Ronick glanced curiously at Jack, who seemed to be standing with his eyes closed in deep concentration. But before he could say anything, Jack opened his eyes, drew his two pistols, crouched low, and dove into the snow.
Landing with his right elbow supporting him, Jack rolled to absorb the impact and launched forward in one fluid motion, sliding along the ground until he was pressed against the left front of the prison bus. The entire movement was clean, fast, and seamless.
Ronick stood there with his mouth half open, swallowing hard before summoning his courage. He took a few running steps from the doorway and hurled himself forward like a lunging dog.
Watching the captain awkwardly slide half a meter through the snow and scramble his way to cover, Jack exhaled almost imperceptibly.
The back lot, surrounded by wire fencing, served as the police station's parking area. Unlike the front entrance, which faced buildings across the street, this rear zone was an open expanse, with the nearest elevated position five or six hundred meters away.
Jack had already narrowed down the sniper's position using the process of elimination. If he was right, the car buried in snow off to the left—its tailpipe still puffing steam—was the sniper's nest. Whoever was inside had likely stayed put, warm and ready.
To be fair, it wasn't a great sniper spot. Though the distance was barely a hundred meters, the angle was tight, and the massive prison bus blocked most of the sightlines to the police station's rear door.
The Black state trooper had probably been gunned down after chasing too far, stepping out from the bus's cover. Jack himself had peppered that direction with suppressive fire earlier while Ronick rescued him.
By now, the sniper should have relocated. But with the blizzard raging since evening and temperatures dropping to nearly –20°C, whoever was in that car wasn't elite military—they were staying warm, huddled in the vehicle.
Jack crouched beside the bus's front, quickly peeked toward the suspect car, and got a faceful of snow. Still, he caught a glimpse of what looked like a gun barrel protruding through the cracked window.
The sniper didn't take the bait. Jack didn't push it. Instead, he nudged Ronick with his elbow, signaling for him to climb in through the bus's right-hand side door.
Ronick nodded, rounded the bus, yanked open the door, and began climbing in—only to suddenly lock eyes with a man in a white ski cap hunched over the driver's seat.
"Shit!" Ronick raised his weapon, but the man was faster. He yanked the lever and slammed the door shut, pinning Ronick's torso.
By the time Jack heard the commotion and got around the bus, the two were already tangled on the ground, fists flying, clawing and scratching like two drunks in a parking lot brawl. Ronick had lost his pistol. The other guy hadn't drawn his either. It was a pure, primal street fight.
BANG! Jack's shot turned the white ski cap crimson, and the man collapsed. Ronick froze, stunned, the bullet having skimmed past his ear and buried into the snowy ground.
"Get in!" Jack barked, sliding his FN57 back into his waistband. He tossed the corpse aside and shoved Ronick's pistol back into his hand.
Ronick snapped out of it, scrambled aboard the bus, and immediately leapt back down again—cursing. "That bastard wrecked the radio and cut the power to the bus!"
As if on cue, a bullet pinged off the edge of the door. Jack yanked Ronick behind the engine block just in time.
"The sniper must've noticed something's off and got out of his car," Jack muttered, angry. He lifted the attacker's body onto Ronick's back and handed him the weight.
"Take him. I'll cover you."
Ronick didn't ask why. He just hunched low and ran. Jack followed, both pistols blazing, each shot kicking up snow around the sniper's feet.
Panicked, the sniper dropped flat and didn't fire again. Jack and Ronick disappeared into the station, slamming the door behind them. Jack kicked a chair under the handle to jam it.
If only he'd had his FK7.5. At this range, he might've scored a lucky hit. With a real long gun, today's ambushers wouldn't be getting away.
Thanks to the station's relocation plan, the entire armory had already been cleared out. Aside from a shotgun brought in by the state troopers, they didn't even have a decent rifle.
If Jack could just get his hands on that sniper rifle, no one messing up his New Year's barbecue would escape.
The normally rowdy holding cells fell silent. All four inmates, including Bishop, stared wide-eyed at the two blood-covered men dragging a corpse down the hall.
—
"No ID. A Glock 17 with the serial number filed off and a suppressor attached. He must be one of the two who snuck in earlier," Jack said.
He ripped open the man's jacket and followed a tear in the fabric, finding a matching mark on the bulletproof vest underneath. He then retrieved the deformed bullet from his pocket and placed it on the table.
So Trooper Jeffery hadn't been bluffing during the operation. He really had hit his target.
Unfortunately, the attacker had been heavily armored, with ballistic plates front and back—full tactical loadout, better than most officers.
"Those bastards are better equipped than we are," Alice muttered bitterly.
Even Alex, the supposedly hardened field psychologist, had gone pale. Covering her mouth, she tried not to puke at the sight of the gaping head wound.
"No. He wasn't a gangster," Ronick suddenly said. "His name was Danny Barbero. He was a cop. I know him."
That stunned the room. Jasper stood frozen, struggling to process what he'd just heard.
John, however, looked relatively calm. He'd seen worse and even had the energy to speculate.
"Dirty cop? For Bishop to have someone like that on his payroll, he must be sitting on a goldmine of secrets. And your department, DHD, really dropped the ball—putting him on a transport with regular inmates instead of calling in SWAT?"
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