I'm a second-class officer of the Gotham Police Department, not some goddamn superhero. When trouble hits, you call for backup. What am I supposed to do, handle it alone?
Marco had just shut the car door when a tearing screech, followed by the heavy thunk-thunk-thunk of bullets hammering metal. The van rattled loudly. But most of the gunfire poured onto the Toyota Crowns behind them.
"Shit! This is bad!"
The Chevy had been slammed by the Suburban as they crossed the intersection. After the collision, it had rolled past the junction and stopped leaning against the building on the left. The Suburban sat stalled in the middle of the road, perfectly blocking the Crown convoy's path and cutting off their line of sight.
"Is the van still drivable?"
He looked back at Darnell and saw his partner fumbling painfully with the seatbelt buckle, gritting his teeth to keep from groaning.
"Shit!" His heart jumped. "You hit?" He reached to check Darnell's carotid artery, but Darnell shook his head and made two strained grunts, as if trying to speak.
A burst of bullets struck the window, leaving a spiderweb of cracks. Marco ignored him. Taking advantage of the attacker's reload break, he kicked the door open and raised his AR-15, firing several controlled bursts at the upper floors to the east. Brick and plaster exploded in all directions, and one ambusher took a round through the neck and toppled forward, sending the others scrambling for cover.
He ducked back into the van and watched the man he'd shot fall into the street. The smooth recoil of the semi-automatic rifle gave him an unexpected thrill. He glanced back. Darnell was still trying to prop himself up.
"You think you're gonna make it? Any last words? If I survive this, I'll try to take care of it for you."
"Fuck you. It's just a broken rib, I'm not dying," Darnell growled through clenched teeth. "My arm... ahhhhh!"
Marco pushed him back into the seat, making him scream in agony. At almost the same moment, a deep BANG sounded, the already damaged windshield exploded, a deformed bullet lodged in the polycarbonate layer.
"FUCK! I didn't finish... my arm's dislocated," Darnell gasped, sweating all over as he tried to choke down another scream. "Radio's dead. Help me get my phone."
Marco tossed him his own phone and grabbed Darnell by the shoulder. "Don't lift your head. There's a bolt-action shooter on your side. Don't worry, he was aiming at me. And an experienced sniper wouldn't fire at undamaged bulletproof glass at an incidence angle under twenty degrees using a mid-power round."
"Huh?" The word sniper made Darnell immediately slide farther down behind the seat. "Can you speak English?"
But Marco had already jumped out again, bracing against the cold van body for cover while firing controlled bursts to the east. Despite the icy wind, the AR-15 with a red-dot sight shot beautifully. Meanwhile, the Crown convoy, after a moment of chaos and a few casualties, had pressed their cars along the eastern buildings. Gunmen dismounted and began counterfire. Streams of MP5 rounds suppressed the ambushers so hard they couldn't lift their heads.
"That's it?"
Marco ran the magazine dry and dove back into the van. Darnell tossed aside the phone and raised a Remington 1100 with his right hand.
"Bob's been notified. That bastard was vague as hell. How about... I draw their fire and you go deal with the sniper?"
"Don't be stupid. Firing a shotgun now will shake your chest cavity to pieces." Marco swapped magazines in his rifle and looked at his panting partner. "What I meant is, the guy's a rookie. He should've been aiming at the center of the cracked glass. I'll handle him."
Two sides spraying automatics at each other wasn't going to break the stalemate. Unless one side could close distance or settle down to make careful aimed shots, it would just be a chaotic cycle of popping up, firing wildly, and ducking back down.
From the cracks around the embedded bullet, he could estimate the sniper's position. He slipped out of the van and crept along the rear. Then he told Darnell to open the driver-side door, using the intact side window to create another angled viewing slit.
BANG!
Another shot, the side window burst into a flurry of cracks. But in that instant, he caught a flash of muzzle flame on the third-floor balcony across the street.
Following the muzzle glow, he saw a shadowy figure prone beside a flowerpot. The guy's aim wasn't actually bad, but he'd made a rookie mistake: trying to blow a target's head off with a single shot through bulletproof glass. Probably some self-taught gang shooter.
But he didn't have time to assess the sniper's skill. The Roman's convoy was still trapped in the kill zone, and if the witness died, he'd be held responsible.
"Guess I'll give you a premium death."
He gritted his teeth and activated his skill.
[Precision Strike: Hammer of God]
There was no fancy visual effect. The balcony the sniper was hiding on suddenly collapsed without warning, concrete and rebar giving way like it had been hit by an invisible wrecking ball. The sniper tumbled forward with a startled yell.
A fall from the third floor wouldn't necessarily be fatal, but by horrible luck, his neck snapped clean against the second-floor railing. A series of impacts followed as his body ragdolled down to the street. He lay motionless on the pavement, a dark pool spreading beneath him.
"...Damn." Even Marco winced. "That's rough."
He shook his head and tried calling Cobblepot, but the radio's red indicator was dead. He tapped it twice, no hope of fixing it, and tossed it back to Darnell.
"I'm going to get the witness out. Can you manage on your own?"
"No problem. I've been through worse." Darnell forced a painful smile. "Don't worry about me. Give me the shotgun..."
