Jay had no idea how he'd managed to hit that shot. He didn't even have time to decide on another target; he just raised his gun towards the outline of the SUV's driver compartment and emptied the remaining four rounds in one breath.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
The shell casings clinked as they hit the ground, a crisp, cold sound.
The moment the last bullet left the barrel, without even checking the result, he threw himself back behind the wall in a dog-faced, sprawling dive.
Only when his back was once again against the cold brick wall did he realize what he had just done – he might have killed a man.
But the expected nausea, dizziness, or guilt didn't arrive. Instead, it was a turbulent mix of extreme excitement and belated fear.
This surge raced through his body like an electric current, making him tremble uncontrollably.
Not just his gun-holding right hand, but his left arm, his legs, his chattering teeth, practically every muscle in his body was spasming involuntarily.
The sledgehammer of his heart echoed in his ears, each beat so heavy it felt like it would burst out of his chest.
"First blood! Yes!"
He forcefully pressed the magazine release. The empty magazine clattered to the dusty ground at his feet. His left hand reached for his waist, fumbling for a spare.
But his fingers, as if boneless, were clumsy and stiff. He clawed empty air over the magazine pouch several times before finally pulling the spare mag free.
"FUCK! FUCK!"
Jay's throat was as dry as sandpaper. He gritted his teeth hard, hammered his left arm against his thigh a few times, forcing himself to calm down.
He took a deep breath, steadied his wrist, aligned the heavy magazine with the grip's slot, and shoved it in firmly until he heard the click of the lock, then racked the slide.
Clack!
A round was chambered. He gripped the handle with both hands, using the 4-4-4 breathing technique to try and stabilize his emotions. The blankness in his mind gradually filled.
The 1911 had left four torn holes in the windshield, the exploded spiderweb cracks lined with frost-like white marks.
He wasn't sure if his shots, with their trajectory shift, had hit the target. If the thugs immediately floored it and charged, Jay would be utterly helpless against them.
His firepower was nowhere near enough to stop an SUV. He could only find cover immediately.
But luckily, a disagreement seemed to break out on the other side. Some wanted to run, others wanted to pull their injured comrade to safety.
Suddenly, two low, dull booms exploded in the alley – the Mossberg firing.
Wilson had seized the opportunity. Dozens of lead pellets swept through like an icy storm. The roar of the shotgun and the shattering of the windshield drowned out the shouts of the thugs.
After the second shot rang out, Jay took the chance to peek. He saw the SUV's driver, restrained by the seatbelt, slumped limply over the shattered dashboard.
The driver's upper body was a mess of bloody holes, spasming continuously. It was unclear if he was dead or alive. The driver's compartment looked like it had been sprayed by a blood-filled watering can.
Nice shot!
…Though it looked disgusting.
His hands were still shaking, but better than before. This uncontrollable tremor actually lessened the churning in his stomach, creating a bizarre balance.
The two remaining thugs had now jumped out of the vehicle.
The burly man in the leather jacket crouched at the rear of the vehicle. The man in the baseball cap hunched near the passenger side, firing a shot back towards the second floor.
Countless pellets hit above the window ledge and the building's wall, sending down a waterfall of rubble and glass.
But the recoil of the shot made his body lean back slightly, exposing his shoulder and half his neck behind the side window of the door.
Seizing the moment while the opponent was reloading, Jay stepped out, settled his sights, and pulled the trigger.
Bang! Bang!
Another two-shot burst.
The first shot hit the shoulder. A spray of blood mixed with greyish bone fragments splattered onto the door's chrome trim.
The baseball cap staggered back, caught off balance, and fell flat on his back, causing the second shot to miss.
The shoulder wound wasn't actually that severe, but as the baseball cap lay on the ground looking up, what met his eyes was Wilson's face and the dark, hollow muzzle of the Mossberg.
Wai… wait!
He instinctively reached out a hand to block, but only saw a burst of flame about to erupt.
BOOM!
…
Jay knew he'd hit his target and saw Wilson fire, but because of the parked cars on the roadside, he couldn't see the result.
