Experienced individuals have already thought through all the critical points and what they will face before taking action.
Old Brown was precisely this type of person; even at seventy-plus years old, his habits from his time in the military were still well-preserved.
Before he acted, he already knew what awaited him after taking down the three people in front of him, so the moment he took down the third person, he immediately buried himself into the sofa.
The plan was that simple, yet he overestimated himself.
At that instant, Old Brown already felt his movements were very, very slow; he could only try his best to shift his vital points.
Pfft!!! The first shot fired by the two Russians from the wine rack pierced straight into his shoulder.
Pfft!!! The second shot followed closely, entering his back.
"Hmph!"
Old Brown grunted, a strong sense of intense pain suddenly assailing his mind, almost causing him to faint, but he gritted his teeth, lay on the sofa, and used his last remaining strength to shift his gun and fire a shot towards the wine rack.
Bang!!!!!
To ensure accuracy, Old Brown aimed for the enemy's large chest area.
Pfft!!!!! One of the Russians by the wine rack looked down at his chest, clutched his chest, and collapsed in agony, as if drained of all strength.
"Woah!!!!"
The only Russian still standing had his attention drawn and shouted, but his movements didn't stop; he continued to pull the trigger towards Old Brown, who was lying on the sofa.
At the same time, Old Brown also pulled the trigger.
Bang!!!!
Bang!!!!
Two gunshots rang out almost simultaneously.
The Russian's bullet arrived first, savagely piercing Old Brown's exposed back.
Pfft!!!! Blood splattered, and Old Brown could no longer bear it; his face was pale, his forehead covered in fine sweat as he slowly slumped onto the sofa, almost losing his grip on the pistol in his hand, which dangled there.
At the same time.
Old Brown's later bullet also pierced its target.
Pfft!!!!! The bullet accurately pierced the wide-open chest of the Russian, directly into his heart, creating a bloody hole.
"Ugh!!!"
The last Russian subconsciously looked down at his blood-soaked chest, then at Old Brown, who was motionless on the sofa, a strong sense of unwillingness in his eyes, before slowly collapsing to the ground.
The entire room fell into a dead silence for a moment.
A few seconds later, there was movement on the sofa.
"Cough!!! Cough!!!"
Through the deathly silence, Old Brown, who already knew the outcome, suddenly opened his eyes; he had recovered from the painful shock.
"Cough!! Cough!! There are still three…" Old Brown took a deep breath, ignoring his still-bleeding back and shoulder, and struggled to shift his body to lie on the sofa, gripping the pistol tightly and aiming it at the doorway.
He stared intently at the doorway, waiting for the arrival of the three men; the old man knew that the gunshots in the room could not be concealed.
Sure enough, hurried footsteps sounded.
"Cough!!!" Old Brown coughed, staring intently at the doorway; at that moment, his hand became incredibly steady.
"What's with these gunshots? Boss, didn't you say we were going to do good business?"
Accompanied by the voices, Beard and two others opened the door and rushed in.
The average person processes visual information quite quickly, taking about 200 to 300 milliseconds, but this reaction time also depends on many other factors, including an individual's reaction speed, cognitive ability, and attention level.
When processing more complex information, people need to take longer to react appropriately.
So, the moment Beard and his two companions walked in, they gave Old Brown the first chance to shoot, and combined with their seeing and processing all the information in the room, it gave Old Brown the opportunity to pull the trigger multiple times.
Beard and his two companions looked somewhat incredulous; they never expected that their own men would be dead, but seeing Old Brown lying on the sofa, aiming a pistol at them, they were all startled.
"Not good!!!"
"..."
Old Brown seized that instant; he didn't hesitate at all, pulling the trigger multiple times as fast as he could.
Bang bang bang bang!!!!!
Beard, who was at the very front and about to draw his gun, erupted with several spurts of blood; he stared blankly at Old Brown, who was still pulling the trigger, his face full of unwillingness.
As Beard fell, the remaining bullets were unstoppable, continuing forward and hitting the two men behind him hard.
The two men behind had already drawn their pistols, but their movements were ultimately not as fast as the bullets.
Before their muzzles could be aimed at Old Brown and the trigger pulled, several spurts of blood had already erupted from their bodies.
Bang bang bang!!!!
Of course, they weren't completely dead yet; before collapsing, their bodies, following their consciousness, pulled the triggers.
Unfortunately, their bodies were already contorted, and the few shots they fired went wide, hitting the sofa where Old Brown lay.
With a few thuds, the room fell silent again, leaving only a few dying breaths.
"Cough…"
Old Brown held his breath, emptying the magazine; the pistol in his hand had already fallen to the floor.
"Cough…"
Old Brown coughed, blood coming from his mouth; he lay on the sofa, looking at the empty space before him, but a smile appeared in his eyes, as if he saw someone.
"Wait for me, my dear, I still have something left to do…"
Old Brown took another breath, his still-intact left hand trembling as he pulled a blood-stained phone from his embrace and placed it on the sofa, pressing a shortcut key by feel.
The old man no longer had the strength to hold the phone to his ear; he only had one last breath left.
At this moment.
Basement warehouse.
York was carefully placing the enchanted bullets, one by one, into cardboard boxes according to their classification.
The shelves before him were filled with box after box of bullets, a dazzling display that was practically a small armory; it could be said that a large portion of York's expenses went entirely into bullets.
To put it simply, those who play with guns generally spend the most on bullets.
"Finished."
York closed the box and pushed it onto the shelf; his day usually ended with this phrase, with bathing and sleeping remaining.
Looking at the neatly stacked and perfectly classified bullet boxes, York nodded in satisfaction and headed towards the first floor, but before he even stepped on the first stair, his phone in his pocket rang.
"Who could it be this late?" York pulled out his phone as he walked up.
When he saw the caller on the phone screen, York suddenly stopped in his tracks.
"Old Brown?" A call from the old man this late gave York a bad premonition, and he quickly answered.
As soon as he answered, Old Brown's voice came through the phone.
"Father York, I'm sorry, you're the only one I could contact…"
Listening to the voice coming from the phone, York's expression became extremely solemn; he heard Old Brown's weakness, as if he was barely breathing.
"Mr. Brown, are you alright?"
"Cough! I'm fine…" Old Brown's voice gradually became as faint as a mosquito's buzz, until it disappeared.
"Father, can you come over? There's someone here who needs help…"
York only heard an address in the end.