beaten, he suppressed his anger, pushed his wheelchair, and said in a deep voice, "We are all Chris. Who are you?"
Victor stared coldly at Old Chris, "My na is Victor, I just called you, demanding you human traffickers to release Julia and Selena.
But you played dumb, refused my compromise, and told to go to hell. Now I’ve co personally, dead or alive, I must see them."
On the way here, Victor was boiling with rage. He had envisioned the worst-case scenario, that the tragedy had already occurred, and Julia and her mother had been killed.
But this further necessitated a thorough investigation and relentless pursuit. At this mont, his expression was fierce, his tone violent, scanning the family mbers, but none answered.
The scene was deadlocked for a few seconds, and then Old Hamr suddenly stepped forward, whispering, "Victor, they’re all avoiding your gaze. We’re in the right place."
Having worked for the CIA for half his life, the old man was best at reading people, not killing and arson — if these family mbers in front were wronged, they should be furious and refute.
But Victor’s imposing entry had triggered the cowardice within these human traffickers.
Faced with the severe questioning, except for Old Chris who remained calm, the others were all guilty and didn’t dare to face it directly.
After their instinctive psychology was exposed, a teenager from the family glared at Old Hamr in defiance, muttering a low ’fuck you,’ trying to show defiance.
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