Chapter 64: Nightclub Shootout
The cops, still sweet-talking the gorgeous women draped over them, were stunned. Looking around at each other, they realized their sergeant had indeed vanished. Just moments before, he'd been sitting right next to them with some knockout brunette in a red dress.
They started scanning the room, their attention immediately drawn to the VIP section guarded by Verone's crew. Without Ron's guidance, they swarmed over there and immediately got into a confrontation with Verone's men.
However, wary of the other officers' badges, Verone's guys held back from using serious violence, just pushing and shoving. Hiding in the air duct, Ron shook his head. This wasn't going to work.
As expected, a weak leader breeds weak followers. The men under this worthless sergeant were complete amateurs. Why waste time talking? Time for action!
"What a bunch of pussies! Good thing I came prepared!" Ron looked down at the Miami PD rookies with disgust, ready to turn up the heat.
Ron pulled out a small metal cylinder labeled "M-80" that he'd picked up from a fireworks stand in Little Havana. He dropped it right at the feet of a heavyset cop.
"BANG!" The firecracker exploded, echoing like a gunshot in the narrow VIP corridor. The chunky officer, thinking he was being shot at, immediately hit the deck. Ron screamed at the top of his lungs, "Verone's guys are shooting! Draw your weapons, boys—take them down!"
Immediately, Ron fired at one of Verone's stunned enforcers. "BANG!" This time it was a real gunshot, catching the guy right between the eyes.
Both sides finally lost their cool, drawing weapons and opening fire in the cramped hallway. Several men dropped instantly, while the smart ones grabbed their fallen comrades for cover as gunfire erupted throughout the corridor.
Outside, in a command vehicle disguised as a food truck, the African-American commander's face darkened as gunshots crackled through his headset. He slammed the console and barked, "What the hell is that idiot Whitworth doing?! He started a goddamn war with Verone's crew!"
None of his agents dared speak up, and the tension was thick.
Finally, one FBI agent found the courage to ask, "Sir, what's our play? Should we send our people in to arrest Verone?"
To prevent Verone's sudden escape, the FBI had a tactical unit stationed nearby on standby. The agent was suggesting they deploy this unit.
The commander stared at the surveillance feeds in silence for a long moment before dismissing his subordinate's suggestion: "Hold position. Have your men surround the nightclub and wait for my signal. Don't move until I give the word..."
Before he could finish, he suddenly spotted an FBI SWAT operative on the surveillance monitor, moving expertly through the crossfire and helping the police team fight back against Verone's men.
After taking out the guys who'd been firing from behind cover with single shots, Ron laid down suppressing fire at the intersection, quickly burning through a magazine and smoothly reloading with a fresh one.
This almost seamless tactical movement made Ron like a one-man firebase, turning a simple pistol into the equivalent of a machine gun nest, unleashing relentless firepower at the chokepoint and pinning down Verone's crew.
With the FBI SWAT operative's support, the cops' effectiveness increased dramatically. They immediately exploited the opening Ron created and pushed into Verone's position, quickly breaking through their defenses.
The commander's eyes went wide, his finger shaking with a mix of excitement and fury as he pointed at the figure on the monitor. "Didn't I order the SWAT team to hold position? Whose man is that?"
The SWAT supervisor quickly radioed his teams, but the response confirmed that nobody had moved independently—everyone was following orders and maintaining position.
The agents in the command truck stared in shock at the active figure on their screens. What the hell! If none of their SWAT personnel had deployed, then who was that guy on the monitor?
"I... I don't know. All our people are outside. What should we do?"
"What can we do?" The commander stood up angrily. "Our cover's blown. Now everyone moves immediately. We cannot let Verone escape!"
"Yes sir!" A fully armed FBI tactical team deployed and began storming the nightclub.
Meanwhile, Ron, who'd been coordinating the police counterattack, heard the FBI SWAT deployment order through an earpiece he'd hacked into their command system. He immediately found an opportunity to slip back into the surveillance camera's blind spot and, despite his bulky gear, nimbly crawled back into the ventilation system.
Just as he'd arrived, he vanished like a ghost. The well-trained FBI tactical officers had already burst into the nightclub's main floor and were engaged in fierce combat with Verone's crew downstairs.
Verone, after all, had been a major player in Miami for years. While his people weren't elite, they were numerous, constantly emerging from every corner of the nightclub, making the FBI's assault extremely difficult.
The commander's face was grim. Unlike his men, he knew this wasn't just some routine bust—this involved a power struggle at the highest levels. His palms and forehead were slick with nervous sweat.
If Verone's evidence fell into the wrong hands, he was finished.
"Sir, our guys are getting bogged down. How about pulling some forces from the other locations?" The gunfight in the nightclub continued to rage. The commander finally made his decision and waved his hand.
"Pull all exterior units and focus everything on taking down Verone!"
Ron, who'd been monitoring the FBI command channel, finally smiled. This was his moment.
He'd already escaped the nightclub and, on the rooftop, had ditched his FBI SWAT uniform, keeping only the headset clipped to his ear.
"Thanks, Paige. Without you, I honestly don't know how I would've pulled this off." Ron said softly into the headset. "The FBI's communication system is locked down tight. I tried multiple times and just couldn't crack it."
"That just shows your methods are really subpar," a very pleasant female voice came through the headset. "To be honest, I'm not surprised. In terms of pure IQ, even that moron Sheldon is leagues ahead of you!"
Ron smirked and played it off: "Who wants to compete with you two freaks in IQ? If you've got the balls, come compete with me in track and field, swimming... any sport. Both of you combined couldn't take me."
"Poor Neanderthal, you can only regain some confidence through athletics. Speaking of sports, why don't you go compete in tree climbing with the apes at the zoo? Do you know what the biggest difference between humans and animals is?" Paige sneered mercilessly. "It's intelligence, my dear little caveman."
"Okay, okay, stop," Ron quickly cut off Paige's sarcasm. "I'm still on the job here. Can you confirm the FBI units in the projects have started pulling out?"
"Let me check," Peggy paused. "They're already moving. If you leave now, you'll probably run into them on I-95."
"Check?" Ron asked suspiciously.
"Yeah, I just temporarily borrowed a military satellite for a peek. Their people just loaded up. Any questions?" Paige said matter-of-factly.
"Nope, none at all."
Ron had nothing to say about this elite hacker who could casually commandeer military satellites except "That's badass!" At least she was on his side.
(End of chapter)
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