A Dodge pickup truck roared up from the direction they had come.
A PKM general-purpose machine gun was mounted on a tripod welded into the truck bed, and several gang members carrying automatic weapons were sitting behind it.
As soon as they saw each other, a torrent of bullets swept toward them.
"Run! Run!"
Most people scrambled to their feet and ran. Jay grabbed Hargrove by the collar, ready to drag him deeper into the stairwell.
Unexpectedly, the man's pants were still wet, but he flipped over and ran ahead of Jay.
"You son of a ****!"
Jay cursed and charged inside, bent low. However, someone brushed past him and ran outward.
"Get back here! What are you doing!"
Kurich didn't speak. He shook the MP5 in his hand at Jay and concealed himself behind the wall by the stairwell entrance.
"I'm gonna kill the…" Jay didn't even finish his curse.
Amid the metallic clang of the cyclic mechanism and the loud cracking of debris, the outer wall was shredded, sending bricks flying.
Jay threw himself flat on the floor.
Fortunately, the PKM couldn't sustain a long burst.
When he looked up a few seconds later, he saw Kurich curled up against the wall, covered in dust and convulsing.
He clutched his neck; his windpipe was shattered, and thick blood mixed with bubbles was drooling from the corner of his open mouth.
He hadn't been hit directly by a bullet, but he was killed by a piece of flying brick that smashed his throat.
"Damn it, cop movies are deadly!" Jay punched the ground and patted himself down, realizing he'd forgotten his phone in the Chevrolet.
He yelled at a nearby gunman, "Got a phone?"
The renewed sound of the machine gun, like a tearing sheet of fabric, drowned out his voice.
The gunman lay on the floor, staring at him blankly, until Jay made a hand gesture near his ear like he was on the phone.
Only then did he understand, reaching into his coat for a cell phone.
"Call this number…" The machine gun's roar paused. Jay quickly rattled off a phone number. "Call Gotham PD and request backup."
"Huh? Call the police?" The gunman looked at him in confusion. "We are… Mr. Falcone's…"
"Falcone my ass! You are innocent citizens currently being attacked by a gang with heavy weaponry!"
Jay shouted. "Tell them a group of heavy-armed gangsters allegedly stole a large amount of police property! Get SWAT down here!"
The gunman's mouth twitched, but he nodded and retreated into the corner to make the call.
Jay let out a small sigh of relief.
What about the inevitable anger when SWAT discovers there's no property?
Who cares? I didn't make the call, and it wasn't even my phone.
He grabbed his rifle and ran back upstairs.
The heavy machine gun had a cool-down period of at least 20 seconds after several bursts.
He needed to find a vantage point to take out the PKM. Otherwise, regardless of lethality, the wall-destroying capability alone was unbearable.
Just then, a police siren sounded from the direction the Dodge had come.
Hmm? Backup is actually this fast this time?
Joy flashed in his heart, but it immediately sank.
There was only one police car. It flashed red and blue lights, charging into the muzzle flashes of the enemy's automatic weapons, executing a skid, and then was immediately riddled with bullets, billowing smoke.
There was only one cop inside. The man crashed the door open, rolled out, and ducked behind cover, drawing his pistol to return fire.
"GCPD! Drop your weapons immediately!"
Holy cow, who is this man, so brave!
Jay cautiously peeked out from upstairs. Oh, James Gordon, Gotham's legendary cop. That explains it.
Despite his internal sarcasm, he felt genuinely moved. Gordon didn't know he was favored by the world's will, yet despite the danger, he gritted his teeth and charged in.
This man might not be popular in the precinct, but he was a true backbone when trouble hit.
The men in the Dodge below kept yelling something like, "Take out that tail!" and didn't notice the upstairs.
Jay leaned out of the window slightly and shot the machine gunner in the head.
The PKM mounted on the pickup looked fierce, but the operator's fatality rate was shockingly high.
African warlords use this tactic because the 'consumables' are cheap, and they probably don't have to pay compensation when they die.
When used by gangs in a city, it only reaches maximum effectiveness when coordinated with others.
If they had arrived earlier, blocking the escape route when the ambush began, everyone present would now be full of holes.
But now, having been delayed by Gordon, the situation immediately shifted.
Although the remaining four men in the truck still packed a punch, they were now caught in a pincer movement.
However, they didn't panic much. The two remaining AKM-wielding gunmen in the truck bed immediately raised their rifles and sprayed the upper floor.
The 7.62mm rounds sent concrete and wood splinters flying from the window, but Jay, adhering to the hit-and-run principle, had already darted into another room.
A firefight had also started downstairs. The driver and the passenger of the pickup, gripping their weapons, charged toward the stairwell.
However, in the close-quarters of the narrow space, their weapons had no advantage over the MP5s.
Both sides fought cautiously. For a moment, shadows flickered throughout the building, and gunfire echoed everywhere.
"Damn it!"
Jay's mind was also in chaos. Cursing seemed like the only decent way to vent. The battle had completely devolved into a mess.
He ran from one room to another, taking a quick potshot at the pickup truck. But it was too dangerous to peek out and aim accurately when facing prepared automatic rifles.
He didn't want to die gruesomely for the Gotham PD.
He still had a flashbang clipped to his lower back, but there wasn't a good opportunity to use it… Hmm? What is this!
In the closet of the second-to-last room on the third-floor corridor, he found a stack of about a dozen plates. Some were intact, some were cracked.
But what did that matter? Throwing weapons counted as cold weapons, right?
