Angela slipped into the inner room to check while Jack pressed his ear to the door. Voices carried down the hall, loud and confident.
"Vance says no witnesses. You two, guard the front. Leave more men in the basement. The rest, with me—upstairs!"
Jack's jaw tightened. Angela returned, whispering, "Empty house. Bars on the windows. No landline. We're trapped."
Jack stepped back from the door. "I heard them. Vance Marcus is here. This whole place is crawling. We just kicked a hornet's nest."
Angela cursed softly. The gunfire upstairs was tapering off. Not good.
"The signal jammer," Jack muttered. "They said they're leaving men in the basement. Bet it's there."
Angela's eyes lit up. "Even if it's not, the switchboard room will be. Kill the power, we kill the jammer."
"Then we go down." Jack's gaze slid to the kitchen. He rapped the wall with his Glock's butt—hollow. Ventilation shafts. John's bar chatter suddenly paid off.
Angela grinned tightly. "Next time you drink with him, take me along."
Moments later, they slipped through the service shaft into the basement. Two guards looked up too late. Muzzles flashed. Both dropped.
Angela stomped the jammer, then keyed her radio.
"This is 7-A-14! Bronson Tower, urgent—ten-plus active shooters! We need immediate backup!"
Jack cut in to the others. Hannah's panicked voice: "Bishop's hit bad. We're holed up in a resident's apartment—three trying to break in!"
Tim came next, voice strained. "We've got Thessia Olivo. Her water just broke—Lucy's delivering the baby. I'm stuck outside with Marcus and his men!"
Angela's eyes blazed. "They won't last until backup. We move now."
Jack handed her his Glock and a spare mag. "Didn't you brag about dual-wielding? I'll handle the armored ones. You clear the rest." He drew the Colt Python, its weight steady in his hands.
On the second floor, Hannah leaned against a wall, Glock trained on the splintered door. Three men outside jeered, firing bursts that sent plaster snowing across the room.
"C'mon, pretty cop! Open up—we'll treat you real nice."
Hannah ignored them, counting rounds. Her hands shook but she fired back, keeping them wary.
"Take this." Bishop, collapsed against the bedroom door, slid a magazine across the floor. Blood soaked her abdomen, the result of a shotgun blast. The elderly couple in the room pressed towels to her wounds, frantic and failing.
Her pale lips moved. "Save one bullet for me. Don't let them take me." Then she slipped into unconsciousness.
Hannah's breath caught. She was seconds from despair—until Jack's voice broke through the static.
"Hannah, hold them. Angela and I are flanking."
Her chest heaved with relief. She kicked over a vase stand, the crash echoing like panic. The gunmen laughed, pressing in.
The lead thug, armored and carrying a shotgun, reached for the door—
"LAPD! Hands up!"
The Colt Python roared. The back of his skull exploded against the wall. Angela's Glocks barked in tandem, cutting down the other two before they could turn.
Jack strode forward, cold-eyed, and put extra rounds into the fallen. He wasn't leaving questions.
"Hannah, it's clear. We're coming in."
The door opened. Hannah slid down the wall, trembling. Jack caught her, hugging her tight before kneeling by Bishop.
The old woman beside her cried, "She's fading—please, do something!"
Jack pulled out a trauma injector—naprolone. Cover story secured. At the same time, he pushed healing energy into Bishop's torn abdomen, stitching ruptured vessels, slowing the bleed. Just enough. Not too perfect. She'd live, but the doctors wouldn't get suspicious.
Bishop stirred, weak but alive. Sirens wailed outside. SWAT and reinforcements were finally here.
Angela glanced at Jack, urgency in her eyes. "She'll hold. But Tim's pinned. And Marcus—he's here for the baby."
Jack gave the old couple a firm nod. "Keep pressure on her. Help's coming." Then he and Angela turned, weapons ready. The real fight wasn't over yet.
(End of this chapter)