"Keep dreaming. The only thing you can still use is your Glock 17." Marco thought for a moment, then slung the Remington across his back as well. "Last thing I want is you getting killed not by a bullet but by your own stupidity. If you get the chance, fall back and hide in the stairwell." He looked at Darnell. "Hope we make it out alive."
He crouched near the Suburban's body and peeked out from the smashed engine block. Falcone's crew had better gear, but the enemies on the west-side building held the high ground, and the ones from the east were already charging down to the first floor for close-quarters fighting.
No one seemed to notice him. He steadied his breathing, surprisingly even finding time to aim properly. Supporting the rifle firmly, he centered the red dot on two gunners on the western building, one firing an Uzi, the other an M10, both happily spraying rounds, and pulled the trigger.
Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap.
Short bursts. Clean taps. The two gunners jolted as if their bones had been pulled out. The others didn't know what had happened and all ducked behind cover. The suppressive fire from above instantly went silent.
Falcone's side had already lost three men, but the survivors seized the chance as the western fire slackened, storming into the eastern building corridor. With better equipment and nothing to lose, they traded brutal close-range volleys with the ambushers who'd come downstairs. They lost another man but dropped four or five enemies.
Falcone's people seized the east-side building, and with the western high ground neutralized, victory was only a matter of time. Marco coordinated with the ongoing firefights, using street-level cover to advance and slip into the western building. Gunfire rattled above. He moved quietly, step by step, and crept up to the second floor. From the stairwell corner, he suddenly leaned out, the three gunmen never even turned around before the 5.56mm rounds chopped them down like trees.
"That's it?"
He waved toward the opposite building, only for a burst of gunfire to snap back at him. Then came a scream from the stairs between the third and second floors, followed by a body tumbling down.
Holy shit, nice shot!
He quickly put another round into the fallen man, then gave a thumbs-up toward the shooters across the way.
Soon the battlefield fell quiet. He took a breath and watched the white vapor drift upward. He headed back downstairs and ran to the Crown convoy. Thankfully, all three cars were armored, their bodies riddled with craters and crisscrossed with shattered glass, but only a few spots had been fully penetrated.
He pulled open the first car... empty.
Then the second, and a wave of metallic blood, cordite, and the sharp ammonia sting of urine hit his nose. The window was cracked open a sliver. The driver was slumped over the wheel with a hole in his skull. Another man was curled under the backseat, holding his head and sobbing.
"What the fuck!" Marco grabbed him and dragged him out, it was Hagrove. A glance inside confirmed no one else remained.
A chill colder than December shot up from his feet to the top of his skull, making his knees buckle. He yanked Hagrove up by the collar and shouted, "Where's Cuevas?! Where's Cobblepot?!"
He didn't wait for an answer. He tore across and yanked open the third car door.
Also empty.
"Shit! Shit shit shit!"
Despair and rage flooded through him. He didn't know what had happened, but his situation was now... no, catastrophically bad. He hauled Hagrove toward the stairwell. Seeing three Falcone gunmen rushing downstairs, he immediately raised his rifle at them.
"Where are Cobblepot and the witness?!"
The three instinctively raised their hands, exchanging looks, then all shook their heads frantically.
"I don't know!"
"Mr. Cobblepot... should've been in the rear vehicle."
"They were in the middle car."
The four men stared at each other for a few seconds. Only heavy breathing and wind howling through the stairwell filled the silence. Marco lowered his gun and pointed at the one in front.
"You. Name?"
"K-Kurich..."
"You're all under Falcone, correct?"
"Yes." Kurich steadied himself a little. "We're with Mr. Zsasz."
Marco nodded. "Okay, Kurich. Check the casualties outside. Don't worry about the enemy, I need a count of who from our side is alive, missing, or confirmed dead. Go!"
Kurich hesitated, maybe the word "our" softened his resistance, then grabbed his gun and headed out. At that moment, a weak, tearful voice piped up nearby:
"Th-they... they got out... halfway..."
Everyone looked down. It was Hagrove, dumped on the stairs. Seeing several pairs of eyes staring at him, he trembled and swallowed the rest of his sentence.
Marco pushed him to sit upright and crouched down.
"Talk. When and where did they get out?"
"I don't know exactly... but... near the shopping district..."
"Shopping district?" Marco snapped his head toward the remaining gunmen. "They got off the car and none of you noticed?!"
"Only Mr. Cobblepot and Gabe disappeared. The others are all dead." Kurich came hurrying back. "I was in the second car, they were in the first. At first, Mr. Cobblepot's vehicle was at the rear, but after passing the shopping district, it cut in and moved to second position."
"And the crew in that car?"
"The driver and guards were Mr. Cobblepot's own people." Kurich shook his head. "We were all sent by Mr. Zsasz."
He ran.
Cobblepot wasn't stupid enough to start a two-front war with Mooney and Falcone. And the witness meant nothing to him personally. The most likely explanation was simple: he'd used the convoy as decoy bait and slipped off with the witness to present them to Falcone for favor and reward.
Unbelievable.
Marco was just about to explode in curses when a deep engine roar echoed from the street outside. He bolted to the doorway for a look, and instantly felt his soul leave his body.
He sprinted back inside and shouted at the top of his lungs:
"PKM, GET TO COVER NOW!"