He carried the plates back to the window closest to the Dodge pickup and sat down in a corner.
He put down the semi-automatic rifle, took off the Remington from his back, then grabbed a plate and threw it out the window.
Bang! Bang!
Smash!
The gunmen below subconsciously fired a few shots, hitting the side of the window frame.
By the sound of it, the plate shattered in the truck bed, followed by angry shouting.
Jay smiled from his corner, waited a few seconds, grabbed a second one, and threw it out.
This time, there was only a smash, and no shots fired below.
Then the third, the fourth…
He varied the force slightly each time.
The plates either hit the truck, the ground, or one even landed on a gunman's head.
Other than curses and a few annoyed bursts of suppressive fire, they stopped wasting bullets.
When he finished throwing the ninth plate, he pulled out the flashbang, flicked off the safety pin, and tossed it out the window.
The flashbang wasn't particularly effective in an open area, but based on his plate-throwing practice, he knew the location of the two remaining men, and the Decathlon throwing skill ensured accuracy.
This one accurately landed diagonally above the heads of the two gunmen.
Jay lowered his body in the room, opened his mouth, and firmly covered his ears.
He heard a sharp, air-tearing bang outside, and the light briefly flared, as if a small sun had risen on the ground.
He felt like someone had rung a war drum inside his head. His eardrums vibrated and buzzed, like a swarm of bees had flown in.
But his head wasn't spinning. He immediately jumped up and darted to the window, finding the two gunmen had dropped their weapons and were writhing and howling on the ground, clutching their eyes.
Follow protocol and go handcuff them? He didn't have time for that. The Remington 1100 spat out a curtain of lead. Shredded flesh and blood splattered in the pale afterglow.
As he fired, Gordon was desperately running toward their location.
To avoid being accused by the righteous officer of "excessive force against incapacitated suspects," Jay skipped the coup de grâce on the two gunmen.
They were already full of holes; whether they died now or later made little difference.
The gunfire downstairs had momentarily stopped but started up again. However, the two gunmen attacking the stairwell seemed frantic and less determined.
Jay turned and left the room. His ears felt submerged, and he couldn't hear clearly. He knew this was the temporary hearing loss following the flashbang. Although it would recover in a few hours, he was still greatly annoyed.
"Damn it, I risk my life out here and end up temporarily disabled myself."
And since he had thrown the flashbang himself, his frustration had nowhere to go.
Should have brought tactical headphones!
There was a slight popping sound outside. By the rhythm, it sounded like a pistol, and there were shouts back and forth. But the voices seemed to waver, and he couldn't make them out.
Knowing the people downstairs were likely in the same condition as him, Jay felt much more balanced. He cautiously peeked around the stairwell entrance and found the gunfire below had stopped.
"Is anyone still alive?"
He slowly walked down the stairs, maintaining an alert posture, yelling as he went.
Fortunately, he had a large physique, a strong chest resonance, and a loud voice. After a few calls, a head poked out from an adjacent room.
It was one of Falcone's men.
"That's the classic way to get yourself killed. What an idiot."
He muttered internally, then shouted, "Where's the other one?"
The Falcone man also walked out with his gun raised and yelled, "Marco is dead." He pointed to the other side of the hallway.
Jay turned, ducking behind the wall, and saw a body lying by a doorway. The blood beneath the body hadn't congealed; it looked like he had been hit by a ricochet.
"OK, go guard Hargrove, Antonio."
"I'm not Antonio, I'm not Italian. I'm Troy." The gunman shouted, staring blankly at him for a moment, then eventually turned and walked deeper into the stairwell.
"Whatever your name is."
Jay muttered. He was still uneasy because he didn't know where the two pickup truck gunmen who had attacked the stairwell had gone.
Just then, a familiar phrase was shouted from outside the building.
"GCPD! Everyone inside, drop your weapons and surrender immediately!"
"Is that Sergeant Gordon? I'm Patrolman Jay Li from the East Precinct."
He yelled at the top of his lungs, cautiously walking out. He saw James Gordon aiming his gun at the stairwell entrance. A body lay beside him, and another person was trussed up with zip ties.
Oh, ho. You can always count on Gordon's skill and efficiency.
Seeing his uniform, Gordon lowered his gun, rubbing his ears. "Is anyone else inside?"
"There are two more inside. Falcone's men, but not enemies." Jay also put down his gun and yelled. "They're all yours."
"That's against regulations. They haven't been questioned or processed," Gordon yelled forcefully. "Damn it, which bastard threw that flashbang?"
"The bastard right in front of you! If it weren't for him, you'd still be out there performing tumbling acrobatics." Jay also kept rubbing his ears, then turned to walk upstairs.
"Where are you going?"
"My rifle is still up there. I need to get it back. You wait here." Jay turned and yelled, pointing upstairs. "It's a new gun."
A moment later, he ran down with two rifles slung over his back and yelled again, "Troy! Troy! It's clear!"
Two men hesitantly walked out. Jay swiftly strode over and signaled for Troy to put away the MP5 he had been pointing at Hargrove's back.
"These are all concerned citizens who helped report the crime. They're all yours." Jay pointed to the Chevrolet in the distance. "There's an injured colleague over there. I need to go check on him."
Gordon knew the situation was a chaotic mess, and he would likely be made a scapegoat again.
But upon hearing there was an injured officer, he immediately nodded resolutely and yelled, "No problem! I'll take care of things here. Go quickly!"
——————
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