Chapter 1040: New Year’s Snowy Night (Part 20) (Patreon)

Flashbangs might be non-lethal, but they do explode—and when mixed with gasoline or other accelerants, they can easily start a fire. In contrast, regular bullets—despite what the movies show—rarely ignite fuel, as gasoline has a flash point of 427°F (219°C).

Now, aided by accelerants, the flames spread fast, licking up the wooden stairwell to the second floor and sweeping down the hallway toward the lobby.

This old precinct was practically a firetrap: wooden benches in the halls, desks and office furniture everywhere, cubicle dividers ready to burn.

Two two-man assault teams, having just breached through the front entrance with riot shields, now beat a hasty retreat—faster than they’d entered. Meanwhile, ropes began dropping from the second-floor rooftop.

The five remaining rooftop operators were forced to rappel down along the outer wall, already hot to the touch, abandoning even their fallen comrade’s body in the process.

Standing beside one of the GMCs, hands behind his back, a white man in his fifties frowned as he watched the scene unfold. He had streaks of gray at his temples and a cigarette dangling from his mouth.

If Ronick were here, he’d immediately recognize this man—Marcus Duval, the same figure from the news broadcast earlier in the day.

“Sir, this fire might bring the fire department,” said a black cop who had just retreated from inside, jogging up beside him.

Duval dropped his cigarette, stamped it out, then—thinking better of it—picked it up from the snow and tucked it into his pocket. “Yeah. It’s time to move.”

——

Five minutes earlier, Ronick and Bishop had descended a rusty ladder into the basement, where Officer Jasper and the others were clearing off an old iron rack.

The shelves were piled high with junk, all covered in thick dust that sent Iris and Alex into coughing fits. The gravely wounded state trooper, Jeffrey, had regained a bit of consciousness and now sat against the wall, gasping for breath.

“Where’s Officer Nolan?” Ronick asked anxiously, not seeing John in the small space.

Iris blinked in confusion. “Wasn’t he with you just now?”

“Help me out here,” Jasper grunted as he shined a flashlight under the shelf. Finally, he exhaled in relief. “It’s under here—help me move this damn thing.”

Bishop, built like a tank, stepped up and shoved the whole iron rack over. Jasper kicked aside a few cardboard boxes, revealing a manhole cover beneath. He let out another breath. “This is it.”

He grabbed the cover and tried to lift it—but it wouldn’t budge.

“I think you’ll need this,” came John’s voice from behind them. He stepped forward, holding a short pry bar.

“Thank God,” Ronick said, taking it and handing it to Jasper. “Where’d you go just now?”

John smiled and held up his phone. “Jack asked me to gather evidence. We can’t take the bodies, but after tonight, we’ll need more than just witness statements to bring Duval and his people down.”

“Well done,” Ronick replied. Before he could say more, Jasper popped the cover off with a metallic clank, releasing a wave of rank, musty air into the basement.

No one plugged their noses. In fact, everyone—even Iris and Alex—smiled with real hope.

The old sewer was mostly dry, and halogen lamps—spaced every few meters—cast a dim yellow glow. Bishop, intentionally taking the rear, glanced around with suspicion. Something didn’t sit right.

“What is it?” John asked, turning back to look at him.

“Nothing. Let’s just move,” Bishop muttered. He couldn’t say exactly what was wrong, but years in the gang life and countless brushes with death had honed his instincts. They hadn’t made it out yet.

The sewer tunnel was nearly six feet tall—most could walk upright with just a slight duck of the head—and wide enough for two to walk side by side. John easily supported Jeffrey along the way.

Because of the injured man and their need to stay quiet, it took them nearly twenty minutes to reach the end of the tunnel. Around the final bend, they found a ladder made of rusty steel bars set into the wall, leading up to a manhole—their exit.

“I’ll go,” Ronick volunteered, handing his flashlight to Jasper and climbing up. At the top, he gently prodded the manhole cover open with the barrel of his AR-15.

A rush of snow dropped down his collar, shocking him awake—but outside, there was only wind and softly falling snow. No voices. No movement.

He pushed the cover aside and peered out. They were in an industrial zone, with a small forest nearby. In the distance, he saw a glow of red—likely the fire back at the precinct. He exhaled. “All clear—we’re safe.”

One by one, the group climbed out: Ronick, Jasper, Capra, followed by Iris and Alex, then the female prisoner. Getting the injured state trooper out was tricky, but with both John and Bishop helping, they managed.

“Careful,” John said, reaching back to help Bishop up the final step. But as Bishop climbed out, he didn’t let go of John’s hand.

“Huh?” John started to ask—only to feel his arm twisted behind his back. A gun pressed cold and hard against his ribs.

“Don’t move, Officer Nolan. I’m sorry,” Bishop said, disarming him with swift precision. He slung John’s AR-15 off his shoulder and tossed the sidearm into the snow.

“You son of a bitch!” Jasper shouted, drawing his weapon. Ronick spun around, also leveling his rifle at Bishop. His expression held not only fury—but real disappointment.

“Relax—I won’t hurt him. He just needs to walk with me for a bit. Don’t follow, and everyone gets to go home.” Bishop took two steps back, tightening his grip on John, creating some distance.

“Gentlemen, let’s just consider this a peaceful resolution,” Bishop added.

But John let out a soft chuckle. “Bishop, did Jack ever tell you which task force he’s from?”

“Yes. Said he’s from the FBI in New York. That he wasn’t here for me.”

Bishop felt a sudden unease—not from John, but from the fact that Jack, wherever he was now, might be much closer than he thought.

“He did say you weren’t his responsibility. But do you know the name of his task force?” John’s smile deepened, crow’s feet creasing his eyes.

“What are you getting at?” Bishop instinctively glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting Jack to appear from the shadows.

“It’s called the ‘Most Wanted Fugitive Task Force.’ So by doing this—you’re officially making yourself his target.”

Before Bishop could react, John’s smile froze. Snow around them suddenly shifted.

White tarps flipped upward, revealing the black muzzles of rifles aimed at every single person present.

“Don’t move!”

“Drop your weapons! On your knees!”

Several black-clad officers emerged from hidden positions around the perimeter, their rifles trained on the entire group—those who thought they’d finally escaped.

“Goddamn it!” Ronick cursed, tossing down his rifle in frustration. He kicked snow in fury before being slammed to the ground and cuffed.

Bishop, still holding John hostage, got a jab in the temple from a rifle barrel. He let go, raised his hands, and knelt. It was clear—these new arrivals didn’t give a damn about hostages.