Chapter 1044: New Year’s Snowy Night (Final) (Patreon)

In some realism-heavy war games, there's a "spotting" mechanic—once a teammate spots the enemy, their red marker appears on everyone's minimap. But in reality, to replicate something like that, you'd need radios, a solid sense of direction, and clear verbal communication.

Off in the distance, the horizon had started to brighten ever so faintly with dawn. But within the woods, a different world remained—no more snowfall, just a thin veil of mist weaving through the trees. The dim light, the skeletal branches and trunks that provided ample cover, and now the haze, made it so even with night vision, Duval and his men didn’t dare spread out too far.

Ronick and Bishop were doing their best to hide their tracks, but in snow, completely avoiding footprints was practically impossible. Duval’s three remaining men spread out in a fan-shaped formation, just five or six meters between them. Duval, armed with only a sidearm, stayed in the rear.

“Stop!” said the black-clad officer in the middle, raising his hand to signal the others.

“What is it?” Duval huffed up the slope, stumbling through snow.

“They’re still together.” The officer pointed to the scattered tracks beneath a large tree. “Looks like they stopped here for a bit to rest.”

“Catch up. Kill them before they leave the woods.” Duval’s well-maintained face twisted into a cruel sneer. The three men gave a short nod and jogged forward, following the twin trail of footprints.

——

Ronick had picked the largest tree in the area to lean against, counting the thud of his own heart.

Adrenaline’s a hell of a thing. After a few surges in a single night, your body stops seeing it as an emergency and just starts treating it like... background noise.

He’d had guns to his head before tonight, but even then, he hadn’t felt this tense. John’s dramatic antics back at the precinct had made that moment feel almost surreal.

But choosing to act as live bait—willingly becoming a decoy—that wasn’t about his marksmanship. It was about his guilt. Ronick didn’t want another death on his conscience because of his orders.

Eight months ago, a split-second command during a drug bust had gotten both of his partners killed. Though Internal Affairs and everyone around him had assured him the call had been justified and that Carole and Tony were simply unlucky, Ronick never forgave himself.

He had developed PTSD, haunted by guilt and endless doubt. Not everyone was built to be a general, to count lives as numbers on a report. What saved him was a committed therapist—Alex. And finally, on New Year’s Eve, he’d sworn off alcohol, tossed the painkillers, and decided it was time for a new beginning.

Then came this wonderful little disaster.

Ronick knew his leadership since arriving at Precinct 13 had been a joke. The place was falling apart before he even got there. So when Jasper betrayed them all, Ronick felt nothing but calm. Maybe it was karma. Maybe this was just how it was supposed to end.

So when Bishop asked him to make a call, Ronick picked the riskiest option. If someone had to die for his orders again, this time it’d be him.

The crunching of snow was getting louder. He peeked out from behind the tree—misty white nothingness.

Gritting his teeth, he sprang from behind the trunk and unloaded his suppressed AR-15 in the direction of the sound. The shots didn’t carry far, but the flashes gave away his position. Bullets slammed into trees and snow, drawing immediate return fire.

Ronick emptied the mag, tossed the rifle, and ran like hell. Rounds peppered the snow behind him. Just ahead was the fallen tree he’d chosen earlier—thick and wide enough to block bullets.

With a running leap, he launched himself into the air, imagining himself landing like Jack had done so effortlessly.

“Pfft!”

A round struck his right thigh, punching through meat and exiting the other side.

“Ughh...” Ronick collapsed behind the log, curling into a ball and gasping through gritted teeth.

Bullets thudded into the tree. Some embedded themselves deep; others tore through thinner wood and zipped past his face into the snow.

Pinned, outnumbered, wounded—he was stuck.

The three black-clad men advanced cautiously in a fan, rotating reloads, laying down suppressing fire. They didn’t notice that they were closing the gap between themselves.

As they passed what looked like a random snow pile supported by dry brush, the "pile" erupted. Bishop sprang up like a pissed-off bear rudely woken mid-hibernation and emptied his AR-15.

“Ahh!”

Two of them dropped in screams and spasms. Bishop didn’t wait—he reloaded on the spot and strode up to the one still twitching.

“Where’s Duval?” he asked the blood-soaked man.

The black-clad officer gurgled blood, staring past Bishop.

Something was off.

Bishop turned—too late.

Bang! Duval shot him in the gut.

