In some realistic war games, there's a spotting mechanic: when a teammate spots an enemy, a red dot representing the enemy is marked on the minimap and shared with all teammates.
However, to achieve this in reality, in addition to a communicator, everyone must at least know their own position and be able to accurately report it.
The distant sky was already turning pale, but within the woods, the scene was a different one. The snow had ceased to fall, replaced by a light mist.
The dim light, the dead bushes and tree trunks that provided cover everywhere, and the pesky fog meant that even with the aid of night vision goggles, Duval and his men dared not spread themselves too thin.
Although Ronik and Bishop were both consciously concealing their movements, leaving no footprints in the snow was nearly impossible.
The three black police officers separated and advanced in a fan-shaped search, each within five or six meters of the other. Duval, armed only with a pistol, lagged behind.
"Stop!" The black cop in the middle raised his right hand, signaling his two teammates to halt.
"What's going on?" Duval trotted over.
"They're still together," the cop pointed at a mess of footprints beneath a large tree. "Looks like they've been resting there for a while."
"Catch them up and kill them before we leave the woods." A fierce look crossed Duval's well-maintained face. The three cops nodded slightly and trotted after them, following the two sets of footprints.
—Ronik
chose the thickest tree in the surrounding area and leaned against it, counting his heartbeats.
Adrenaline is something the human body gets used to after a few times a night.
Even when he'd had a gun pointed at his head before, the sheriff hadn't been this nervous. After all, John's performance made the situation seem a bit unconventional.
Actively choosing to draw fire and become a sitting duck wasn't because Ronik didn't trust his marksmanship, but simply because he didn't want anyone else to die because of his decision.
Eight months prior, during an operation, two of his partners had been killed by drug traffickers because of his decision to split up and pursue the suspects.
Although Internal Affairs and others close to him had assured him that his decision, or even the order itself, was not wrong, and that his good partners, Carol and Tony, had simply been unlucky,
Ronnick inevitably suffered from PTSD. After all, not everyone could become a general and so easily dismiss the lives of his soldiers as mere casualties.
Pain and self-doubt tormented Ronnick. Fortunately, he met his dedicated psychologist, Alex, and finally, on New Year's Eve, he resolved to break with the past, the alcohol and painkillers, and embrace a fresh start.
And then this terrible incident unfolded.
Ronnick knew his performance at Precinct 13 had been disastrous, completely unbecoming of a responsible chief. But the morale within the old precinct, already on the list for dismissal, was already disunited.
Therefore, when faced with the betrayal of veteran officer Jasper at the last moment, Ronnick felt surprisingly calm. Perhaps this was the Eastern Buddhist concept of retribution, or so he thought.
When Bishop once again faced a decision, Ronik decisively chose the riskiest one. If someone was destined to die tonight because of his decision, he hoped it would be him.
The crunching sound of snow on the ground was now clear. He peeked from behind a tree, only to see nothing in the fog.
Ronik gritted his teeth, leaped from behind the tree, and began firing in the direction of the sound. The silenced AR-15's gunfire couldn't carry far in the woods, but the faint muzzle flash still gave him away.
Bullets rained down around the three black police officers, and strange noises echoed from the trees and at their feet, prompting them to fire back.
Quickly emptying a magazine, Ronik dropped the AR-15 and ran, a barrage of bullets raining down on him. Just like in Hollywood blockbusters, the speed of the soldiers' guns seemed to never match the speed of the protagonists.
Before him stood the fallen tree he had chosen earlier, its trunk thick enough to be embraced by two men. Ronik pushed his legs hard, imagining Jack's impressive leap, tracing a beautiful arc through the air.
"Puff!" A bullet struck Ronik's right leg, tearing a hole through the thigh muscle, then piercing the skin on the other side and darting free.
"Mmmmm!" Ronik clutched his leg, wincing in pain as he huddled against the tree, refusing to move.
Bullets plopped repeatedly into the trunk, some embedding deeply, others piercing the thinner section and piercing Ronik's cheek into the snow.
The sheriff was pinned to his spot by the barrage of assault rifle fire from three different rifles. Even if his thigh hadn't been hit, he'd have lost his chance to rise and flee.
The three undercover officers continued their steady advance in a fan formation, taking turns reloading and maintaining suppressive fire, oblivious to the ever-closer distance between them.
As the three passed a snowdrift seemingly supported by dry grass, Bishop, already impatient, leaped up like a raging black bear disturbed from its hibernation, cocking his AR-15.
"Ah!"
With a short, terrified scream, Bishop quickly reloaded his second magazine and approached a still-twitching black officer. "Where's Duval hiding?"
The officer clutched his bullet-ripped throat, spitting blood as he stared intently at the large black man before him.
Bishop approached him, taking in the extent of his injuries, and shot him in the head. The next moment, he realized something was amiss: the man wasn't looking at him, but at the man behind him.
"Bang!" Duval, who had appeared from nowhere behind Bishop, shot him in the stomach the moment he turned.
The large black man stumbled, slumped against a tree, and slowly slid to the ground.
The cunning Duval used three of his men as bait, following them from a distance. He picked up his pace when he heard the gunfire become unnatural, only to catch up just in time to witness Bishop's sudden murder.
He chose not to hastily shoot to rescue his men, but to watch the action unfold coldly, tiptoeing up to Bishop before striking, like a bird catching a mantis.
"Bishop, look at you, Bishop, you've finally ended up like this." Kicking the fallen gun away, Marcus Duval crouched before the gang leader, a mocking expression on his face.
"Haha," Bishop retorted, clutching his abdominal wound, even laughing. "What about you? My dear Marcus, do you think you can escape if you kill me now?
