svetikya Page 162
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All voices were choked in the shattered throat.
He collapsed as if all his bones had been removed, the knife in his hand clattered to the ground, his body convulsed violently, and he soon fell silent.
The last two thugs had already pounced on him from both sides, one of them even grabbing Victor's left arm, while the other punched him in the back of the head.
Victor completely ignored the person holding his arm, and stomped his right leg back like a battle axe, the hard heel of his leather shoe slamming into the attacker's instep.
The soft cracking of bones breaking and a pig-like scream rang out at the same time.
Almost simultaneously, the left arm that was being held suddenly burst forth with terrifying power, muscles bulging, and forcefully swung the thug holding him up, smashing him into his companion who was clutching his leg and screaming in pain!
The two screamed as they collided and rolled to the ground.
Victor didn't even glance at them. He turned around, bent his left arm, and delivered a heavy, hammer-like elbow strike with pinpoint accuracy to the ribs of the thug who had just grabbed his arm and was now trying to get up.
A clear sound of ribs breaking.
The thug's screams abruptly stopped, his eyes bulged out, and he spat out acidic water mixed with blood and foam from his mouth. He curled up like a shrimp and instantly passed out.
The last guy whose foot bones were crushed struggled to crawl away, his face covered in snot, tears, and desperate fear.
Viktor stepped forward, expressionless, raised his foot, and calmly stomped down on the side of the man's neck.
The short street fell silent again, with only the faint sound of vehicles in the distance.
Five bodies lay on the ground in various contorted positions, their fates unknown.
The stench of blood quickly filled the air, mingling with the damp, chilly London night air, making one feel nauseous.
Viktor stood still, his chest rising and falling slightly, not from exhaustion, but from the brief release of the boiling bloodlust within him.
The fiery passion in his eyes slowly subsided, returning to a deep, cold intensity.
He looked at his fist, which was stained with blood and a little dirt.
Viktor shook his hand as if it were just covered in dust: "Damn, that felt great!"
Frankie stood there, unable to accept that Victor had personally killed five people—not by long-range shooting, but by frontal assault.
"You killed someone! You're a murderer! How can you play the game like this?"
"It was just self-defense! The other side was armed, and I was unarmed. I could have killed each of them with one shot."
Victor tucked the pistol under his arm into Frankie's waistband: "Make a call! Tell Ethan to get me a good lawyer."
This was not a street brawl on impulse; it was a desperate but serious act of self-defense. Escape was out of the question.
He walked over to the tall, thin corpse wearing his jacket—his punch had just killed the man—calmly pulled off his jacket, examined it carefully, and found it undamaged except for a few drops of blood.
He draped it over his arm.
Then, he took his wallet back from another thug's pocket, counted it, and found that all the money was there.
After doing all this, he took out a mobile phone from his pocket, which was still a bit bulky for this era, and dialed a number.
Chapter 137 Leave professional matters to professionals
"This is the emergency call center, please speak."
A woman's voice came from the other end of the phone.
Viktor's voice was eerily calm, revealing no trace of the emotions one would expect from someone who had just survived a life-or-death struggle.
"A knife-wielding robbery has occurred on a short street near Rother Lane in East London. Five attackers have been subdued. There may be fatalities."
After giving his exact location, he hung up the phone and immediately dialed another number.
The phone was answered after two rings, and a clear and efficient voice came from the other end: "Victor?"
"Ethan, I've run into a bit of trouble."
Viktor spoke calmly, but went straight to the point: "Just now, five men robbed me and Frankie at knifepoint. I fought back in self-defense. There were five people at the scene; at least three are dead, and two others are seriously injured. I have called the police."
Ethan paused for a second on the other end of the phone, clearly processing this explosive information, but his voice immediately became incredibly serious and professional: "Understood. Are you injured?"
"I'm injured, my finger bones hurt a lot."
"Oh no, location?"
Victor repeated the address.
“Stay calm, Victor. Don’t say anything until the lawyers arrive. I’ll contact Sir Simon Leicester, one of the best criminal defense lawyers in London. He’s very experienced in these kinds of cases.”
Ethan spoke quickly—Sir Simon Lester was the lawyer Jimmy recommended; he was very capable, but most importantly, he was the kind of person who actually got the job for the money.
"He will contact you by phone before the police arrive and get to the scene and police station as soon as possible. Before I and the lawyer arrive, do not answer any other questions except to identify yourself and for self-defense. I repeat, do not say anything and wait for us."
"I know what to do."
Viktor finished speaking calmly and hung up the phone.
He straightened his collar, draped his blood-stained jacket over an inconspicuous side of his arm, and then, like a cold sculpture, lit a cigarette, stood under the dim streetlights, with blood spreading and twisted bodies at his feet, quietly waiting, exhaling smoke from his mouth.
Franchi stood to the side and said, "Now we can't drink."
The sound of sirens grew louder as they approached, shattering the tranquility of the night.
