The Humvee coughed smoke, its gutted engine wheezing as it crawled forward on sheer inertia. Then came another scream of metal, high and sharp as a blade dragged across bone. A fist-sized hole punched through the rear door, spraying dust from the pavement beyond.
Jack's heart dropped. He knew that sound.
"Anti-material sniper rifle! Get off the road!"
Adrenaline surged. Jack yanked Angela by the arm, pulling her bodily off the asphalt. The other patrol officers scattered, scrambling for the roadside embankment. Dirt and scrub tore at their uniforms as they tumbled down, hearts hammering.
Jack pressed flat against the cold earth, breath ragged, binoculars snapping up to his eyes. His gut had been right—someone had been watching them from that barren hillside all along. Now the unseen gaze had teeth.
Through the magnified glass, Jack tracked the rhythm of the shots. Each thunderous crack rattled his skull even from nearly a kilometer away. The marksman wasn't spraying; he was deliberate, methodical. A predator cutting meat with surgical precision.
"Don't advance," Jack barked into his radio, voice clipped. "We've got a high-powered shooter, maybe a kilometer out. SWAT armor won't hold; don't send vehicles. The Humvee's done. Everyone inside is dead."
He kept counting under his breath. Six. Seven. Eight.
On the tenth, the glass finally revealed him.
A man in a tailored navy suit, tie knotted with obsessive neatness. No camouflage, no tactical gear—he looked like a middle-management accountant who'd stepped off a conference call and onto a battlefield. The massive Barrett rifle lay cradled in his arms, steady as a church bell. His angular jaw formed that familiar omega-shape, expression flat, almost bored.
Jack's breath caught. Recognition hit like ice water. Not a comic-book vigilante, not some cape from Marvel or DC—this was different.
He muttered, half in disbelief: "The Accountant…"
The man worked without hurry, whispering something under his breath—numbers? Nursery rhymes?—before plucking each brass casing from the dirt and slotting it carefully into a box. Ritual. Obsession.
Jack lowered the binoculars slowly. His instincts screamed to stay hidden, but his curiosity pressed harder. He rose to his knees, brushing dust from his shirt. Angela snapped at him.
"Jack! What the hell are you doing?"
"He's packing up," Jack said, voice oddly calm. "He's not here for us. He's not interested."
He turned his attention back to the Humvee. Smoke belched from its hood. Blood leaked from shattered seams, dripping down onto the blacktop in thick rivulets. The smell rolled out—diesel, scorched protein, coppery iron. Jack gagged, pressing a sleeve against his nose, and forced himself closer.
Through the spidered glass of a side window, he caught a glimpse. What remained of the passengers was fused with steel, charred and shredded. The only recognizable shape was the upper half of a body still hooked in the gunner's turret, dangling grotesquely like a broken marionette.
Jack stepped back quickly, bile burning his throat. "Suspects down. Unconfirmed identities. We'll need the coroner."
Cleanup
Sirens screamed, engines revved. Tim and Lucy's unit skidded into view first, blocking the perimeter.
Tim, ever the opportunist, slid his pistol free and crouched behind his door, jerking his head at Lucy. "Go on. Ladies first."
Lucy rolled her eyes but obeyed. She reached the Humvee, pulled the door open—and immediately doubled over, vomiting onto the asphalt. John rushed in, steadying her shoulders, murmuring comfort.
Jack watched, lips twitching bitterly. Tim deserves to be single.
Soon the scene swelled with brass and authority. Superintendent Ben Sikora of Anti-Crime strode in, his jaw locked tight. His undercover assets had clearly missed the hidden Humvee—an unforgivable oversight. If that M2 had run hot for thirty seconds instead of three, they'd be counting bodies instead of bullet holes.
Hondo corralled Jack aside. His face was storm-dark, voice clipped. "That wasn't luck. A Barrett at that range, hitting a moving engine? That's surgical. Whoever pulled that trigger could dismantle this city if they wanted."
Gray added his gravelled anger. "Two cars shredded, half a dozen officers banged up, and for what? Southern Front's not just armed—they're sourcing military-grade hardware right under our noses."
Jack said nothing. He remembered the face in the scope, the calm, the numbers whispered like a prayer. He wasn't about to explain how he knew who that man was, or why he recognized him. Some truths only brought trouble.
Aftermath
By dawn, the FBI had claimed the scene. Their absence during the firefight had been conspicuous, but now they arrived in force, notebooks bristling, already angling to reframe the story. The mystery sniper would be their problem now, not Jack's.
All Wilshire officers who had fired a weapon were put on administrative leave for a week. Gray himself included. Zoe was buried in logistics, her desk a storm of calls and inter-district coordination.
Jack, meanwhile, went home.
He slept late, sunlight warm on his sheets. When he finally stirred, Maureen lay beside him, her lashes wet from last night's tears, her chest rising and falling in the rhythm of exhausted sleep. He kissed her softly, remembering how she'd collapsed after their quiet "yoga session."
He chuckled bitterly. For once, Zoe hadn't been there to pull him back into duty. She'd been chained to her office all night, cleaning the political fallout.
The system chimed in his mind. Two gold coins awarded. Experience settled. His psychology skill flickered, lifting to "skilled" level.
Ten coins now. Enough to master something. Rifle? Pistol? The thought made his pulse quicken.
He shuffled to the kitchen, humming as he cracked eggs into a pan. For once, life almost felt normal.
The doorbell rang.
He opened it to find Zoe, still in casual clothes, dark circles bruising her eyes. She looked as though she hadn't slept.
"Jack," she said quietly. "We need to talk."
(End of Chapter 52)