North American Detective: I am Proficient in All Kinds of Gun Quick Draws

「On the way to the training camp.」

Dean looked at the scenery outside the window, feeling somewhat bored.

The driver was a bald, expressionless African American with fierce features—the type who could blend in with Somali pirates if he had an AK-47.

The two of them had spent over an hour together since getting in the car but had exchanged only two sentences. One was a confirmation of identity. The other was Dean asking several times how long it would take to get to the training camp, and the driver's answer was always, "Almost there!"

"Buddy, do you mind if I smoke in the car?"

The African American didn't turn his head.

BEEP.

The car window automatically rolled down.

Alright, that meant it was allowed.

That prick wouldn't even glance at him, let alone nod!

Dean leaned against the car window, took out a cigarette, lit it, and watched the passing scenery, inhaling deeply.

He discovered that his second-level 'Mind Reading Technique' was useless against this person.

Because you can't analyze anything useful from a sculpture.

This guy was a professional.

Just then, an inconspicuous little tree on the side of the road quickly flashed past Dean's eyes.

Dean's pupils constricted.

He blew out a puff of smoke and said nonchalantly, "Buddy, are you sure we're headed to the base? It feels like we've driven nearly two hundred kilometers."

Half an hour ago, they had been here!

"Noticed that?"

The previously expressionless bald African American's poker face finally cracked. He glanced at the time and said, "You have quite an eye. Open the compartment overhead; there's a sketchpad up there. If you can draw a map of our route, you'll be granted entry into the camp."

"What, there's an entrance exam for this camp too?" Dean grumbled as he took down a white, grid-lined sketchpad—the kind meant for children—from the overhead compartment.

"HAHA," the African American laughed, pulled the car over to the side of the road, and said in a friendly tone, "It's usually not necessary, but you're Anthony's student, so what can we do? Oh, and Dean, that's the sketchpad I bought for my daughter, so please use it gently."

Hearing the African American's words, Dean drew on the sketchpad while curiously asking, "Is Anthony well-known in your circles?"

"Of course!" The bald African American nodded as if it were a matter of fact. "Sir Anthony is a special consultant for the FBI. He has taught many outstanding students. Many of those have now stepped back from the front lines, becoming new training instructors. Like me. Allow me to formally introduce myself. My name is Massa, a 'Trace Tracking' expert at the training camp, and also your senior."

Dean shrugged. "Alright. I met a guy from the Security Bureau before who recognized me too. It seems Instructor Anthony has shared my information with all of you."

"Yes, we have an internal security group where we help each other. It's also a means of self-preservation."

Massa sighed. "Often, for certain objectives, our lives aren't considered valuable. So, we have to learn to stick together to have more options when we're threatened."

"But you're not cutting me any slack, buddy. That makes me doubt what you're saying," Dean said with a smile as he passed over the map he had drawn.

Memorizing terrain was an instinct for him. His past life in the sewers had taught him a lot. Of course, Dean couldn't always do this so easily. At best, he used to only remember prominent geographical features. But now, he clearly knew how many turns Massa had made, roughly how long they'd driven on each stretch of road, how many different roads they'd taken, and other such details.

This was the benefit of having advanced a level in his 'Spirit'.

Massa took the sketchpad, looked at it, and replied, "I'm sorry, I'd like to help you out, but Sir Anthony won't allow it. You'll understand later that this..."

Suddenly, he stopped mid-sentence, swearing, "FUCK, did you install GPS or something?"

Massa, somewhat incredulous, took out a map of the Los Angeles area. Comparing it to the sketch, he was shocked to find that the route Dean had drawn was not only largely consistent with the map but also about the same length.

Dean casually exhaled another cloud of smoke. "If you blindfolded me, I might have been able to draw it even more accurately."

"Alright, anyone Sir Anthony takes as a formal apprentice is bound to be a freak. You're wasting your talent at the detective bureau."

Muttering to himself, Massa handed Dean a box. "The others have already started the second phase of practical training. Here's the file."

"What was the first phase of training?"

"Some basics, like criminal psychology, information science, Trace Science, and so on. Of course, we couldn't teach them too much in that time—just enough to give them an overview. That way, they know how to continue studying on their own after they leave."

Short-term training like this mainly focuses on broadening their perspectives and honing their investigative thinking.

Dean felt somewhat regretful. He learned quickly now. If he could go through that first phase, he could probably add several more 'Skills' to his panel, which would be handy to upgrade later when needed.

But with the 'Dragon-Slaying Saber' in hand, he wasn't in a rush.

Upon opening the box, he found a stack of photos and documents inside.

The photos showed men and women, old and young. Some showed groups of three or five; others resembled family portraits with a dozen or so people. Each photo had a number on it, and the documents contained detailed information corresponding to those photo numbers.

In the box, there were a total of thirteen photos, accounting for seventy-three people.

Dean quickly scanned the information and soon spotted the common denominators:

First, these people had all disappeared while traveling on Route 66 in the United States.

Second, each group, regardless of size, invariably included at least one person who was either a long-serving police officer, a recently discharged soldier, or even a retired Navy SEAL.

