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

Before the door even opened, a tingling sensation surged through Dean's chest. His pupils contracted. This familiar feeling! Acting on instinct, he grabbed the 1.8-meter-tall Catherine and moved in a flash.

The next moment, a dark muzzle emerged. Without hesitation, it was aimed at the opening and fired repeatedly. BANG! BANG! BANG! Six shots in rapid succession! Blood splattered, and cries of alarm erupted as the once-calm first-class cabin instantly descended into chaos.

"F*ck, Mel, you brought a gun on board— Ugh!" Captain Luther, slow to realize what was happening, didn't finish his sentence before Mel knocked him unconscious with a punch, sending him sprawling in his seat.

Emptying the magazine, Mel reloaded while flipping open his collar and speaking rapidly to the tiny button microphone at the top. "First class is compromised! Proceed directly—"

Just then, a hand firmly pressed against the cabin door, stopping it from closing.

Mel's expression changed; his right hand deftly twirled, raising the gun again, ready to eliminate the person blocking the doorway.

A massive force slammed into him. As Mel staggered, a fist like a sandbag struck him squarely on the forehead, sending him reeling backward to crash onto the co-pilot's seat, unconscious.

"Mel?" a hushed voice transmitted from the button.

It's blown! Dean thought. He memorized the voice, picked up the plastic revolver Mel had dropped, and retrieved a dozen or so matching bullets from the unconscious man's mouth, pocketing them. He then turned to Catherine and the others. "Two of you tie him up and wake the captain. Catherine, use the PA to explain the situation. Tell everyone to raise their hands to avoid misunderstandings. The rest of you, follow me to the other cabins!"

With that, he clipped his badge to his chest, held a gun in each hand, and strode toward the business and economy classes.

Plans rarely survive contact with reality, he thought. This was clearly a terrorist organization with a meticulously crafted plan. That noblewoman was just a plant in first class. If anyone knocked and she didn't give the all-clear, the people inside were under orders to act immediately, launching their attack ahead of schedule. Impossible to defend against! Mel must have given the signal to proceed the moment he was through that door. Now, the only option was to break this deadlock by force. He would have to use brutal methods to suppress everyone on this plane, leaving the enemy no room to maneuver.

Dean was only grateful that the plane was currently on autopilot; even with the captain unconscious, disaster wasn't imminent. His main fear was that these hijackers had planted remote-controlled bombs. It's all or nothing now!

"Detective, what's our next move?" Several people hurried after Dean as he reached the business class cabin.

They had been lucky. Mel's bullets had all struck the body of his accomplice, the noblewoman, so no one else was wounded.

Without looking back, Dean brandished his weapons and shouted, "FBI! Terrorists have infiltrated the aircraft! Everyone, hands up! Don't cause any misunderstandings!"

Some passengers stared in confusion, others were fast asleep, some were nodding to music, and a few just looked completely baffled. Two flight attendants, a man and a woman, also gazed at Dean's group with terror and bewilderment, their eyes particularly drawn to the 'toy revolver' in his hand, making them wonder if he was high.

DING DONG!

A familiar voice came over the cabin's PA system: "Emergency announcement! Emergency announcement! Ladies and gentlemen, terrorists have been identified on board. Please remain in your seats with your hands raised and await instructions from Detective Dean. Do not cause any misunderstandings. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill!"

After several repetitions, the bewildered cabin finally grasped the situation, and chaos erupted. Some shakily raised their hands, while others ducked their heads, trying to hide. The two flight attendants recognized Catherine's voice and nervously positioned themselves beside Dean and his team, unsure of what to do.

Dean's gaze, sharp as a blade, swept the cabin. Without hesitation, he raised his hand and fired three shots—precise headshots.

The three individuals, two men and one woman, dispersed on either side, had just stood up without a sound when bullets accurately struck their eye sockets, and they pitched backward.

The gunshots finally quelled the pandemonium.

Dean spoke again, his voice firm. "Everyone stay in your seats! Hands up! No sudden movements!"

Three headshots were more persuasive than any words. Everyone on the plane, young and old, male and female, sat frozen in their seats, hands held high, not daring to move a muscle.

Only then did Dean gesture to those behind him. "Search those three for weapons. I need you to secure business class for me!"

Small airlines had their advantages. This plane wasn't huge. Though it had first, business, and economy classes, there were only just over eighty passengers in total, seated on either side of a central aisle, which made them easier to control.

Charles and the two men who had bravely stepped forward earlier were the most obedient. They quickly searched the bodies of the two men and the woman and, to their surprise, found firearms on them.

When Charles saw what he was holding, his face paled. He quickly stuffed it into his clothes, then hurried to Dean, handing him a small booklet. "Detective Dean, something's not right!"

Dean glanced down. Fuck! I was too quick! One of the two men he'd shot was actually an air marshal.

A ruthless glint appeared in Dean's eyes. "He died at the hands of the hijackers, Charles!"

Charles's hand trembled, but he nodded hesitantly. "I won't say anything, but so many people saw it!" He wasn't exactly a saint himself and was willing to keep the secret for Dean, who had saved his daughter's life. But with so many witnesses, how could it possibly be kept quiet?