He was crouching, moving along the wall, slipping behind a Toyota up ahead.
He thought about it and decided the Japanese car wasn't safe enough, so he moved forward a few more steps, taking cover behind a Ford F-150.
Before he could lean out to look, he suddenly heard the sound of vomiting from above him and from behind the SUV opposite. Then the leather-jacketed thug's slurred voice rang out.
"Don't shoot… I… urp… I surrender… urp…"
Damn!
The enemy surrendering was good, but vomiting like this, even Wilson on the second floor was puking… that last shot must have had a particularly gruesome result.
Jay gritted his teeth, controlling his curiosity, refusing to think about the gunshot wound pictures he'd seen during training.
He sidled around to the back of the SUV, keeping his face slightly averted. He found the leather-jacketed thug had already tossed his gun aside and was lying on the ground, vomiting in convulsive heaves.
Good thing I didn't go look. If all three of us were puking, security would be hard to guarantee.
He kept his gun in one hand, pulled out handcuffs with the other, and cuffed the leather-jacketed thug's hands behind his back.
The guy was remarkably docile now, his face ashen. The vomit changed from yellowish-green stomach acid to bile streaked with blood.
But the big man's diaphragm was still mechanically twitching, like an electrocuted frog.
The alley was filled with a sweet, metallic rust smell and a sour, rotten stench – the scent of cerebrospinal fluid mixed with half-digested food steaming on the concrete.
Jay stood up, turned, and looked. Three guards of unknown status lay motionless on the ground near the prison truck.
"Three of them didn't even take out one of us? They're worse than me! And they get paid so much."
He silently complained.
If it weren't for saving these three, a rookie cop like him, just thinking about collecting dirty money and killing time, wouldn't have needed to risk his life in a shootout.
If the prisoner escaped, so be it; it wasn't his business. But being colleagues under the GCPD, standing by and doing nothing without reason would mean he could forget about living in the police system from then on.
"Did you call for backup? We need an ambulance!" Jay yelled at the top of his lungs. Wilson, who had caught his breath, stumbled down from the building entrance.
"Already did. They said they're on their way." He looked at Jay, an expression of reluctance on his face. "Man, don't you want to see my handiwork?"
"See my ass! Go check on the Blackgate guys. I'll check on the one they were trying to spring."
He circled back from the rear of the vehicle, gun at the ready, and pulled open the rear door.
A black man in handcuffs and leg irons was curled up on the seat, weeping.
"Wow, you must be a real star. So many crazy fans?" Jay sneered. "Get the fuck out and crawl down here right now, hands on your head. You're in deep shit today."
"Don't… don't shoot," the black man scrambled down from the vehicle on his elbows and knees, sobbing as hecrouched to the side with his hands on his head. "I swear… I swear I really don't know them."
"Not my problem," Jay holstered his gun. "But they hijacked a truck and killed people to get you."
He pointed. "There are three dead men lying over there. Guess what'll happen when you get to prison…"
"Hey! Over here!"
Jay turned sharply. It was Wilson shouting at him. "This one's still alive!"
What?!
From a distance, the three figures lay motionless in pools of blood. He thought they were long dead.
One was actually still alive.
He pulled out his spare handcuffs, locked Hargrove to the B-pillar with its glass shattered, and ran towards Wilson.
There were originally three people on the prison truck. The driver and the guard inside the compartment watching the prisoners had been shot open-heartedly by the shotgun and were deader than dead.
The female officer in the passenger seat had also taken a hit. She wore a soft body armor vest over her uniform. But being hit by buckshot at close range, it offered minimal protection.
Her chest and abdomen were shattered in a radial pattern, torn open with a hole the size of a baby's fist. The originally tough fiber layer was embedded with a ring of small lead pellets.
A rapidly expanding dark, wet stain haloed the rupture. Blood was gushing out from there continuously, soaking through the vest's lining and dripping onto the cold concrete, forming a small, sticky, dark red puddle.
"Hey, look at me. Can you hear me? What's your name?" Jay patted the female officer's cheek. It felt cold, slick, and covered in cold sweat.