Red and blue lights began to flicker at the street corner not far away.
Victor Lee took a deep breath of the cold air. The fire within him hadn't died down; it had simply transformed into another form—a more ruthless, more calculating state, ready to face another "battle."
"Nothing tastes better when drinking!"
·······
The fog in London always carries a mixture of soot and dampness, but in that narrow back alley in the East End, that familiar smell is replaced by a strong metallic odor and a cold, deathly stillness.
Five corpses lay on the ground in various contorted positions, telling the story of the instantaneous and extremely efficient violence.
The sirens of the London Metropolitan Police pierced the night sky, and swirling red and blue lights illuminated the wet cobblestone streets and mottled brick walls.
The police quickly set up a cordon, their actions professional and swift, attempting to conceal the naked chaos with a cloak of order.
Detective Russell Miller frowned as he examined the scene. He had seen many murders, but rarely had one been so...clean and efficient.
There were no signs of struggle, no chaotic bullet holes, only the precision of a single, deadly shot.
His subordinate reported in a low voice: "Sir, that's Victor Lee over there, a professional boxer, and that's Frankie Costello, his promoter. According to preliminary reports, it's a robbery."
Inspector Miller looked at the two men standing to the side.
Victor Lee, a tall man like a silent mountain, wore an expensive custom-made suit, which was now stained with dirt and specks of blood.
His face was expressionless, his eyes sharp and calm, as if what had just happened was not a life-or-death battle, but a routine training exercise.
His hand was red and swollen, the only subtle evidence linking him to the horrific scene.
Frankie, standing nearby, appeared agitated, constantly wiping his sweat with a handkerchief and muttering things like "lawlessness" and "we are victims."
Forensic experts and investigators worked meticulously, recording every detail:
The first one suffered a complete rupture of the Adam's apple; the immense force even caused cervical dislocation, resulting in instant death.
Secondly, the patient suffered a central facial depression, comminuted fractures of the nasal and cheekbone bones, and airway obstruction by blood and soft tissue, resulting in death from suffocation and shock.
Third, the left ribs were fractured, and the sharp bone fragments pierced the heart, causing massive internal bleeding.
Fourth, the mandible is shattered, and the enormous impact is transmitted to the brain. Even if the person is not dead at the time, they are already brain dead.
The fifth one was thrown to the ground and suffered a broken neck.
With each body examined, Inspector Miller's brow furrowed more deeply.
What terrifying power and control that would require!
Was this really self-defense?
He walked up to Viktor and routinely verified his identity.
Viktor's answer was brief and clear, his voice low and devoid of any emotional fluctuation.
Miller viewed this calmness as bordering on cold-blooded.
"Mr. Li, please turn around."
Miller took out handcuffs.
Viktor obediently extended his wrist, and the moment the cold metal lock clicked on, a burst of flashing lights and a cacophony of questions erupted from the alleyway entrance.
Reporters swarmed outside the police cordon like sharks smelling blood.
As mentioned, the London police channel is no secret to journalists – everyone knows that reporters have installed 'wiretapping devices' inside police stations.
Viktor Lee—the boxing star poised to challenge for the world title—is now appearing handcuffed as a “murderer,” making headlines in an explosive fashion!
The camera frantically captured the scene of Viktor being led into the police car, his tall figure and the glaring handcuffs on his hands creating a stark contrast.
Frankie tried to speak to the reporters from the side, but his voice was drowned out.
In this chaotic moment, a black Mercedes silently glided to a stop nearby.
The car door opened, and a middle-aged man wearing a Savile Row suit, with his silver hair neatly combed and wearing gold-rimmed glasses stepped out.
He carried an elegant briefcase, his steps were steady, and his aura was powerful, instantly attracting everyone's attention.
Sir Simon Leicester has arrived.
“Detective, I am Simon Lester, Mr. Victor Lee’s lawyer.”
He ignored the reporters and walked straight to Inspector Miller, his voice calm but firm: "Until my client is formally charged and the facts are clear, I demand that his handcuffs be removed immediately. He is an international friend cooperating with the investigation, not a dangerous fugitive."
Inspector Miller felt the pressure; Sir Lester's name meant top-notch defense and the toughest adversary in London's legal circles.
After a brief but intense exchange, Viktor's handcuffs were removed on the spot, thanks to the lawyer's insistence and under the watchful eyes of numerous cameras.
He rubbed his wrist, remaining silent, only nodding slightly to Sir Lester.
Ultimately, Victor and Frankie went to the police station in a police car, but the atmosphere was completely different from when they were arrested. Sir Lester's car followed closely behind.
London was sleepless that night.
The next day, almost every newspaper had a large photo of Victor in handcuffs on its front page.
The Times headline was relatively restrained: "Boxing star involved in deadly clash, five dead!!"
The Daily Mirror sensationalized the story: "Eastern Killer! Boxing Challenger Performs Deadly Five-Kill on the Street!"