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

The current situation was somewhat complicated.

It was unclear who the enemy was, what their means of threat were, or which among the crew and passengers were hidden terrorists.

What Dean needed to do was start from the first-class cabin and, relying on his observational skills and combat abilities, find a way to survive.

In this kind of situation, it was difficult for one person to take everything into account.

He needed more helpers.

Dean first inquired about Catherine, the crew member, and then had her inconspicuously summon Charles and his daughter from earlier, as well as the two passengers who had bravely intervened.

Thank goodness for the luxurious design of the first-class cabin.

Each seat was decently spaced, and with only four rows, there were just eight passengers in total.

So when three adults and one child gathered in the galley, they didn't attract the attention of the four people seated further ahead.

"Detective Dean, what's this about?" Charles asked, holding his daughter and looking at Dean with some unease. The other two shared his apprehension.

They had flown countless times over the years but had never encountered a situation like this.

These were elites, typically self-centered and somewhat paranoid in their actions.

If it weren't for Dean's earlier display of competence and his revealed identity as a detective, which had earned him their initial trust, they probably wouldn't be cooperating so readily.

Dean lowered his voice and quickly, but thoroughly, briefed them on the current situation. He stated with utmost seriousness, "This is no joke, and I wouldn't jeopardize my very tangible and promising career over one."

He pulled out his badge and credentials to bolster their confidence. "Our lives are now intertwined! Folks, if you don't want your lifelong efforts to enrich someone else, and if you still want to enjoy the good things in life, then please, you must guard the entrance to first class!"

While speaking, Dean paid close attention to the expressions of the three men. He needed to ensure their reactions to the mention of a terrorist attack were normal, indicating they were most likely not involved.

If he still managed to fail spectacularly after all this, he'd just have to accept his fate.

The pale gold badge, combined with Dean's earlier actions, convinced the three experienced, middle-aged men to trust him.

The little girl was handed over to Catherine for safekeeping.

The three men then took the seats previously occupied by Dean, Charles, and his daughter. Their role was to prevent any slip-ups during Dean's operation that might allow a potential terrorist to escape first class and cause a commotion elsewhere on the plane.

Once everything was ready, Dean hid a dinner knife in his sleeve. He clapped his hands sharply to draw the attention of the remaining four passengers, then announced with a stern face, "FBI! There's a terrorist among you. Nobody move. I need to conduct a search!"

The remaining four passengers consisted of three men and one woman.

They stared at Dean, their expressions a mixture of astonishment, panic, perplexity, and doubt. The woman seated closest to the cockpit, adorned in luxurious clothing and with the air of a wealthy socialite, was particularly timid. Clutching a handbag to her chest, she exclaimed, "Oh my God..."

The next instant—

RIP! The sound of fabric tearing. Dean, like a cheetah, his legs exploding with power, had torn his suit trousers as he lunged forward. He covered the distance of over five meters in two strides. A silver glint flashed from his hand as he pinned the woman's raised hands to the seat's headrest!

This scene left the other three passengers dumbstruck.

The woman stared dumbly at her hands, pierced by the dinner knife. Only then did the delayed shock register, her nerves finally transmitting the searing pain of torn flesh to her brain.

She opened her mouth to scream, but a napkin was expertly stuffed into it, transforming her cry into a muffled whimper.

Dean's movements were fluid and precise.

Only after he had done all this did the other three passengers finally come to their senses.

Before they could cry out, Dean roughly tore open the woman's blouse.

CLACK!

A plastic revolver, the size of an adult's palm, fell to the floor, quashing any lingering doubts anyone present might have had.

The woman had been trying to use her handbag as cover to reach for the gun.

Dean was satisfied by the stunned reaction of the first-class passengers; at least they weren't causing more chaos.

He whistled, picked up the revolver, and quickly familiarized himself with its feel.

This type of plastic firearm might look like a toy, but at close range, it was just as lethal and harder to detect with current security checks.

This was indeed a premeditated terrorist attack.

With the firearm in hand, Dean's confidence soared.

He raised a finger to his lips, signaling for silence, then emptied the contents of the woman's handbag onto the aisle.

Aside from some common cosmetics, an inner pocket concealed a small electronic device, currently inactive.

Dean guessed it was a communication device.

Furthermore, a lipstick, after Dean sniffed it, was carefully set aside.

It was a cleverly designed micro-bomb.

While it might not be very effective on the ground where one could easily take cover, in the confined space of an airplane, it was a devastating weapon.

Current airport security, especially for first class, was relatively lax.

This explained how the richly-dressed woman had managed to bring these items on board so easily.

Seeing the plastic revolver in Dean's hand, the other passengers looked terrified, now fully believing his earlier warning about a terrorist attack.

Charles and the others approached, still shaken. "Detective Dean, how did you know this woman was a problem?"

Dean spun the revolver and chuckled. "I can analyze microexpressions. Her actions were too abnormal. I've never seen a lady who, when panicked, would first sneakily reach for her chest."

"Haha~"

This amusing observation drew a few chuckles from the men, slightly easing their tension.

Catherine, holding the little girl, gave Dean a flirtatious glance. Her fascination with Dean's calm composure in the face of life and death grew.

Wasn't this the kind of high-quality partner she was looking for!