Her eyes moved slowly twice. Her lips moved with difficulty, squeezing out a vague word.
"Hel…p…"
Her voice sounded like a broken bellows. Every inhalation was accompanied by intermittently coughing, and bloody foam kept bubbling from the corner of her mouth – a sign of pulmonary contusion or a rib fracture puncturing a lung.
"Hang on. You might not die. Don't give up. Get the…" Jay ripped open the female officer's collar and turned sharply to see Wilson running quickly from the patrol car, carrying the first aid kit.
"Get me the occlusive dressing! Her lung's punctured! Gotta plug the sucking chest wound first!"
"What? What wound? Where?" Wilson fumbled panic-strickenly through the first aid kit, his face pale.
"Listen carefully! When she breathes in! Find the place where air's hissing in! What the fuck did you learn in first aid training?!"
"Probably slept through it…"
"You motherf…"
Jay pulled out his tactical folding knife and cut along the side straps of the body armor at the waist, slowly lifting it.
When the blade cut through the soaked uniform fabric on her chest, the sight inside made Jay's stomach convulse violently.
Under the hole torn open by the shotgun blast in the body armor, the police uniform fabric was ripped.
A huge, gaping wound near the lower edge of her left ribs was exposed, its edges torn and ragged, deep and mangled.
With every difficult, short breath she took, amidst the shattered muscle tissue, a small section of dark red intestine, coated in a bloody membrane, actually pulsed slightly.
It was barely exposed to the cold air, covered in dust and dirty blood.
The skin around the wound was also scattered with dozens of small, pinpoint wounds with blackened edges, like brands from hellfire.
The fabric at the top of her left thigh was also torn, and dark red blood was gushing out, rapidly soaking through her uniform pants and the ground beneath her.
Three deadlywounds!
"Damn it, stop the bleeding first!" Jay pulled out a combat application tourniquet, forcefully looped it around the female officer's thigh at the groin area, and then spun the windlass desperately.
He glanced at Wilson, who was frozen in place. "Don't fucking space out! Turn her head to the side, clear the blood and vomit from her mouth! Then wet the gauze with purified water and gently place it over the big wound on her belly! Don't pack it in! Just cover it! Protect the intestines! Hurry up!"
Wilson jumped as if whipped. Hepanic-strickenly pulled out a large roll of trauma gauze, crumpled it into a ball.
He poured purified water from the first aid kit onto it to wet it, and carefully placed it over the abdominal wound. The thick, warm blood immediately soaked through the gauze, flowing away from the sides like a small spring.
He tore off a small piece of gauze, reached into the victim's mouth, and wiped out a mass of blood foam and vomit. He looked up at Jay, who was pressing another pack of gauze firmly against the chest wound to staunch the bleeding. "What else?"
What else?
What else was there?!
Jay struggled to recall what he'd learned in training.
He stared at the female officer's neck. The veins were distended like twisted earthworms – a sign of severe hypoxia and thoracic pressure.
He realized with despair that the deadly sucking chest wound might be blocked by clothing, or maybe near the abdominal wound.
But they simply didn't have time to find and treat it.
FUCK! FUCK! He cursed inwardly.
The hissing sound of the air leak, mixed with the gurgling blood foam, grew fainter. He glanced at his watch, his voice hoarse and dry. "Note the time, 15:37. Keep talking to her! Don't let her sleep!"
"OK, OK… Listen, ma'am, my name's Darnell Wilson. Hang on, don't fall asleep. Think about your paycheck," Wilson rambled incoherently. "Think about your kids or family. Maybe they're not good to you? It's okay, my family isn't great to me either…"
Jay remained silent, his face was ashen, kneeling in the cold wind, futilely trying to find the deadly air leak on the victim's chest wall.
His hands were shaking even worse than when he'd killed someone earlier. His fingers felt like ice as they brushed over her skin.
He took off his police jacket and covered her, only to find the female officer's eyes staring fixedly at him. But the faint light deep in her pupils was gradually dimming, growing emptier.
