Chapter 1065 Shotgun vs. Suicide Drone (Patreon)

Sniper on the left, RPG on the right, a Mk46 light machine gun up front—if you didn’t know this was midtown Manhattan, you’d think they’d been dropped into Gaza.

They couldn’t hold this position any longer.
Though the NYPD’s police helicopter circled overhead at low altitude, it wasn’t doing much good—unless Jack could fly up there with a sniper rifle strapped to his back.

The ESU teams up front were suffering heavy losses—nearly a third already down. Their line was barely holding.
The mission now wasn’t to wipe out the hostiles, but to give NYPD a window to fall back and regroup.

The two black Tahoes that had pushed forward to support the Bearcat were riddled with bullet holes, looking like Swiss cheese.
Even if the attackers had no second RPG, the cops wouldn’t last long.

But Jack was certain: they definitely had another RPG.

“Brrrt!”
The distant rattle of automatic fire echoed again.

Jack had been watching the window where the first RPG had launched.
The same militant appeared with another launcher.
Jack immediately fired a tight three-round burst.
The enemy flinched and convulsed violently.

The rocket, aimed at the ESU line, jerked upward mid-launch, streaking into the sky.

It cut a glowing arc across the air—narrowly missing the NYPD helicopter.
The startled pilot yanked the control stick, nearly slamming into a nearby skyscraper.

Bang!
A bullet struck the asphalt inches from Jack’s feet, kicking up dust.
He didn’t even blink.

“Ten o’clock, fifth floor, behind the blue curtains!” Aubrey shouted. His shooting wasn’t great, but the guy had sharp eyes.

BOOM!
BOOM!
BOOM!

A trio of thunderous cracks answered him.
Clay, now upstairs, had opened fire through the stairwell window with a Barrett .50-cal sniper rifle.

“All clear,” Clay reported calmly over team comms.

When you’re dealing with a .50-cal, there’s no such thing as cover.
Armor-piercing rounds went straight through the wall and the sniper behind it.

Jack didn’t waste a second.
“Take out the guy with the machine gun!”

But before Clay could adjust, Hannah’s voice shrieked over comms:
“Drone! Incoming!”

Before anyone could react, a tiny black blur zipped over their heads.
A split second later, an explosion rocked the building to the right—the one Clay had just entered.

Black smoke billowed from the facade, chunks of plaster and brick raining down on the sidewalk.

“Clay?!” Jack’s heart leapt.
He instinctively tried to stand and run across the street toward the building—
CRACK!
Another round hissed past, punching a clean hole into the car hood beside him.

“Another sniper! Right side!” Aubrey shouted. “Damn it, I can’t see him from here!”

The situation was spiraling again.
This was the first time any of them had encountered hostiles equipped with armed drones—specifically, kamikaze FPV drones capable of hitting speeds over 200 kph.

A moment later, Clay’s voice crackled over comms:
“Cough—I'm fine. Rifle’s trashed, though.”

Everyone exhaled.

“What the hell are we dealing with?” JJ whispered, guarding the rear with Alice.

“Professional mercs,” Clay grunted.
“That drone was meant for the ESU. I just got in the way.”

Clearly, Clay had become priority target number one—and had just taken the hit meant for NYPD’s front line.

“Tell the NYPD chopper to pull up—get everyone out of open ground!” Jack barked to Jubal.

Jubal, still crouched behind their Suburban, had been radioing HQ.
Now he relayed the warning to the helicopter, which quickly ascended to a safer altitude.

“I’ll take care of the other sniper,” Hannah declared behind Jack.
Then she bolted toward a nearby commercial building.
It was a risky move—the place was lined with large glass curtain walls, making it highly vulnerable.

She carried an HK417, just like Jack.
At 100–200 meters, she only needed the right angle to return fire—
but the building’s structure offered far less protection than Clay’s earlier perch.

“Bring the Suburban around. We need gear—and cover,” Jack said, spotting a bold opportunity.

The four-lane street was mostly clear on the far side, except for the totaled Honda Civic the Bearcat had rammed earlier.
Most vehicles had long since fled the scene.

In Manhattan, parking was allowed near sidewalks, and Jack was crouched behind one such roadside SUV.

The wrecked Bearcat and the Civic blocked one of the inner lanes, but the Suburban’s powerful engine could easily shove the Civic aside if needed.

They had already drawn most of the enemy’s fire.
The drone operator and the right-side sniper were now focused on the rear convoy.

But if the FBI didn’t act soon and that suicide drone hit the ESU front line, followed by another sniper headshot, NYPD would be wiped out.

During their earlier battle with the flatbed truck, Jack’s Yukon had taken serious damage.
But Clay’s Suburban had only suffered minor scratches at the rear.

Hearing Jack’s plan, Jubal jumped into the Suburban from the passenger side and started the engine.

As soon as it moved, it drew attention.

Bullets smacked the windshield repeatedly—
but the sniper lacked a Barrett or any anti-materiel rifle.
The Suburban’s armored glass held, peppered with white stars.

“Catch!”
Aubrey, who had jumped into the backseat during the maneuver, flung open the opposite door and tossed Jack a Benelli M4 shotgun.

Then came the telltale buzz.

That ominous whine—the sound of another suicide drone approaching.

Jack racked a shell, raised the M4, and unleashed blast after blast at the black blur arcing toward them.

BOOM!
The drone jerked midair, spun wildly out of control, and crashed into a nearby bakery.

The entire storefront erupted in flames and shattered glass.
Donuts, coffee, and pastry bits went flying in all directions.

Meanwhile, the Suburban—now reversed into position—drew more fire.
Crack! Crack!

Shards of glass sprayed Jubal’s face.
More white impact marks blossomed on the side window—
but the Suburban held.

“Smoke grenades!”
Clay rolled back across the street toward the Suburban, clutching his bleeding left arm.

“In the back!”
Aubrey was bent over the rear seats, rummaging through their gear stash.
Even knowing the car was armored, the constant metallic ping of rounds hammering the shell made him duck instinctively.

They weren’t dead yet.
But for how long?