Did that spineless old bastard Jasper tell you there was an FBI agent present when you attacked the police station?"
Duval's pupils constricted, the panic on his face vanishing for a moment. Then, suppressing the urge to curse, he forced himself to calmly press the muzzle of his gun to Bishop's forehead.
"Thank you for your warning. I'll flee this country as soon as possible. As for you, just die in peace."
"Don't even think about it! Put down your weapon!" Ronick limped over to the two men and pointed his gun at Duval.
Duval, the muzzle of his gun still pointed at Bishop's head, slowly stood up and faced Roenicke.
"What the hell are you waiting for? Shoot!" Bishop, leaning against the tree trunk, roared.
"Shut the fuck up!" Roenicke yelled back even louder, then recited the Miranda warning to Duval.
"Put down the gun, Duval, you have the right to remain silent."
"Hahaha, you idiot, you actually read that to me?" Duval laughed as if he had heard a joke, but the gun in his hand remained motionless, pointed at Bishop's head.
"What if I don't? Are you going to shoot me? A lieutenant? Chief Ronik, tell me, are you really going to do that? Shoot a fellow officer?"
Ronik thought seriously, still finding it hard to understand his logic. "After what you've done, I think there's only one cop left here, and two criminals.
Put the gun down. You're under arrest. By the way, Duval, you disgust me."
"My answer is still no," Duval said, his "no" interrupted by a lazy voice.
"There are actually three cops here."
Duval turned around in horror, his gun inevitably swerving.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!" Ronik fired three times, killing Duval. A lingering reflex pulled the trigger, and the bullet grazed Bishop's ear and sank into the tree trunk behind him.
"Sheriff!" Alice, who was following Jack, sprinted towards Ronik and grabbed his arm.
Bishop, enduring the excruciating pain, leaned against the tree trunk to stand up and gave Ronnick the finger. "Fuck you, Sheriff, I've never seen a cop shoot as effeminately as you."
"I'm surprised you didn't shoot before me." Ronnick gave Jack a wry smile.
Jack smiled back. "I never try to steal a girl's chance to shine in front of someone else."
Alice punched Ronnick, causing him to grimace in pain. "Honestly, Sheriff, I couldn't recognize you just now. You were so fucking awesome, nothing like before."
"Really?" Ronnick said with a smug look on his face. "You'll get used to it. Do you have any cigarettes left? Give me one. I gave all my painkillers away."
"There's only one left. Damn it, I shouldn't have sworn off smoking." Alice fished out the crushed cigarette box from her pocket and stuffed the deformed women's cigarette into his mouth, then continued searching for a lighter.
"I think cigarettes and cigars are two different words. Maybe your New Year's pledge to quit smoking isn't so strict." Jack fished a box of cigars from his pocket and tossed it to Alice, along with a lighter.
"And you, Bishop, aren't you really going to have one?" He then looked at the large, dark-skinned man, who was about to quietly leave.
Bishop glanced at the couple, who were lowering their heads to light their cigarettes, with a hint of annoyance. "Can't you just pretend you didn't see me like they did?"
"I told you, you're not part of my purview, but if you want to leave these woods alone, I'll have to waste my New Year's vacation in this hellhole."
Jack took Bishop's arm and lifted him up. "If you need anything, I can get you a good lawyer."
—
The sky after the snowstorm was remarkably clear, as if all the clouds had been blown away by the wind.
The morning sun dispelled the mist from the forest, but it didn't feel much warmth when it fell on people. The temperature after a snowstorm is usually even lower than during the snow itself.
Not far away, Precinct 13 was still billowing with black smoke. A snowplow and several fire trucks were parked on the roadside, while more DPD cars and a black Suburban were approaching.
A man in a black suit and several other officers approached the four men emerging from the woods. Seeing their distressed appearance, he hesitated to speak.
"Supervisory Agent Tavoler? I'm Agent Rory McCoy. Are you alright?"
Jack, his cigar less than half smoked, handcuffed Bishop and handed him to two paramedics carrying a stretcher before offering a handshake.
"Thank you for your support, and Happy New Year."
While it was still the traditional scenario of reinforcements arriving after the incident was resolved, to be fair, arriving at this speed in such dreadful weather was a remarkable feat, and Jack had no reason to complain.
"Uh, Happy New Year."
Seeing this young colleague, at least a generation younger than him but two levels higher in rank, suddenly say this, the agent was a bit stunned, and it took him a while to remember what to say.
"There are still some issues to confirm. I don't know."
"I'll submit a full report later. I have a few companions." Jack had barely finished his words when he saw Alex, clad in a firefighter's uniform, waving at him.
Behind her was an ambulance, and the man lying facedown inside must have been John.
"Jeffrey has been taken to the hospital by helicopter, and John insisted on staying to wait for you."
Jack's mind raced before he realized that Jeffrey must be the black state trooper he had rescued, the lucky one who had managed to hold on until help arrived.
They loaded Ronnick into the ambulance, and at Alex and Alice's insistence, they all squeezed together and rushed to the hospital.
After the debridement, intravenous drips, and sutures, Ronnick and John remained hospitalized, with Alice accompanying them. Jack, who had been taking numerous calls in the waiting area, was already fidgeting, his eyes red.
Just as he was considering stealing two tranquilizers from the hospital and then finding a hotel to get himself an injection, Alex, who had also just finished a phone call, approached Jack with a suspicious look on her face.
"Professor Cahill just called me. She said you might need some help."
Happy National Day, everyone! Long live the motherland!
(End of this chapter)