"Don't worry," Dean said, his gaze shifting to the two flight attendants nearby. They immediately clapped their hands over their mouths, their bodies going limp with fear. He then extended his hand to Charles. "Give me the gun!"

Meeting Dean's cold, emotionless eyes, Charles felt a shiver run down his spine. He quickly handed over the Glock 17 he had concealed, along with two magazines and the ID booklet.

A flicker of satisfaction appeared in Dean's eyes. The plastic revolver, limited by its material, might not be a one-shot kill against some of the stronger individuals, Dean mused. The Glock 17 is much more potent!

He handed one of the plastic revolvers to Charles. "These people might have planted remote-controlled bombs on the plane. If you want to get your daughter off safely, you'll help me watch this area. If anyone lowers their hands or makes a suspicious move, shoot!"

Catherine's broadcast had essentially announced their presence and actions to everyone on board. The situation in economy class was bound to be far more difficult, and Dean had no time to waste here. Charles was no fool, and people who couldn't handle a gun were a rarity in their line of work.

Charles expertly checked the revolver and nodded firmly. "For my daughter's sake, don't worry. I won't hesitate!"

Dean nodded. With the Glock 17 in one hand and the reloaded plastic revolver in the other, he moved stealthily towards economy class alone.

According to Catherine, the economy cabin was nearly full due to its cheaper tickets, with probably over fifty passengers there. This also meant it likely harbored the largest number of terrorists, who were probably already prepared and wouldn't give Dean the chance to strike first, unlike in first and business class.

Dean advanced slowly. His precognitive sixth sense was unreliable, sometimes working, sometimes not, so he couldn't depend on it. He had to rely on his reaction speed, which demanded his full concentration.

As he neared the small door connecting business and economy class, suppressed sounds of crying, pleas for mercy, and harsh reprimands drifted from it.

Dean's heart sank. This meant the terrorists inside had already made their move! They now held at least fifty-odd hostages!

Dean sighed and muttered, "Life and death are fated. I'm sorry, I just want to live."

The next moment, his eyes hardened with resolve, and he charged in.

His gaze swept the cabin instantly. He took everything in, his mind processing at high speed, locking onto potential targets. Without a shred of hesitation, he raised both hands, his dual pistols spitting fire like automatic rifles, unleashing a dozen or more rounds in a torrent of muzzle flashes.

The gunfire stopped.

All noise in the economy cabin ceased abruptly. Seven or eight standing figures, as if synchronized, looked incredulously towards the cabin door before collapsing with a thud, their identical miniature revolvers clattering to the floor.

Dean casually tossed aside the empty revolver and, while reloading the Glock, walked towards the end of the aisle.

There, a short young man held a gun on two women, apparently intending to shoot them to intimidate the other passengers. Dean's sudden appearance, however, had stunned him into immobility. He seemed not to have processed what had just happened.

As Dean approached, the young man finally snapped back to reality. He kicked the thinner girl in front of him away and grabbed the larger woman to use as a shield, pointing the revolver at her head. "Don't come any closer, or I'll kill her!" he threatened. "And this place is rigged with explosives! Believe it or not, I'll take you all down with me!"

The larger woman was already weak with fear. Now, used as a human shield, she started wailing uncontrollably, sobbing, "No, please! I have two daughters! Save me! Help me..."

A hostage? Dean looked at the well-shielded short young man and grinned.

BANG!

The larger woman's body shuddered. She stared blankly at Dean, her open mouth revealing a gaping, dark hole several inches wide where a bullet had pierced her throat, silencing her pleas. Her massive body crashed backward, crushing the skinny girl—who was splattered with blood and stunned anew—beneath her, drawing a piercing scream.

No more hostage!

Dean shook his head and fired two shots, obliterating the short hijacker's exposed hands, neutralizing him. Only then did he address the cabin loudly, "FBI! All terrorists have been neutralized. Everyone, stay in your seats with your hands up! Don't give me a reason for any misunderstandings!"

Looking at this handsome 'FBI' agent who had dispatched the hostage before the hijacker, everyone knew exactly what to do. Biting their trembling lips, clenching their legs to fight the desperate urge to urinate, they raised their hands high as if in a collective surrender, terrified they might be mistaken for a terrorist next.

The skinny girl, who had been kicked away by the short hijacker earlier, was also splattered with blood. She seemed to be in shock, sitting on the floor, staring blankly at Dean. "You killed a mother... You killed a mother."

Dean slapped her sharply across the face. The woman cried out, stumbling into a nearby chair. The blow finally snapped her out of her daze. Clutching her swelling cheek, she curled into a ball, not daring to utter another word.

Eight hijackers and one 'hostage' eliminated. The panicked passengers were finally quiet, and safe.

Dean scanned the cabin. Apart from the short young man who was still screaming, he nodded in satisfaction. He walked over to the larger woman's body, crouched down, and tugged at her clothing.

Under her loose clothes, what had appeared to be two absurdly large grapefruits were, in fact, two tightly wrapped explosive packs!

Dean smirked coldly. My master-level Discernment, you think it's just for show? I knew at a glance those 'assets' of yours weren't real!