Chapter 1042: New Year’s Snowy Night (Part 22) (Patreon)

Bullets continued to reap lives among the black-clad officers. One ricocheted off a nearby metal drum with a sharp clang, and Duval instinctively shrank back.

"Get in the car! Go! Don’t wait for us!"

Ronick and Bishop covered both flanks of the GMC. Capra, completely sobered and dragging the pain-numbed state trooper Jeffrey, was the first to reach the vehicle, yanking open the side door.

The female prisoner, still gripping the AR-15 she’d taken from the junkie earlier, fired off the rest of her magazine. Once the weapon clicked empty, she ditched it and climbed into the driver’s seat, shouting back at Iris and Alex.

"Move it!"

The two women flanked John on either side, helping him limp along. His act of heroism had come with a price—Duval’s lucky shot had hit the one part of him not covered by armor: his backside.

Ronick kept squeezing off bursts, magazine after magazine, hailing fire onto the officers hiding behind makeshift cover like oil drums. The ammo Jack had painstakingly gathered throughout the night finally showed its value.

Ronick and Bishop took turns unloading and reloading, suppressing the enemy just long enough for everyone to pile into the GMC. The engine, which had never been shut off, roared to life as it reversed, then peeled away onto the main road.

“Bastards! Sons of bitches!” Duval screamed, blinking away tears as his eyesight finally started to recover. The first thing he saw was the retreating red taillights of the GMC.

"Get in the car! After them!" At his order, three of his men scrambled toward a second GMC parked nearby.

As more of the black-clad officers recovered their vision, they began to rally. Jack’s mysterious sniper fire was terrifying, sure—but compared to a lifetime behind bars, it wasn’t enough to make them quit. They chose to fight.

Ronick and Bishop didn’t stick around either. With the others successfully gone, the two men made their own retreat into the nearby woods, covering each other as they went.

Just moments later, the battleground on the edge of the industrial zone went oddly quiet. The sniper—whoever he was—had stopped shooting. It was like he’d run out of ammo or disappeared altogether.

The Americans may lack a proverb like “never follow your enemy into the forest,” but Duval was no fool. As a commander, he had enough tactical sense.

He glanced toward the fleeing GMC, then back at the three remaining men beside him. His eyes dropped to the night-vision gear they wore. He clenched his jaw, muscles bulging.

"Come with me. We’re not letting Bishop escape."

The others? They were just witnesses. Who’d believe a bunch of people claiming Detroit cops attacked their own precinct?

Duval would shift the blame to the dead—say it was a rogue element avenging a slain colleague. At worst, he’d resign for “poor leadership.”

He didn’t care about pensions. He’d already lined his pockets over the years. With Bishop dead, public opinion might even favor him. Maybe he’d run for mayor.

But Bishop held all the evidence that could bury them. As long as he was alive, Duval and his men were doomed.

Four against two. Three night-vision units. The odds weren’t bad.

——

The mysterious sniper, of course, was Jack.

When the station went up in flames and the others fled into the sewers, he had slipped into one of the offices off the main corridor.

There, neatly arranged on a desk, lay a full set of tactical gear—uniform and all—stripped from one of the dead black-clad officers by John earlier.

Bringing John to the temporary holding area had served a dual purpose: the photos Jack took were important, sure, but the real reason was outfitting himself for infiltration.

Jack had sensed something off when the old cop Jasper “suddenly remembered” the basement sewer. After being under siege all night, a secret escape route conveniently popped into his head?

Still, the threat was real. The only reason they’d held out so long was because Duval’s teams lacked the firepower to breach the precinct’s thick brick walls. Their flashbangs and smoke grenades could be countered by covering eyes and ears, using the building’s sturdy interiors.

But the second floor? A nightmare. Just flimsy wooden dividers and wide glass panels. Old wooden floors.

Once flashbangs came in from above, anyone defending would be reduced to pure reaction—meat-shielding with sheer luck and fast reflexes, hoping to shoot first and hit an unarmored spot.

Movies often make it seem like a mattress or a wooden table can block bullets. Real life? You’d just be the first thing to get perforated—along with your “cover.”

When the junkie and the kid Smealy ran off and got themselves killed, it didn’t just hurt morale—it gutted their defensive capabilities.

Iris, Alex, and the female prisoner could shoot, sure—but barely. They were better used for early warnings at windows. In a firefight, just not shooting an ally by accident was considered a win.

Back when manpower was tight, Jack had already needed to cover both the back door and the holding area by himself. If Duval launched a full frontal and stairwell assault, the defenders would be squeezed into the front hall—a guaranteed bloodbath.

Jack’s original plan had been to set fires at key choke points, buy confusion and time, and force everyone toward the basement while he stayed behind. Then, dressed as one of the enemy, he’d play executioner, clear the intruders, and bust out the back.

But once Jasper mentioned the sewer tunnel, everyone immediately latched onto the idea of escape. No one wanted to fight anymore—not even Jack’s growing authority could change their minds.

So Jack adapted. Let them run. He stayed, not just to cover their retreat—but to infiltrate.

By the time the black-clad officers retreated from the flames, Jack—now disguised in full uniform—had blended right in.

And that’s when the downsides of blanket signal jamming really showed. With no squad comms, no one noticed a stranger in their midst. No one realized that both snipers covering the roads had already been taken out.

Duval had ordered one man to check in with the snipers and patrol units still blocking off the roads. He had no idea the guy who ran off to deliver the message... wasn't one of theirs.

Once Duval left, Jack raced to the opposite rooftop, recovered a Remington 700PD sniper rifle, and—with a pair of perfect shots—took out the two officers guarding the east and west exits.

All clean. All quiet. All part of the plan.