Chapter 1039: New Year’s Snowy Night (Part 19) (Patreon)

“They’re dead for sure.” Though Bishop said it with certainty, his eyes remained locked on the two figures who had just reached the vehicle.

The sniper didn’t fire. Incredibly, the two managed to start the car.

The vehicle turned around, aligned with the road, and headed out—still, no gunshots. From their positions behind the windows, everyone watching felt a tiny flicker of hope.

Soon, the entire group had gathered in the precinct lobby, peering out from behind various windows at the Ford van driving eastward down the road, with the junkie at the wheel.

“Maybe they really will make it out,” Iris whispered, nervously clasping her hands in front of her chest, as if praying.

Officer Jasper spat in frustration. “I’ll bet those two cowards won’t even bother to call for help if they do.”

John, however, pointed grimly toward the two GMCs in the distance. The vehicles weren’t moving. Not even their headlights were on.

The Ford van picked up speed, gaining distance. Jack could even see the junkie excitedly pounding on the steering wheel.

Then, a strange engine sound came from the sky. A low, pulsing thump-thump that seemed to resonate in everyone’s chest, bringing with it an inexplicable sense of dread.

The previously weakening blizzard suddenly intensified—but oddly, the wind didn’t seem to come from any particular direction. It came from above.

A blinding column of light shot straight down onto the van. Everyone looked up along the beam. A helicopter had descended into low flight overhead.

It was a Subaru Bell 412EPX, decked in police livery. Jack recognized it immediately—NYPD had just purchased two of them this year for search-and-rescue and rapid support missions.

“Shit—they called in ‘A.V-5’!” Ronick exclaimed.

Jack didn’t know what “A.V-5” meant, but he could guess it was the codename for some kind of elite airborne assault or support team under the Detroit PD.

Before the stunned eyes of everyone in the precinct, the police helicopter hovered steadily above the road, turned sideways, and then the side door was yanked open.

Of course, this being a police helicopter, it didn’t have a mounted door gun. But two riflemen opened fire, and with the Ford’s windshield already shattered, the vehicle barely lasted three seconds before veering off the road and crashing into a drainage ditch.

In reality, 5.56mm rounds aren’t strong enough to “explode” a car. The shooters on the chopper didn’t waste extra ammo—they simply used the spotlight to maintain visibility.

From the precinct, they couldn’t see exactly what was happening down below, but when gunfire sparked again from within the chopper’s cabin, the fate of the junkie and Smalley was no longer in question.

“Well, at least now we know what Marcus Duval and his people were waiting for,” John said with a deep sigh, watching as the helicopter turned in their direction.

Moments later, the rotors could be heard overhead, and the distant GMCs flicked on their headlights and began driving slowly toward the station.

“Jack, what now? Stay put in the building?” Bishop immediately looked to him.

“What else? Go out there just to get picked off like turkeys?” Jack shot a glance at Ronick and, seeing the young sheriff frozen in panic, stepped forward and took command.

“Bishop, get people collecting anything flammable. Alcohol, gas—whatever you can find. Pile it all on the stairway landing between the first and second floor.

Sheriff—find somewhere safe for everyone. This precinct does have a basement, right?”

Using fire as a diversion and hiding in the basement wasn’t ideal. Civilian basements usually have basic fire resistance, but the risk of suffocation remained.

Ronick looked helplessly at Officer Jasper—clearly, this acting chief hadn’t been here long and didn’t know the building well.

“There is one. Under the storage room. Damn—I just remembered something. There might be an old sewage line under the basement.”

Jasper smacked his forehead, then quickly added when everyone turned to him, “I honestly forgot, okay? Too much shit’s happened tonight. And don’t get your hopes up—I don’t even know where that sewer leads.”

“Doesn’t matter. Iris, take everyone to the basement. John, you’re with me,” Jack ordered, giving a few quick pats to shoulders and waving everyone into motion.

By the time the sounds of something—or someone—breaking apart the ventilation shafts overhead grew loud, John had disappeared from Jack’s side.

The stairwell platform was already stacked high with jars, bottles, and containers—filled with anything flammable they could scavenge. Even a half-empty bottle of vintage Irish whiskey from the earlier party had made it into the mix.

Bishop and Ronick crouched on either side of the hallway, ears tense, listening to the noise from above.

“Here.” Jack handed them his last two spare mags. “You guys can go. Leave this part to me.”

“You sure?” Ronick asked, clearly worried.

“Don’t worry about me—I’ve got my own way out.” Jack waved them off like he was in a hurry.

Outside, the two GMCs had arrived at the entrance. Their headlights shut off—and then came the dull thud of smoke grenades smashing through the front windows and hissing into the lobby.

“Be careful,” Ronick said, his voice thick with emotion. His eyes were suspiciously moist, and after one final glance, he turned and ran.

Bishop followed, then paused when Jack grabbed his arm.

Startled, Bishop turned to look at this enigmatic FBI agent—just as he felt something heavy slip into his jacket pocket.

“Be careful,” Jack said quietly before bounding up the stairs, taking them three at a time.

Bishop stared after him for a long moment, then as if waking from a dream, turned and ran after Ronick.

The Subaru Bell 412EPX could carry a pilot, co-pilot, and a twelve-man tactical team, all heavily armed.

Jack didn’t know if every last cop in Detroit had gone rogue, but even Gotham had its Jim Gordon. The men aboard that chopper? They were likely Duval’s final play before dawn.

Maybe they’d just gotten unlucky. If the blizzard had held on a little longer, the chopper might never have made it out. Everyone could’ve seen daylight in one piece.

Metal clanked above—vent shafts being disassembled, almost louder than the helicopter. Jack ignored it. The vents were wide enough for children or petite women—no way a fully kitted man could fit. They’d have to break open a full skylight.

He charged into the rearmost office, cranked up his vision enhancement, and scanned the third floor and rooftop of the building opposite. There—they were. Two snipers, hidden in place.

CRASH! The sound of shattering glass barely rose above the rooftop chaos. Neither did the gunshots that followed.

Jack fired methodically. One bullet took out the sniper on the third floor. A controlled burst eliminated the one on the rooftop.

BOOM! An explosion rocked the second floor—the roof-team had blasted open a new skylight to rappel in.

But before one of them could even drop his rope, Jack fired upward from inside. Bullets screamed through the fresh hole.

Blood sprayed. One man grabbed his throat and tumbled silently into the snow-covered roof.

“Fucking bastard!”

“Son of a bitch!”

The remaining five were visibly panicked. Flashbangs and smoke grenades rained down through the opening.

Jack didn’t care. He emptied a mag toward the skylight, then switched fire modes, slung the AR-15 onto his back, and sprinted for the stairs.

He pushed off the wall, landed gracefully on the stair platform, grabbed two bottles, and smashed them across the steps—then tossed several more into the hallway toward the front lobby.

Finally, he dropped a primed flashbang and bolted toward the temporary holding area without looking back.