The big man staggered and collapsed against a tree, sliding down into the snow.

The wily Duval had used his men as bait, trailing quietly behind them. He didn’t rush in to help when the gunfire started. No, he waited. And when the moment came, he struck like a hawk swooping in.

“Look at you now, Bishop.” Duval sneered, kicking away his gun and squatting in front of him. “This is where it ends for you.”

Bishop chuckled, blood bubbling at his lips. “And you, dear Marcus? You think killing me saves you? You think the feds don’t know? Jasper didn’t tell you? There was an FBI agent inside that precinct.”

Duval’s eyes widened. His composure cracked.

Keeping his gun on Bishop, he muttered, “Thanks for the reminder. I’ll be leaving the country soon. As for you... time to die.”

“Drop it!” Ronick limped into view, bleeding heavily, gun raised and shaking.

Duval slowly turned, keeping his pistol on Bishop. “What are you waiting for? Shoot him!” Bishop roared.

“Shut up!” Ronick shouted back. Then, steadying his aim, he started reading Duval his Miranda rights.

“You have the right to remain silent...”

Duval burst out laughing. “Are you seriously doing this? You’re reading me my rights? After everything?”

“Are you really gonna shoot me, Chief? A fellow cop?”

Ronick stared at him. “After what you did, there’s only one cop here. And two criminals.”

“Drop the gun. You’re under arrest. And you’re disgusting.”

“I decline,” Duval said—

But before the final word could leave his lips, a lazy voice cut in.

“Actually, there are three cops here.”

Duval spun around, startled—his aim wavered.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Ronick fired three shots. Duval jerked, staggered, and collapsed. His gun fired reflexively, the shot nicking Bishop’s ear and burying itself in the tree behind.

“Chief!” Iris came stumbling out of the trees, throwing an arm around Ronick.

Bishop groaned, pushing himself upright, and gave Ronick the finger. “Fuck you, Chief. I’ve never seen a more pansy-ass shooter in my life.”

Ronick smirked. “I’m surprised you didn’t beat me to it.”

Jack walked up, smiling. “I never steal the spotlight from a guy in front of his girl.”

Iris punched Ronick in the shoulder. “You were badass back there. I didn’t even recognize you.”

Ronick winced. “Told you I’d change. Got a smoke? My painkillers are gone.”

“Last one.” Iris handed him a crumpled lady's cigarette. “I really shouldn’t have sworn to quit.”

Jack fished out a small box. “Cigarettes and cigars are technically different words. Loophole.”

He tossed a cigar and lighter her way.

Then he turned to Bishop, who had started to edge away. “Not planning to say goodbye?”

Bishop scowled. “Can’t you pretend you didn’t see me?”

Jack shrugged. “You’re not my responsibility. But if you try to walk out of here, I’ll spend my New Year’s Eve chasing your ass down.”

He grabbed Bishop by the arm. “Need a lawyer? I know a guy.”

——

After the storm, the sky was painfully clear, almost too clean—like the wind had wiped it down.

Morning light filtered through the trees, but it brought little warmth. Post-snowfall chill was always worse than the fall itself.

13th Precinct still smoked in the distance. Snowplows, fire engines, and DPD vehicles lined the street. A black Suburban pulled up.

An FBI agent in a black suit approached. “Supervisor Tavore? I’m Agent Rory McCoy. Are you alright?”

Jack had barely smoked half his cigar. He handed off a cuffed Bishop to EMTs before shaking hands.

“Thanks for the backup. Happy New Year.”

McCoy blinked, caught off guard by the greeting. “Uh… Happy New Year?”

“I’ll file a full report later. I’ve got a few people to check on—”

Jack trailed off. Alex was waving from a nearby ambulance, behind her John lay face down, bandaged and grumpy.

“Jeffrey’s already been airlifted to the hospital. John refused to leave until you showed up.”

Jack nodded. Jeffrey—right, the state trooper. Guy had made it. Barely.

Ronick was loaded into the ambulance too. At Alex and Iris’ insistence, everyone piled in and rode to the hospital together.

Clean-up. IVs. Stitches. Ronick and John were admitted. Iris stayed behind to care for them. Jack, meanwhile, answered call after call in the waiting room until his eyes were bloodshot.

He was seriously considering swiping a sedative and checking into a hotel when Alex approached, looking suspicious.

“Professor Cahill just called me. She said... you might need some help?”