Chapter 1041: New Year’s Snowy Night (Part 21) (Patreon)

A GMC SUV with three bold red letters on its grille slowly rolled toward them. The group exchanged glances—every eye fixed on Bishop.

Even kneeling, the big man still towered over the others. He spat viciously at the one person still free, Officer Jasper, who stood behind Ronick.

“Jasper? You motherf— You were the mole! You sold us out!” Iris, the fiery spitfire of the group, exploded at him, hurling a stream of profanities.

Ronick, feeling Jasper’s hand still resting on his shoulder, turned back in disbelief. His expression shifted—shock giving way to a smile that was part amusement, part contempt.

“You’ve handed every last one of us over to the reaper’s blade, Jasper.”

“Go to hell, Ronick!” Jasper spat back, hawking phlegm that landed near Bishop’s boots.

“God’s my witness, I told you—'Hand that bastard over and no one else gets hurt.' I’m retired! I’m not about to die for a sack of dogshit like him.

And hey, look how it turned out—wasn’t I right? This is your fault, Sheriff!”

He punctuated the declaration by smashing the butt of his rifle against Bishop’s forehead, splitting the skin and spilling blood.

“That’s enough. He’s still more of a man than you,” Alex snapped, but was flatly ignored.

Ronick chuckled bitterly, his grin a perfect mix of mockery and self-loathing. “You’re right about one thing, Jasper. This is my fault. I actually believed you used to be a cop.”

At that moment, the GMC’s door opened. Marcus Duval, radiating the smug calm of a victor, stepped out and walked over to Jasper, giving him a subtle nod of approval.

“Go get in the car, Jasper. No need for you to see what comes next.”

Then Duval strolled toward Ronick, casting a slow gaze across the group. His brow furrowed. Just as he turned to leave, he called out to Jasper again.

“You mentioned a particularly dangerous FBI agent over the radio. Which one is he?”

“He didn’t come with us through the sewer,” Jasper said with a shrug. “That hero-complex punk stayed behind to torch the place. For all we know, he’s barbecue by now.”

Duval’s frown deepened. He lowered his head, lost in thought for a beat, then his eyes widened in alarm. He suddenly raised his pistol in a defensive stance.

“All of you—take off your masks. Now!”

The black-clad cops behind the prisoners looked at each other in confusion. The smarter ones, sensing what was happening, yanked off their masks while simultaneously aiming their weapons at those still hesitating.

Duval’s narrowed eyes scanned every face. His tension eased slightly. Thirteen men, including himself. No strangers.

Just as he prepared to give the kill order, John quietly rose to his feet during the confusion.

Earlier, he’d looked nervous. But now? Calm as ever.

“You know where your partner is?” Duval demanded. “Tell me, and I might let you live.”

He hadn’t learned the golden rule of villains yet: shut the hell up. Or perhaps he didn’t see himself as a villain at all, spouting nonsense even a blind man wouldn’t buy.

“Until yesterday, no one here knew who I was. So allow me a brief introduction,” John said with a playful grin.

Had Jack been present, he would’ve recognized that expression immediately—it was exactly the same smug smirk worn by Rick Castle back in New York.

“My name is John Nolan. LAPD. Some poor sap exiled here for pissing off the union president...”

As he continued rambling, Duval frowned and cut him off. “Officer Nolan, are you stalling?”

“Of course not. I’m almost to the good part,” John said innocently. “Let me just share a little secret with you all.”

Seeing Duval raise his pistol and aim it at his head, John quickly threw up his hands. “Alright, alright! The secret is... I have superpowers.”

“...”

A stunned silence followed.

Duval blinked slowly, unimpressed. He raised the gun higher.

“No, seriously!” John said, lowering his hands just enough to make finger-guns. “Watch! I’m not kidding!”

Then he pointed at Jasper.

“Hey, old man—BIU!”

Whoosh!

Even with the wind howling, a sharp, faint sound cut through the air. A single shot. Clean and precise.

A tiny red hole blossomed in the center of Jasper’s forehead. His face, frozen mid-sneer at John’s foolishness, dropped lifeless into the snow.

Everyone froze.

Even Bishop, who’d been reaching into his coat for the stun grenade Jack had given him, paused.

For a moment, he thought—maybe he wouldn’t have to risk it all after all.

John gave a triumphant nod, then gleefully “shot” his fingers toward the stunned black cops. “BIU! BIU! BIU!”

More sharp reports cracked through the air. Sniper fire. Accurate. Lethal.

The black cops began to fall.

“Sniper! Take cover!”

Duval screamed. Some of his men spun around, confused. Others scrambled for cover—but it was too late. In the space of a few heartbeats, three, maybe four of them lay bleeding in the snow.

“Kill them! Kill them all!”

But instead of gunfire, his order was answered by a clink. The unmistakable sound of a grenade pin being pulled.

“Close your eyes!” someone yelled.

Bishop hurled the flashbang Jack had slipped him. As it exploded, he dove for the nearest rifle in the snow.

John, meanwhile, tackled Iris and Alex to the ground. Neither wore body armor, but both instinctively shielded the injured State Trooper Jeffrey with their bodies.

Behind them, Duval fired wildly, enraged and blind.

BANG!

BOOM!

The gunshot and the flashbang’s detonation rang out together. Duval screamed, clutching his eyes, falling to his knees.

“Get to the truck! Move!”

Having caught Bishop’s earlier glance, Ronick had already prepared. He rolled through the snow, grabbed an AR-15, and opened fire at the nearest black cop.

In an open field, a flashbang loses most of its impact—but even a moment of blinding light was enough.

Those who hadn’t prepared, those who wore no eye protection—all were blind.

And most of them were the very men surrounding the survivors from the 13th Precinct.