The roar of an engine came from behind them, the direction they'd originally come from. Marco's head snapped around just in time to see a Dodge pickup barreling down the street, its bed modified with a welded tripod mount. Sitting on that mount, like something out of a third-world war zone, was a PKM machine gun. Several gang members armed with rifles crowded the truck bed around it.
The instant they had line of sight, the world exploded.
The PKM opened up. The muzzle flash lit up the street in strobing bursts as 7.62mm rounds chewed through everything in their path.
"RUN! MOVE!"
Most of the survivors scrambled like their lives depended on it, because they did. Marco grabbed Hagrove by the collar, ready to drag him deeper into the building's corridor. But the guy, despite his piss-soaked pants and terror, somehow rolled to his feet and bolted past Marco like he'd been launched from a catapult.
"Motherfucker—"
Marco cursed and hunched low, sprinting inward. Then someone brushed past him going the other direction, toward the entrance.
"Get back here! What the hell are you doing?!"
Kurich didn't answer. He just shook his MP5 at Marco and pressed himself against the wall next to the corridor entrance, weapon ready.
"You stupid—"
The PKM's metallic roar drowned out everything. The outer wall exploded. Chunks of masonry the size of fists tore through the air. Marco threw himself flat, arms over his head, as debris rained down around him.
The sustained burst lasted maybe five seconds. Maybe six. It felt like an eternity.
When it finally stopped, he lifted his head. His ears were ringing. Dust filled the corridor.
Kurich was curled against the wall, covered in white powder, twitching. Both hands clamped over his throat. Blood poured from between his fingers and the corner of his open mouth. His eyes were wide. He hadn't even been hit by a bullet. A chunk of brick had torn through his trachea.
"Goddamn it." Marco slammed his fist against the floor. "Action movies get people killed."
He patted himself down reflexively, looking for his phone, then remembered he'd left it in the Chevy. He twisted toward the nearest surviving gunman, one of Falcone's crew, and shouted over the ringing in his ears:
"Phone! Anyone got a phone?!"
Another burst from the PKM tore through the building's facade, drowning him out. The gunman just stared at him blankly for several seconds until Marco pointed at his ear and mimed holding a phone.
The guy fumbled inside his jacket and pulled out a bulky mobile.
"Call this number—" The machine gun went quiet for a moment. Marco seized the opening and rattled off a string of digits. "Call the Gotham PD. Request backup."
"Call the cops?" The gunman looked confused. "But we're... we work for Mr. Falcone—"
"Fuck Falcone!" Marco snapped. "Right now, you're innocent civilians being attacked by a gang with illegal military hardware. Tell them a group with heavy weapons just robbed a shitload of cash and you need SWAT here now."
The gunman's mouth twitched, but he nodded and scrambled into a corner to make the call. Marco exhaled slightly. As for what would happen when SWAT showed up and found no cash?
Not his problem. Not his phone number either.
He grabbed his rifle and bolted for the stairs. The PKM would need at least twenty seconds of cooling after sustained fire. That gave him a window. He had to find a firing position and take out that machine gun before it tore the building apart brick by brick.
Just then, from somewhere down the street behind the Dodge, came the wail of police sirens.
Already? Backup arrived that fast?
A spark of hope flared in his chest, then died immediately.
Because there was only one patrol car.
Red and blue lights flashing, it came screaming straight into the kill zone. The driver didn't slow down. The car fishtailed hard, skidding sideways as rounds punched through the body panels. Smoke poured from the hood. The door flew open and a lone officer rolled out across the asphalt, came up behind the engine block, and drew his service weapon.
"GCPD! Drop your weapons immediately!"
Holy shit. Whose subordinate is this guy? That brave or that stupid?
Marco peeked from the second-floor window. His eyes widened.
Gordon.
Of course. Of course it was Gordon.
Gotham's boy scout. The one cop in the entire department who gave a damn. The man who'd charge into hell with a water pistol if he thought it was the right thing to do.
