Evening settled like a bruise over South Klontal Park. The villa glowed faintly behind its shuttered windows, but the real heat came from the cordon wrapped tight around it.
The LAPD had deployed as if going to war. Dozens of officers crouched behind their vehicles, rifles steady, ceramic-plated vests biting into their shoulders. Overhead, the thump of rotors warned that even the sky had eyes tonight.
Two SWAT armored vehicles inched forward, battering rams fixed to their snouts like steel tusks. Hondo's team fanned out, their black silhouettes gliding with mechanical precision. The K9 handlers kept their restless dogs in check. Even the bomb-sniffing units—jokingly dubbed "Paw Patrol"—had been called in, a reminder of just how ugly this siege could turn.
Jack crouched beside his squad car, M16 hugged tight, the red-dot sight glowing faintly. Four magazines sat lined in his vest. He had fought hard for this rifle upgrade, burning precious system coins to raise his skill level. Tonight should have been his chance to prove it.
But as he watched Hondo's men advance, he realized something bitter: if Cole Midas, that idiot son of the Southern Front's kingpin, had the sense to surrender, all his preparations would mean nothing.
Angela slid in beside him, Beretta snug at her hip, her eyes hard. Across the road, Tim and Lucy mirrored their formation. Four cars, two rows, tire-shredders laid across the asphalt—the choke point was ready.
"Eyes open," Angela murmured, watching the villa through her scope.
Jack just grunted. He hated being sidelined, hated watching others breach and storm while he sat waiting for scraps.
The Breach
Gunfire shattered the quiet. Muzzle flashes sparked from the villa's windows, wild and panicked. SWAT snipers perched in a water tower a hundred meters out answered with cold precision, pinning the shooters back.
Gray barked orders from cover behind a line of patrol cars, his gruff voice cutting through the chaos. Officers squeezed off bursts, laying suppressive fire, their brass casings clattering against pavement.
Then—boom!
The armored vehicles hit the walls. Steel battering rams punched through plaster like fists through paper. Concrete dust plumed. Stun grenades followed, detonating with ear-splitting cracks. The villa shuddered, and then the gunfire inside faltered.
Jack exhaled, tension bleeding out. Looked like SWAT had it under control. He even reached for his binoculars, hoping for a glimpse of the takedown.
That's when the hair on his neck prickled. A presence. A gaze.
He froze, sweeping the hill beyond the villa, seven or eight hundred meters out. Sparse trees, dry brush. Nothing obvious. But the feeling clung like static, crawling under his skin.
Angela noticed. "What's wrong?"
"Feels like we're being watched," Jack muttered. He scanned the ridge again. Nothing. No glint of glass, no movement. Still, the sensation wouldn't fade.
The Breakout
Inside the villa, silence settled. The shooting had stopped. Jack lowered the binoculars, ready to relax.
Then the world split apart.
A deafening blast rocked the front of the villa. The garage door blew outward like a peeled tin can, and from the smoke thundered a beast.
A military Humvee.
Not civilian. Not imitation. Real Army steel, desert paint scarred by hasty welding, armor plates bolted on like scabs. And mounted on top, the unmistakable silhouette of an M2 Browning.
The heavy machine gun roared. Thoom-thoom-thoom-thoom! Bullets the size of Jack's thumb shredded the police line. Cars disintegrated under the onslaught, hoods peeled open like paper, windshields spiderwebbed, sirens wailed in protest before dying under the storm. Officers scrambled, diving for their lives.
For three seconds the .50 cal spat hellfire. Then—one sharp crack. The sniper in the water tower did his job. The gunner slumped, his skull opened, the Browning silenced mid-belt.
But the Humvee didn't stop.
The monster plowed forward, sparks flying as 5.56 rounds pinged harmlessly off its armored hide. Patrol rifles were toys against it. Even Jack's carefully-placed bursts only peppered the bulletproof glass with pale spider cracks. The windshield narrowed to a slit, and Cole—or whoever drove—wasn't slowing down.
The Charge
"Clear the road!" Jack barked. He and Angela scrambled back, waving officers to their cars. The four Ford Explorers blocking the highway weren't obstacles; they were coffins waiting to be crushed.
Engines revved, tires screeched, and the blockade peeled away just as the Humvee thundered through. The tire shredder clanged uselessly under its wheels, sparks spraying. Jack swore—yes, the tires deflated, but Humvees were built for this. Run-flats, central inflation, reinforced rims. It could keep rolling long enough to vanish.
Jack emptied his magazine anyway, furious, watching his tracers dance across the windshield with zero effect. "Damn turtle!"
He reloaded, tossed the rifle back into the car, and slammed the door. "We chase. Flat or not, he won't outrun us."
Angela nodded, teeth clenched. The Ford growled alive.
The Shockwave
Then came the sound.
Not gunfire. Not an explosion. Something stranger—a tearing whoosh, like air being ripped apart.
Three hundred meters ahead, the Humvee bucked sideways as if struck by a giant's fist. Metal screamed, tires burst, and the engine block detonated with a hollow bang. Black smoke belched skyward.
The armored beast skidded, sparks carving lines into asphalt, before shuddering to a smoking halt.
Jack and Angela stared, stunned. That hadn't been SWAT. That hadn't been them.
"Did you see that?" Angela whispered.
Jack's hands tightened on the wheel. His instincts returned, colder than ever. The gaze from the hill. The sense of being watched.
Someone else was out here. Someone powerful. And they had just taken Cole Midas's last card off the board.
(End of Chapter 51)