Chapter 1043: New Year’s Snowy Night (Part 23) (Patreon)

Afterward, Jack successfully located and, in the most literal sense, permanently disabled the signal jammer. He then called Jubal while driving around the area, searching for any trace of the others.

This was when the benefits of being in a different agency really showed. The FBI didn’t have to worry about local politics or departmental messes. Still, it was New Year’s Eve, and most of the FBI-SWAT team in the area was on leave. On top of that, the snowstorm had only just subsided. Reinforcements wouldn’t be arriving anytime soon.

Thankfully, the recent snowfall left the road riddled with clear tire tracks. Jack still didn’t know Duval had set up an ambush, but following his GMC was a sure bet. That’s how he arrived in time for John’s dramatic little stunt.

When John Nolan’s brain kicked into gear, his intelligence rivaled that of his novelist cousin back in New York. After all, it takes brains to completely change careers in your late thirties—going from construction foreman to LAPD officer.

Back in the police academy, he and Jack had competed in more than just physical training and reaction drills. There were written exams and code memorization. In nearly every category, if Jack ever let his guard down, John was right there to snatch the top spot.

So when Duval ordered everyone to remove their masks and John didn’t see Jack among them, he was sure the guy was out there, lying in wait.

——

Back in the snow-covered roads, the woman behind the wheel wasn’t the best driver. And now that the road was slick, she didn’t dare hit the gas too hard. It didn’t take long for another GMC to catch up to them.

Bullets pinged off the vehicle's frame, and the interior filled with shrieks from the women onboard.

John, blood still oozing from his bullet-wounded backside, shook off the dizziness from blood loss and fumbled for the AR-15 by his side, trying to return fire.

“I got it,” Alex said, grabbing the rifle from him. She rolled down the window and tried to lean out, but without being able to brace the weapon properly, the recoil kicked back hard. After just two shots, her wrist was injured, and the last rifle was lost—sucked under the car and gone.

Iris gave her a full-force eyeroll. Grabbing her small pistol, she leaned out and blindly emptied the mag into the air. Not a single hit. Not even a spark.

The pursuers were closing in. If they’d been aiming for the car body instead of the tires, someone inside would already be dead.

Then, out of nowhere, a DPD-marked cruiser entered the chase from behind, sirens briefly wailing to draw attention.

It pulled alongside the pursuing GMC. Inside, the black-clad officers spotted the driver—someone dressed just like them.

Impressed by their “comrade’s” expert driving, Duval’s henchman enthusiastically waved for him to surge ahead and cut off the fleeing car.

The driver leaned forward slightly and yanked down his mask, revealing a handsome, unfamiliar face with a flash of white teeth in a grin.

Before Duval’s guy could even register what he was seeing—how many teeth? Was that seven or eight?—the cruiser’s front end jerked to the side. Brakes squealed. Tires smoked.

At the perfect PIT maneuver angle, the cruiser clipped the GMC’s rear wheel.

The GMC’s rear swung out violently. The whole vehicle began to roll, flipping repeatedly on the icy road churned up by previous cars.

Jack smoothly brought the police cruiser to a stop, staring straight ahead, counting silently.

“...Four... five... six.”

Safety first. A lesson written in blood.

No one in a gunfight wears seatbelts. The speed wasn’t high, but in weather like this, even a modest flip meant the GMC vomited up everything—and everyone—it could.

“Stop! Stop!” John, peering through the shattered rear window, beat against the front seat. “It’s Jack—he’s here!”

Jack slowly rolled the cruiser forward, casually running over one of the black-clad officer’s arms—and his rifle, both crushed under the wheels.

Carefully skirting debris, Jack brought the car to a soft stop. The GMC’s doors creaked open up ahead. John leaned out with a tired grin, one hand clutching gauze to his bleeding ass, the other gripping the door frame.

“You really do have the weirdest luck,” Jack muttered, shaking his head. Thank god it was just a double-cheek injury. Four holes and he’d need a priest, not a medic.

“What about the Chief?” Iris asked, hesitating. She clearly wanted to know Ronick’s fate, but didn’t want to demand more from Jack, who’d already done so much.

“You all wait here. I’ve called in backup, but it’ll be a while before they arrive.” Jack exhaled in relief upon confirming that everyone was still alive. Then he turned and walked away without another word.

He didn’t have a magical clone skill, but Ronick ought to be able to hold out for a little longer—assuming Bishop didn’t put a bullet in his back for trying to run.

——

In the woods, Ronick tread lightly across brittle underbrush, doing his best not to leave obvious tracks in the snow. He carefully avoided snapping twigs and dry branches, hoping not to give away his position.

The snowfall here was thinner than in the open areas. Most of it clung to high branches, ready to collapse with a loud crack and a shower of snow. More than once, Ronick had been startled by just that.

Not long after entering the woods, he and Bishop had gotten separated. He didn’t know if it was intentional or accidental—but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t dwell on it now.

Ronick understood full well that, compared to professionals like Jack—or even dangerous types like Bishop—he was out of his depth. Even together, they might not stand a chance against the pursuing black-clad officers.

At times, he couldn’t help but feel like he and the rest of the precinct were just burdens in Jack’s eyes.

Gasping for breath as he leaned against a tree, Ronick suddenly heard a chilling click—a pistol’s slide racking back, loading a round.

“Hello, Chief,” came a familiar voice. Cold steel pressed to his neck.

Relieved, Ronick didn’t flinch. “You’re still here?”

“Duval’s still alive. That’s unacceptable,” Bishop replied with his usual dramatic flair—clearly emboldened by the absence of that smug, chaos-bringing FBI agent.

“You’re saying we keep working together?” Ronick asked, catching on.

“I saw them come into the woods. Counting Duval, that’s four men. We’ve still got plenty of ammo.”

Bishop holstered the pistol and held up the AR-15 across his chest. He even showed Ronick his full magazine loadout.

Ronick, though fuming from the night's endless betrayals, still had a craving for payback. But he also knew the hard facts.

“They can see us. We can’t see them.” He winced. Regret hit hard—he really should’ve grabbed a helmet with night vision when he had the chance.

“Then you get to choose,” Bishop said with a grin. “Draw their fire... or bury yourself in the snow.”

Ronick sighed. “Just don’t miss, Bishop.”