"Damn it, who the hell is it?!"
The bearded man wanted to scream that Billy had betrayed them—but Billy was already dead. So who the hell was attacking them?
"Rat-a-tat-tat—"
Gunfire sparked against the surface where he was taking cover, showering him with shrapnel and sending a jolt of fear through his spine. The whole group scrambled in panic, dashing into the shipyard repair facility for shelter.
Watching the thugs retreat into the building, Owen allowed himself a faint smile. He had been worried they might drive off—if that happened, he'd be on his own with nowhere to pursue. But now, with them all herded inside, things were much simpler.
Owen began his approach, moving slowly toward the facility.
"There he is!!"
It wasn't clear if someone had actually seen him or was just firing blindly in panic, but one shout was enough to trigger a barrage of bullets in his direction.
The Wanderers were gangsters—brutal, street-smart thugs. The group tonight were veterans in the criminal sense, having been through turf wars and firefights. But they lacked training. They didn't even aim. Every shot was pure spray-and-pray.
A chaotic rattle of gunfire echoed through the night, and another thug dropped from a clean hit. If Owen had been using his usual HK416 or any assault rifle, these amateurs would've been wiped out already. But for the sake of misdirection, he had chosen weapons favored by gangs—submachine guns and pistols—making the job more drawn-out.
He also made sure every shot looked like wild, amateur spray patterns. No precision, no controlled bursts. If investigators showed up later, it would look like just another gang-on-gang shooting.
In the darkness, behind one door, a nervous Wanderer clutched a Remington M870 shotgun. His hands shook as he swung the barrel back and forth between the window and the door.
Suddenly, a sharp crack of glass came from the window. Instinctively, the thug fired—the shotgun blew a massive hole in the glass. But at that exact moment, a muzzle appeared at the door's window.
"Rat-a-tat-tat—"
The automatic bursts shredded through the frame, turning everything inside into pulp. The gun clicked empty, and by the time the echo died, the man behind the door had been torn to pieces.
Owen dropped the empty UZI and casually picked up the dead man's M870.
The noise drew more enemies. Footsteps approached rapidly. Owen pressed against the wall—just as a silhouette burst into view. Without hesitation, Owen fired. The shotgun blast threw the man backward like a rag doll.
He chambered another round—clack-chunk—and fired again. The second guy had just stepped forward, and the shot shattered his leg like a twig. His screams echoed briefly before Owen's third shot silenced him permanently.
Clack-chunk. Reloaded and ready for more.
With the two assailants down, Owen quickly rifled through the corpses and stuffed spare shells into his pockets. The feel of the shotgun reminded him how different it was from an assault rifle. In close quarters, nothing beat a 12-gauge. No wonder it was a gang favorite.
Reloading the tube magazine to full capacity, Owen resumed his hunt. If only he had night vision—if McCall had one spare, he would've cut the lights and sped things up considerably.
At a corner inside the building, Owen pressed against the wall. Just beyond it, three Wanderers did the same on the opposite side. They were tense, inching along, guns jerking around in nervous sweeps.
They knew the attacker had to be nearby—they just didn't know he was inches away.
The first man crept cautiously, weapon raised. Then, without realizing it, his barrel crept into view around the corner—classic CQB mistake. Owen waited.
Then the man's arm came into view. Then his head.
The moment his head cleared the corner, he found the cold barrel of a shotgun pressed against his cheek.
Owen's eyes flashed with icy light.
BOOM.
His skull burst like a melon, the headless corpse slumping down in eerie silence.
Without pausing, Owen spun around the corner and fired again. The second man had no time to react—the blast pinned him to the wall, blood spraying in all directions.
The third man returned fire, bullets chewing the floor behind Owen's heels as he dove into cover—only to find someone already hiding there.
Both men froze for a split second—then the thug dropped his weapon and lunged at Owen bare-handed.
They grappled. The thug pushed the shotgun skyward as Owen tried to pull the trigger—BOOM—the shell exploded harmlessly into the ceiling.
Behind him, Owen heard footsteps closing in—reinforcements were on the way.
Abandoning the shotgun, Owen drew his Glock 17 with one hand and shot the man grappling him in the knee. The thug screamed and fell.
Owen spun and fired blindly—bang bang bang bang—four shots as the new attackers rounded the corner. They dropped like dominoes.
The Glock barked again and again into their bodies. No armor. No helmets. It didn't matter if it was a headshot or not—center mass would do just fine.
Owen turned back to the downed man behind him and finished the job with three more shots.
With the obstruction cleared, Owen reloaded his last remaining shells into the shotgun and charged ahead.
Footsteps echoed just around the corner. Owen burst out of hiding—BOOM BOOM—two more went down. He quickly finished them off. Within seconds, the reinforcements were reduced to corpses.
…
A few hundred meters away, Brock exited his vehicle cautiously.
The gunfire had been unmistakable in the still night air.
Initially, he'd only been angry about the vandalism at his stable. But when he discovered that someone had gone through his personal documents, he knew things had escalated.
The file proving his identity as a retired cop had vanished.
That's when he'd decided to confront Crocodile Billy directly—and now, arriving at the shipyard, he was witnessing a full-blown gunfight.
The sounds from inside were relentless—bursts of automatic fire, scattered screams, and furious shouts. From what Brock could tell, the side with fewer people was winning decisively.
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