Especially... Catherine's eyes darted towards Dean's torn trousers, a result of his forceful lunge, and she swallowed hard.

They didn't know that Dean's explanation was just a fabrication. Microexpression analysis wasn't a superpower that allowed one to spot anomalies in an instant. At least, Dean wasn't capable of such a feat yet. He had acted simply because, of the four passengers, only this woman had moved.

When facing life-or-death threats, Dean had always subscribed to the principle: better to neutralize a suspect by mistake than to let a threat slip through.

After briefly calming the remaining three passengers, Dean walked over to the woman. She glared at him ferociously, all traces of her previous ladylike demeanor gone. He pinched her chin, yanked out the napkin, and said, "If you don't want this to be a truly unforgettable day, tell me: how many of you are there, and what are you planning?"

"Heh," the woman scoffed, her chest heaving as she took a deep breath, clearly intending to scream and alert her accomplices.

CRACK!

The woman looked dazedly at her hand, still pinned to the chair, only to see her slender forefinger now grotesquely twisted and pointing upwards, like a jaunty cowlick.

Agony shot from her broken finger—they say all ten fingers are connected to the heart.

MMMPH!

Before she could scream, Dean's large hand clamped over her mouth again. She watched helplessly as he proceeded to break her fingers, one by one.

Such intense, rapidly inflicted pain would be difficult for even a battle-hardened warrior to endure without physical reaction, let alone a seemingly delicate woman.

Tears, saliva, and snot streamed uncontrollably from the woman's eyes, nose, and mouth.

Pain twisted her exquisite features. A desperate surge of adrenaline coursed through her, and she even managed to rip her hand free from the dinner knife pinning it. She clawed at Dean's hand covering her mouth, desperate to scream out her accumulated agony.

But Dean's hand was like an iron clamp, unyielding to her desperate struggles.

Only after her pain-fueled burst of strength subsided did he retrieve a morphine syringe from his waist. "This is a painkiller. It can alleviate the pain you're feeling now and any you might endure shortly. I'll give you one last chance: how many of you are there, and what is your objective?"

After he finished speaking, Dean's hand loosened slightly, creating a small gap.

The woman, her eyes nearly rolling back, gasped for air for several seconds before weakly spitting out, "Go to hell!"

The next moment, she opened her mouth wide and lunged to bite Dean's hand.

Dean frowned slightly, about to resort to harsher, more brutal methods to pry open her mouth.

However, the woman's attack was merely a feint.

SQUELCH!

Caught off guard, Dean watched as the richly-dressed woman, enduring the excruciating pain, used the dinner knife still embedded in her other palm to slash a deep gash across her own throat.

With a sickening GUSH, blood, under high pressure, sprayed out like a fountain, instantly drenching the cabin wall in front of her crimson and leaving horrifying streaks as it ran down.

The woman let out a choked GURGLE, gave Dean a manic smile, then her head lolled to the side. She was still.

She was mocking him!

Everyone was petrified by the scene.

They rarely encountered such lunatics in their daily lives, let alone witnessed someone slit their own throat.

The woman's kamikaze-like fanaticism made Dean realize the true gravity of the situation.

As he'd considered before, hijackings generally fell into two categories:

One: The hijacking is merely a threat to achieve a certain goal.

Two: The hijacking is a suicide attack orchestrated by a group for revenge or to create a massive, shocking incident.

It now seemed the organization the woman belonged to was aiming for the latter.

And Dean and the others were merely unlucky innocents caught in the crossfire.

Dean's expression turned grim. He stuffed the napkin into the gaping wound on the woman's throat to stop the blood from gushing further. He then turned to reassure the others:

"As much as I hate to admit it, these people are even more insane than I imagined. We could die at any moment. I need you all to stay calm and work with me to save ourselves!"

"Whatever you say, we'll do it!" Charles declared, his voice firm as he looked at his daughter cowering in Catherine's arms.

He would absolutely not allow his daughter, who had yet to truly experience the world's wonders, to die on this plane!

The other passengers, gritting their teeth, suppressed their rising panic and nodded in agreement with Charles. At worst, they were affluent middle-class individuals; none of them wanted to die here.

Once the team had stabilized, Dean looked at Catherine. "We've confirmed the presence of terrorists. Catherine, I need you to get the cockpit door open."

The cockpit was the aircraft's lifeline.

Dean had to ensure its safety before moving on to the business and economy classes.

For the sake of his own damn life!

He was prepared for a bloodbath if necessary!

Catherine handed the little girl to Charles. After taking a few deep breaths to compose herself, she quickly entered the code on the keypad outside the cockpit door.

BEEP. A light sound, and the password screen glowed green.

Dean moved to push the door, but it didn't budge.

It was locked from the inside!

The attempt, however, had alerted those within the cockpit.

CRACKLE... Static came from the intercom. "Catherine?"

Clenching her fists, Catherine forced her standard, toothy flight-attendant smile and spoke cheerfully, "Captain Luther, I've prepared some coffee and snacks for you and Mel. Could you please open the door?"

"Is the door locked from this side?" Captain Luther's confused voice came through the intercom, followed by another man's explanation: "I must have accidentally locked it when I came in. I'll open it."

The communication cut off. Then, accompanied by the subtle CLICK of an unlocking mechanism—

The cockpit door opened!