Chapter 30: Professional Ethics

[Chapter 30: Professional Ethics]

Standing on the street, Ian glanced around.

The sky had darkened, and the desolate streets were nearly empty, evoking a sense of loneliness.

After pondering for a moment, a faint smile appeared on Ian's face.

With his hands in his pockets, he strolled towards the end of the street.

At the end of the street, there was a dilapidated old shop with a black wooden door.

Above the entrance, a sculpture of a Remington shotgun hung, and below it was a sign that read "Old Bill's Gun Shop."

Upon entering the gun shop, Ian saw only an elderly white man, seated behind the counter, meticulously cleaning a gun.

Ian approached him and said, "I'd like to buy a gun, boss."

The shop owner, an elderly white man, looked at Ian and chuckled, "Ian Carr? You're here to buy a gun? Now that's interesting."

Ian wasn't surprised that he recognized him, but he asked, "What's wrong with that?"

The owner replied, "I've read your news; I remember you saying gun rights are a foolish national policy."

Ah, that was something the previous version had recklessly written... While the past self was rubbish, he still had his views, including the notion that gun rights were a foolish policy.

It could be said that even the smartest people have their foolish moments, just as the hopeless can possess clarity.

At least that part wasn't wrong, though the execution was quite foolish!

A United States without gun rights wasn't really the United States!

Gun rights provided manufacturers with a larger market, creating more jobs.

It added significance to law enforcement officers, benefiting graveyards, prisons, religious groups, renovating companies, construction outfits, fire departments, and even offering journalists more good material.

It allowed Americans to feel they had the ability to overthrow tyranny -- without death, there was no rebirth; without destruction, there was no creation.

Why eliminate a vast market that could provide jobs and self-satisfaction?

Now, Ian Carr was a staunch supporter of American gun rights!

Ian gently shook his head, "Never believe a journalist's nonsense. In my heart, gun rights are America's greatest policy -- they're the reason we stand tall at the top of the world!

America cannot lose gun rights, just like the West cannot lose Jerusalem!"

Ian had no shame in giving himself a reality check.

The shopkeeper laughed happily, "Exactly! America is a great and free country."

As he spoke, the owner placed a Beretta on the counter, "This is the Beretta 92F, using 9mm rounds. The empty gun weighs 2.1 pounds, with an effective range of 50 meters... the blood splatter when it hits a body is quite beautiful!"

Ian picked up the gun to feel its weight and asked, "How much?"

"Five hundred bucks, and you get two extra magazines," the shopkeeper replied.

"Got a suppressor?"

"Not a chance. Those can't be sold."

Ian sighed, "America still isn't free enough! By the way, does this gun have a record?"

"A non-registered gun adds five hundred to the price."

"I'll take the non-registered one."

The shopkeeper cheerfully accepted the money and retrieved a gun from below the counter, handing it to Ian. "You're going to like it. Just don't load bullets in the shop, buddy."

Ian shrugged, "You're really cautious."

...

Gun in hand, Ian leisurely exited the shop.

It was surprising how much more confidence he felt in the moment.

Continuing on, he surveyed the area.

After a quick glance around, he turned and walked down a secluded alley, quietly loading bullets into the gun.

By then, it was late, with hardly anyone on the road.

Ian turned into the alley and stood silently.

Before long, a man in black approached.

He reached near the mouth of the alley, cautiously drawing a gun as he moved forward.

Bang!!

The gun fired.

A spark flickered in the darkness.

The black-clad man looked down at his wrist in shock.

A hole had been shot through his wrist, nearly shattering it.

The owner had been right; that blood splatter was indeed beautiful.

"Ah!" The black-clad man cried out in pain.

"Stop shouting! We chose this place for a reason, right? It's because there's hardly anyone here!" Ian chuckled, stepping out with the gun aimed at the man's head.

Surprisingly, the man still held a camera, which had switched to automatic recording mode.

The man shouted, "I don't know what you're talking about!"

Bang!

Ian fired again, this time hitting his leg.

Blood sprayed as the man dropped to one knee.

Ian coldly regarded him, "I've seen you before. When I got into the car for dinner, you were in that other car behind me.

Even though you didn't get out, I still remembered you... Being a journalist requires sharp insight; otherwise, you won't find any leads."