Marco could joke about it, but part of him felt moved. Gordon had no idea he was apparently protected by some cosmic plot armor. He didn't know the "world's fate" had a vested interest in keeping him alive. He just saw people in danger and went in alone because that's what the badge meant to him.
The department didn't like him much. Too unwilling to play the game. But when the shit hit the fan, Gordon showed up.
The gang members on the Dodge were shouting something, but they were too focused on Gordon to watch the upper floors. Marco leaned out just enough, centered his red dot on the machine gunner's head, and squeezed.
Crack.
The machine gunner's skull snapped back. He toppled sideways off the mount, disappearing into the truck bed.
A PKM mounted in the back of a pickup truck looked terrifying when it was firing. The problem was, the operator's life expectancy was measured in seconds once someone with decent aim decided he was a problem. Warlords loved the setup because it was cheap and disposable, no pension paperwork required. But in an urban gang fight without proper support? It was a death sentence.
If they'd arrived just a few minutes earlier and blocked the escape route at the start of the ambush, everyone here would already be dead. But they'd been delayed, harassed by Gordon's pursuit, and now the situation had flipped. The four men left on the truck still had firepower, but they were caught between Gordon and the building.
They didn't panic, though. The two remaining shooters with AKMs swung their rifles up and raked the third floor with automatic fire. 7.62mm rounds pierced through the window frame, shredding concrete and splintering wood. But Marco had already followed his personal rule, shoot and move, and was sprinting to another room.
Gunfire erupted downstairs. The driver and passenger from the Dodge had dismounted and were storming the building, trying to pin down the survivors inside. But in tight quarters, their rifles didn't have much advantage over the MP5 submachine guns Falcone's crew carried. Both sides fought cautiously, trading bursts from doorways and corners. The entire building echoed with overlapping gunfire.
"Damn it!"
Marco's head was a mess. The fight had devolved into complete chaos. He ran from room to room, taking rushed potshots at the pickup whenever he could. But leaning out for a proper aimed shot when the shooters below were already covering the angle? That was suicide, and he had zero interest in dying gloriously for the GCPD.
He still had one flashbang clipped to his belt. But no good opportunity to use it.
Wait. What's that?
In the second-to-last room at the end of the third-floor hallway, he found a closet. Inside was a stack of about a dozen ceramic plates. Some were intact, some already cracked. But so what? Thrown weapons still counted as weapons.
He grabbed the stack and carried them back to the window closest to the Dodge, sat down in the corner out of sight, dropped his AR-15, and pulled the Remington shotgun off his back. Then he picked up a plate and tossed it out the window.
Bang! Bang!
The gunmen below instinctively fired a few shots upward, blasting apart more of the window frame. He heard the plate shatter against the truck bed, followed by angry shouting. Marco grinned in the corner, waited a couple seconds, then tossed a second one.
Crash.
This time, no gunfire. Just cursing. He threw a third. A fourth. A fifth.
Each throw had slightly different force and trajectory. Some hit the truck. Some hit the pavement. One even nailed a gunman in the head, prompting a burst of furious yelling and a short spray of suppressive fire. But after that, they stopped wasting bullets.
When he threw the ninth plate, he pulled the flashbang from his belt, flicked off the safety pin, and lobbed it out the window.
Flashbangs weren't great in open environments, the blast dispersed too quickly. But thanks to his little plate-throwing experiment, he'd already pinpointed two shooters' positions. And with his throwing skill, the grenade arced perfectly and dropped right above their heads.
Marco flattened himself to the floor, opened his mouth wide, and clamped his hands over his ears.
A heartbeat later, the world turned white.
The blast was a sharp crack that split the air. Even with his precautions, it felt like someone had struck a gong inside his skull. His eardrums buzzed and tingled, filled with a high-pitched whine. But at least he wasn't dizzy or disoriented.
He leapt up, lunged to the window, and looked down.