Third, the last known area of contact for all these people was within the 'Taliya Mountains' range.

The information also specifically highlighted details about the 'Taliya Mountains.' It used to be a haven for gold prospectors; many people panned for gold in its rivers during the Westward Expansion. Even now, some tourists visit to try their luck.

As for United States Route 66, Dean was already familiar with it.

United States Route 66, known as the Mother Road of America, witnessed the rise and prosperity of the American West. It symbolized the Highway 66 of dreams and the pursuit of the American dream. This road had been removed from the United States highway map fifteen years ago, falling into decay. But its unique historical status made it a popular stop for many road trip enthusiasts.

There were too many elements involved.

In Dean's mind, several phrases immediately surfaced: hunting game, no-man's-land hunting, deadly trap...

These were all infamous highway murder cases from years past.

Materially rich but spiritually empty, many young American men and women would one day impulsively embark on a journey—one that could turn deadly as quickly as it began. They forgot that such unpopulated areas are dangerous and lawless. Some deviants, seizing the opportunity, joined this grim feast. They did it for money, or, tired of hunting animals, they turned to humans as prey. Others targeted those innocent, sweet young girls, planning to take them to remote cabins to imprison and abuse them.

In short, even now, unspeakable crimes are constantly committed on those desolate highways in unpopulated areas. And the victims, years later, would simply be added to the annual list of missing persons—becoming cold, hard statistics.

Within the police department, these routes are often called 'Death Highways.' Too many lost souls haunt these roads.

So... the FBI was using a string of highway disappearances as a practical training exercise for its trainees?

Recalling the practical lessons Anthony had taught him, Dean couldn't help but wonder. Had Anthony corrupted these FBI instructors, or had these training camps corrupted Anthony?

"Are you done reading?"

Massa took out a cold beer from the mini-fridge under his seat, bit off the cap, and drank heartily. To keep up appearances, he had been holding back all the way here.

Dean tossed the box aside. "Done. This looks like a hunting game. The perpetrators are likely a group! They select their victims through certain channels and then carry out their crimes. Given the random nature of these missing persons' travels, I suggest focusing investigations on motels near the 'Taliya Mountains' and in nearby small towns. They likely set up outposts in these locations to select their victims. And there must be officials involved."

"COUGH, COUGH, COUGH..." Massa choked. He coughed until tears streamed down his face. It took him a while to catch his breath, and then he looked at Dean as if gazing upon a deity. "Buddy, are you really only 22 years old?"

It took them nearly half a month to gather this information and then set a trap to take down that deviant group. Yet, hearing Dean lay it out, it was as if he'd been personally involved in the investigation.

"Actually, I still have almost ten days before I officially turn 22."

Dean shrugged. "With ongoing cases like this, there's a wealth of reference material. If you look at the core of the problem, the perpetrators' patterns emerge. No challenge at all! Besides, it would involve too much time traveling back and forth. There's no appeal in that. Is there a case that's a bit more interesting but won't take too much time?"

"Why?"

"Because my dear mother hopes that on Christmas Day, I can eat the cake she bakes with her own hands. I've sworn that even if it's raining knives, I'll make it back on time."

Massa rolled his eyes and gave Dean a thumbs-up. "Okay, your skill has won me over. I admit you've earned the right to choose your case."

Having said that, he took out a dark satellite phone and made a call.

Sometime later, Massa put away the phone and said in a relaxed tone, "There's a case that fits your criteria, but it could be dangerous. Are you sure you want to switch?"

"Let's hear it."

"There's a pair of crazed, skin-flaying brothers on our wanted list. They enjoy dismembering people with chainsaws, then skinning their faces to dry and sew into clothing, which they wear. The police have been pursuing them, but America's unpopulated wilderness is vast. Eventually, while on the run, they murdered a family of six. After stealing the homeowner's firearms, they hid in the Hagar Mountains. That area is a hunting ground. In the past, it also served as a hideout for bandits, so the terrain is very complex. Normally, if people like that don't resurface, we seldom continue the pursuit. But these two didn't know when to quit. While escaping, they tortured and murdered the runaway young son of a wealthy man."

Massa smiled. "The tycoon has offered a five-million-US-dollar reward. He wants their heads placed before his son's tombstone as penance on December 21st, the day of the burial. A friend of mine wanted to team up with me to handle this one privately. Because I'm an expert in Trace Tracking. Dean, interested? I can bring you along and teach you some Trace Tracking."

Dean grew interested. "How do we split the money then?"

"Based on merit," Massa said casually. "Anyway, the tracking is all up to me. I'll take two million US dollars for myself; the rest you two can decide among yourselves!"

"You're that certain you can find those two brothers?"

"As long as they're in those mountains, even if they bury themselves in mud, they won't escape my sight!" Massa was utterly confident.

"It's a deal!"

He was planning a luxurious family trip after Christmas; this would be a perfect way to refill his soon-to-be-empty wallet!

"Then let's go pick up my friend first!" Massa let out a strange yelp, slammed on the accelerator, executed a 180-degree turn, and sped off with Dean, disappearing down the deserted road.