"Hang on, don't sleep!" Wilson also stripped off his jacket and laid it over her. He looked up at his partner. "Bro, she's gonna make it, right?"
Jay swallowed. His throat felt like it was being cut; he couldn't make a sound.
Wilson held the female officer's hand, his nose twitching. "She's so cold. We need to get her more clothes. How about mouth-to-mouth? She seems like she can't breathe!"
Jay looked down at the female officer's face. The painful, weakpanting had completely stopped. Her pupils were like two bottomless dry wells, reflecting the lead-gray sky, completely dilated.
"She's dead."
Gradually, he heard the sharp wails of police cars and ambulances in the distance.
Backup had arrived…
"No," Wilson lowered his head, his shoulders shaking slightly. Something seemed to drip down. "They're too late… If only they'd come sooner…"
"Hmph!" Jay snorted coldly. "Don't forget, this is Gotham. They're always late, aren't they?"
He pulled Wilson up. "Step back. Don't let your tears fall on the body. If your DNA is on there, it'll be hard to explain later."
"I'm not crying. The smell is just too strong." Wilson lifted his arm and wiped his eyes. "Hey, you got blood on my sleeve. To be honest, it's not my first time seeing a dead body, but…"
"There's always blood," Jay smiled faintly and walked over to sit on the curb.
He watched the police and medical personnel swarming the scene and sighed wearily.
Wilson also sat down beside him. The two of them watched as the bodies were covered with white sheets, sitting in silence for a while.
Suddenly, there was a commotion at the entrance to the cordoned-off area. A middle-aged man in a beige trench coat pushed past the officers maintaining order and walked straight towards them.
"Major Crimes. James Gordon."
The man stopped in front of the curb and extended his hand towards Jay.
Both men instinctively stood up. Jay waved his hand, stained with dirty blood, at Gordon.
Gordon glanced at it, clearly unconcerned. He kept his hand steadily extended, even leaning forward slightly.
"Well done, boys. That's the badge of a hero. Thank you."
"Badge?" The corner of Jay's mouth twitched into a faint smile.
He looked at Gordon's clean, well-defined hand, and finally, slowly raised his own, barely touching Gordon's fingertips.
"Thank you too, sir."
"And me, right?" Wilson also hurriedly wiped his hands hard on his clothes, then enthusiastically shook Gordon's other hand with both of his. "Darnell Wilson, sir! It's been quite a day!"
Gordon also shook Wilson's hand firmly, clapping him on the shoulder. "Leave this to Major Crimes and Forensics now."
He gestured to the side. Jay looked over and sure enough, saw Nigma's slender figure in the distance, carefully collecting shell casings.
"You've done well. Go get some rest, take a shower, change clothes. We can deal with the reports later."
"Thank you, sir."
They both saluted, watching Gordon turn and walk back into the busy crowd at the scene.
Wilson plopped back down on the curb, letting out a long sigh of relief, and nudged Jay with his elbow.
"Whew… finally over. He called us heroes! Do you know him? Doesn't matter, he's a superior. Superiors are always right. 'Hey, Wilson, not bad!' I mean, bro, what do you want to do most right now?"
Jay didn't answer immediately. He slowly sat down as well. He looked at Nigma's focused back in the distance, then looked down at his own outstretched hands.
The red and blue police lights spun and danced wildly over them, shining on the dried, blackened bloodstains, creating an eerie, mottled pattern.
"What do I want to do most?" He frowned and looked back at his partner. "You?"
"I don't know. Maybe I want to find the Lisa sisters at the bar on the corner and really unwind, forget all this crap. And tell everyone I meet that I'm a hero."
A bit of excitement showed on Wilson's face, as if the earlier fear and sadness had been thrown aside.
Then, he pressed on persistently. "What about you?"
Jay didn't look at his partner again. He used the pad of his thumb to repeatedly rub at the most stubborn patch of dark red blood crust on the knuckles of his index and middle fingers, but the color seemed to have seeped in.
"Me?" He stared at his fingers, his voice so low it was almost inaudible.
"I want to wash my hands first."
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