The black-clad man trembled, "It was just a coincidence."

Ian lightly shook his head, "No coincidences."

He stepped aside, waving the gun's barrel, signaling the man to move forward.

Gritting his teeth, the man stumbled forward.

...

Ian picked up the man's gun and followed behind.

They walked through the alley and arrived near a small grove.

Next to the grove was a shallow creek with a small wooden cabin beside it.

Ian gestured for the man to enter.

Inside the cabin, there was a chainsaw, herbicides, and fishing rods, clearly a temporary shack someone set up for fishing.

As he closed the door, Ian asked, "Your name?"

The man reluctantly replied, "Danny Koskri."

Ian inquired, "Why did you want to kill me? Is it Jett's order?"

The man responded, "I'm a close friend of Charlie Mills. You killed him... and I wanted revenge for him."

Ian scoffed, "Do I look like a fool to you?"

Koskri sighed, "Jett doesn't like threats. He believes you don't have the material. But he doesn't like your attitude. However, he didn't send me to kill you, just to teach you a lesson, saying you might still be useful later. But because of Charlie Mills, I really wanted... to take you out. I'm sorry, sir, I won't do it again."

He had backed down!

Ian sighed, "I don't enjoy simple plots; it won't make for good news."

Koskri panicked, "You want to turn this into news?"

Ian chuckled, "It's not surprising. After all, isn't that what Charlie Mills was all about?"

Koskri was silent.

A madman!

It was in that moment he realized who he had tangled with.

Ian looked at him, sighing, "This can't turn into a righteous retaliatory killing, so I'll just be an unsung hero; what a shame."

What was he on about?

Then Koskri saw the gun pointed at him.

Koskri exclaimed in terror, "No!"

Bang!

Ian shot him in the forehead, blood and brain matter gushed out, and he collapsed neatly.

...

Ian searched the man's body, surprisingly finding a few kilograms of white powder on him.

He must have been looking to do some business while intending to take him out, but Ian reaped the benefits instead.

What a bargain was that?

He had his limits; he only killed, not drug dealt.

Ian shook his head, "Sorry, it's all for the job; we all have our professional ethics."

As he spoke, he drew a six-pointed star on the ground, positioning the body on it, creating an evil ceremonial display.

In a fit of mischief, he even painted a clown face on the corpse.

After finishing this task, he meticulously cleaned the area, ensuring he left no traces behind.

Using his camera, Ian began to snap pictures of the surroundings.

Once everything was done, he took the powder and left, heading back home.

As usual, he started typing away at his article.

---

The next morning, Ian drove his rented car straight to the scene of the incident, parking nearby and quietly waiting.

At the docks, there were fishermen around every day.

When he left, Ian deliberately left the door ajar, anticipating the body would be discovered soon.

After waiting for about two hours, he finally heard the sound of long-awaited police sirens.

A slight smile crept across Ian's face as he took his camera and stepped out, appearing like a lost traveler.

In the distance, police cars raced in and stopped near the creek, rushing towards the cabin.

Before they even reached the cabin, the pungent smell of blood wafted in the air.

Through the doorway, they could see the body at the center of the star; the sinister appearance sent chills down the officers' spines.

"Set up a perimeter!" one officer shouted.

But at that moment, a figure rushed in, charging into the cabin and wildly taking photos with a camera.

"You bastard!" Several officers dashed over to grab Ian, pulling him outside, one officer even kicked Ian in the rear: "You damn nosy bastard, get lost!"

Ian cried out, hands over his head, "You can't stop me! I'm a journalist; I have the right to know!"

Katherine marched over, grabbing Ian and shoving him aside, "Ian Carr, you again! You're interfering with police work; you're contaminating the scene!"

This was exactly what he wanted.

What if there were fingerprints that hadn't been wiped away?

He'd have to carry rubber gloves from now on.

Ian threw up his hands, "Alright, alright, I'm sorry! I'm leaving!"

He shouted as he ran off, looking much like a headless chicken.

The officers behind him yelled, "Don't you dare come back, you scum!"

Ian muttered under his breath, "You'll take pride in having cursed me in the future; it will be a bragging point for your whole life."

*****

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