Although stun grenades are non-lethal weapons, they do explode and can easily ignite flammable materials like gasoline. In contrast, ordinary bullets, even if fired directly at a fuel tank, have difficulty igniting gasoline, as gasoline has a flash point of 427 degrees Celsius.
With the help of the accelerant, the fire quickly spread, blazing up the wooden staircase all the way to the second floor and then through the corridor into the front hallway.
The old police station itself contained numerous flammable materials: lounge chairs in the hallway, various office furniture, and even the partitions in the office area.
The two-man team that had just entered through the main entrance, carrying bulletproof shields, retreated even faster than they had entered. Soon, ropes were being dropped from the second-floor roof.
The remaining five commandos were forced to climb down the already scorching exterior wall, not even bothering to take their companions' bodies with them.
A middle-aged white man, seemingly in his fifties, with only a hint of gray at the temples, stood beside the GMC, his hands behind his back, frowning at the scene before him.
He had a cigarette dangling from his lips. If Ronik were here, he'd instantly recognize him as Marcus Duval, who had appeared in the news earlier that day.
"Sir, this fire might attract the fire department," an African-American officer who had just evacuated the house trotted over to him.
Duval discarded his cigarette butt and stomped it out. After a moment's thought, he picked it up from the snow and stuffed it into his pocket. "Yes, we need to act quickly."
—Five
minutes earlier, Ronik and Bishop descended the rusty extension ladder into the basement. They saw veteran officer Jasper, with the help of others, clearing a metal rack.
The rack was cluttered with debris and covered in dust, making Alex and Alice cough. The seriously injured and unconscious African-American state trooper, Jeffrey, had regained some consciousness and was leaning against the wall, breathing heavily.
"Where's Officer Nolan?" Ronik asked hurriedly, not seeing John in the small basement.
Alice looked at him, a little puzzled. "Wasn't he with you guys just now?"
"Come help," Jasper said, searching under the iron scaffolding with a flashlight. He finally breathed a sigh of relief. "It's right there. Help me move this damn thing."
Bishop, still quite strong, stepped forward and toppled the scaffolding. Jasper kicked aside a few broken cardboard boxes and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw a manhole cover underneath.
"Right, that's it," Jasper said, trying to pull it open, but it wouldn't budge.
"I think you'll need this," John's voice called from behind them, a short crowbar in his hand.
"Thank God," Ronik took the crowbar from him and handed it to veteran officer Jasper. "Where were you?"
John smiled, flashing his phone. "Jack asked me to gather some evidence. We can't take the body, but after tonight, we can't rely solely on confessions to indict Marcus Duval and his men, can we?"
"Well done." Ronik's words were barely finished when veteran officer Jasper pried open the manhole cover with his crowbar. A faint, rancid odor instantly filled the basement.
No one covered their noses. Instead, everyone present, including the two beautiful women, smiled with hope.
The old manhole was practically dry, and even halogen lamps provided a dim glow every few meters. Bishop, deliberately walking at the end, surveyed his surroundings with suspicion, only to attract John, who looked back at him from the front, to ask curiously.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing, let's get going." Bishop shook his head. He couldn't put his finger on what was wrong, but his years of gang experience, years of navigating the border between life and death, subconsciously reminded him that they hadn't truly escaped.
The sewer was nearly six feet high, allowing most of the group to pass through with ease by simply ducking their heads. It was also wide enough for two people to walk side by side, allowing John to single-handedly support State Trooper Jeffrey.
Because of the serious injuries and the fear of making too much noise, it took them over twenty minutes to reach the end of the sewer. After turning the final bend, they found several ladders made of rusted steel bars fixed to the wall.
Peering up along the rusted steel bars, they saw a round manhole cover, marking the end of the sewer.
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"I'll do it." Sergeant Ronik, still leading the charge, handed the flashlight to veteran officer Jasper and climbed up the rusted steel bars. When he reached the top, he carefully used the muzzle of his AR-15 to pry open the manhole cover.
A pile of snow fell, dripping onto Ronik's collar and transforming into icy water, which actually lifted his spirits. Outside, besides the still howling wind, the only sound was the rustling of falling snowflakes.
Ronik struggled to move the manhole cover and peered around, finding himself in a factory complex with a forest nearby. He struggled to orient himself, finally spotting a distant red glow behind him and breathing a sigh of relief.
"Alright, no one's around. We're safe."
Everyone climbed out of the sewer one by one: Ronik, veteran officer Jasper, Capra, Alice in the middle, and Alex, the psychiatrist, followed by the prisoner, Black Girl.
It took quite a while to get the seriously injured State Trooper Jeffrey out of the sewer, but thankfully, John and Bishop, the last two in line, were both incredibly strong.
"Be careful,"
John offered, reaching out to pull Bishop back, but Bishop, once out of the sewer, still clung to him.
"What?" Before John could react, his right hand was twisted behind his back, and the muzzle of a gun, colder than a human heart, was pressed against his waist.
"Don't move Officer Nolan, I'm sorry." Bishop restrained John, slowly pulling the AR-15 from his shoulder, then pulled out his sidearm and tossed it into the snow.
"You son of a bitch!" Veteran Officer Jasper angrily drew his gun and pointed it at Bishop. Ronnick, who had been standing with his back to the others, also turned and pointed his gun at the gang leader, his eyes tinged with anger and disappointment.
"Don't worry, I won't hurt Officer Nolan. He just needs to walk with me a little. Just don't follow him." Bishop led John back two steps, putting some distance between them.
"Drop your weapons, gentlemen. I think this may be a happy ending."
Bishop's words had barely escaped his lips when John, who was being strangled by his neck, chuckled. "Bishop, Jack told you who he was, right?"
"Yes, he said he was from the FBI in New York, and he wasn't here for me."
Bishop felt a vague sense of unease. Of course, any kidnapper would feel uneasy if their hostage suddenly laughed, but right now, his unease wasn't directed at the middle-aged man in his custody, but at the young FBI agent who was now nowhere to be found.
"He did say you weren't his responsibility, but do you know the name of the task force he led?" John laughed until his crow's feet appeared.
"What are you talking about?" Bishop instinctively glanced behind him, fearing Jack would suddenly appear.
"His action group is called the 'Most Wanted Team', so what you are doing now is turning yourself into his target."
However, before Bishop could react to the meaning of his words, John's smile froze on his face, because suddenly several pieces of white cloth were lifted up in the snow around them, and the black muzzles of guns were pointed at everyone at the scene.
"Don't move!"
"Drop your weapons! Get on your knees!" Several more black police officers emerged from hidden corners and pointed their guns at those who thought they had escaped.
"Damn it!" Ronnick, who was surrounded in the middle, threw away his assault rifle angrily, kicked up a puff of snow with resentment, and was then forcibly pressed to the ground.
Bishop, who was still in the hostage posture, was poked in the head with the muzzle of a gun and had to raise his hands and kneel on the ground, because those who surrounded them obviously did not care about the life or death of the hostage in his hands.
(End of this chapter)