The two gunmen were on the ground, weapons dropped, curled in fetal positions and clutching their faces. One was screaming. The other was just thrashing, blind and deaf.
Arrest them properly? Apply handcuffs? Wait for them to recover?
Fuck that.
The Remington roared. Buckshot tore through flesh and bone in the pale afterglow. Blood sprayed across the pavement in dark arcs.
At that moment, Gordon was sprinting toward the scene. Marco refrained from firing finishing shots, no need to give the righteous cop a reason to lecture him about "excessive force on suspects who could no longer resist." They were already full of holes. Dead now or dead in thirty seconds, what difference did it make?
The gunfire from the stairwell, which had paused briefly during the flashbang blast, erupted again. But the two gang members who'd been pushing into the building sounded rattled now. Their fire was sporadic.
He left the room, ears still ringing. Everything sounded muffled and distant. He knew this was temporary threshold shift. It would fade in a few hours, but it was still infuriating.
And since he'd thrown the damn flashbang himself, he had nowhere to direct the anger.
Outside came faint popping sounds, pistols, probably, and scattered shouting, but the voices drifted in and out, impossible to hear clearly.
The thought that everyone downstairs was probably just as disoriented made him feel slightly better. He peeked down the stairwell.
The gunfire had stopped.
"Anyone still alive down there?"
He descended cautiously, rifle up, calling out as he went. His voice echoed strangely in his ringing ears. After a few shouts, a head poked out from a nearby room, one of Falcone's men.
"Where's the other guy?!"
The gunman stepped out, weapon in hand, and shouted back: "He's dead!"
He pointed down the corridor. Marco leaned to look and saw a body sprawled in a doorway, blood pooling beneath it. Looked like a ricochet kill.
"Alright. Go watch Hagrove, Antonio." He gestured deeper into the hallway.
"My name's not Antonio! I'm not even Italian! It's Toy!" the gunman barked, staring at him in confusion for a moment before reluctantly heading deeper into the hallway.
"Call yourself whatever."
The gunman nodded and headed off. Marco scanned the area. The two gang members who'd attacked from the pickup were nowhere in sight, which made him uneasy. Then familiar shouting came from outside the corridor entrance.
"GCPD! Drop your weapons and surrender immediately!"
"Detective Gordon?" Marco called back, keeping his rifle lowered. "This is Officer Vitale from the East End Precinct!"
He advanced cautiously. Gordon stood outside the entrance, weapon aimed into the hallway. A body lay on the ground beside him, and a surviving suspect was zip-tied and sitting against the wall.
Of course. Gordon could handle himself in a firefight. The man had a reputation for a reason.
Seeing Marco's uniform, he lowered his weapon and shouted while rubbing his ear:
"Anyone else inside?"
"Two more. Falcone's crew, but they're not hostiles." Marco shouted back. "They're all yours now."
"That's not procedure, we haven't questioned them yet!" Gordon yelled. "And goddamn it, which idiot threw a flashbang in the middle of this?!"
"The idiot standing in front of you." Marco kept rubbing his ear. "And if I hadn't, you'd still be out here doing stunt rolls behind your car."
"Where are you going?" Gordon called after him as Marco turned toward the stairs.
"My rifle's still up there. I'm getting it." Marco pointed upward.
A minute later he came jogging back down with both guns slung over his shoulders.
"It's over, come out!"
Two figures shuffled out from deeper in the corridor. Marco darted over and motioned for the gunman to lower the MP5 he had trained on Hagrove's back.
"These are concerned citizens who helped call for backup," Marco told Gordon, gesturing at Falcone's men. "They're yours now." He pointed toward the Chevy van. "There's an injured officer over there. I need to check on him."
Gordon knew the situation was a complete mess, probably another political nightmare waiting to explode in everyone's faces. But the moment he heard "injured officer," he nodded without hesitation.
"No problem. I'll handle things here. Go!"