Chapter 69: The Gunman (Seeking Readers)

On the way, Ozzie adjusted the frequency and picked up the call from the Siesta Motel officers.

“He’s behind the car! He’s still shooting!”

“Brian, Brian, do you copy?”

“Ah! I’ve been shot, I’ve been shot!”

How could that be Rick’s voice?!

Ozzie could no longer care about radio protocol. He grabbed the walkie-talkie and shouted, “Rick? Is that you? How are you?!”

“Ozzie, it’s me. I’ve been shot. My stomach and leg hurt so bad. Brian isn’t responding—he’s been hit several times. Please hurry!”

“Hang on, Rick, hang on! I’m almost there!”

Damn it, what the hell is going on?!

Ozzie cursed furiously, switched on the lights and siren, and floored the accelerator as if he wanted to shove the pedal through the engine. He ran every red light along the way, and the cars ahead, seeing the patrol car behind them, all moved aside.

Soon, he heard gunshots up ahead. As he drew closer, Ozzie saw a three-story motel ahead, with many lights on each floor, making the place blindingly bright. A wooden sign hung on the second-floor railing, bearing the name: Siesta Motel.

The motel had a large courtyard filled with cars. In the parking lot stood a man in a bulletproof vest and helmet, wielding a long gun, firing outward.

Two patrol cars were parked by the roadside outside the fence. A policeman lay motionless in front of the motel entrance.

Another officer sat under a large tree just outside the fence, firing into the parking lot from time to time—it was clearly the wounded Rick.

The suspect, seeing another police car approaching, immediately fired at Ozzie, and bullets shattered his windshield in an instant.

Ozzie ducked, gritting his teeth, and drove forward until the patrol car shielded the tree where Rick was hiding.

Now closer, the suspect had an even better shot. Bullets rattled relentlessly against the patrol car, shattering every piece of glass.

Ozzie had no time to feel sorry for his new ride, only acquired that night. He quickly threw open the door, got out, drew his gun, and returned fire at the suspect, emptying an entire magazine in moments.

They were forty or fifty meters apart—a bit of a stretch—but Ozzie still landed a shot to the suspect’s chest, staggering him. The bulletproof vest saved the man, who quickly ducked behind a car.

Ozzie swapped magazines before finally checking on Rick.

Rick managed a weak smile when he saw Ozzie. “You got here fast, Ozzie.”

Ozzie ignored the remark, gently laid him flat, and yanked open his uniform, instantly furious. “Why aren’t you wearing your vest?!”

“It’s hot…”

“It’s air-conditioned in the car! Why don’t you just roast to death?!”

Rick had taken a shot to the chest, blood mixed with froth streaming out, and his leg wound was severe—his dark pants had turned black.

“Don’t talk. You’ve got a pneumothorax. Hold on, I’ll get the med kit.”

Ozzie fired a few more shots toward the suspect, then dashed to the trunk, grabbed the large trauma kit, and pulled out a Hyfin twin-channel chest seal. Tearing it open, he sealed the wound, then rolled Rick over and found another bullet hole in his back.

Ozzie breathed a sigh of relief—a through-and-through wound. Rick was lucky; maybe the suspect had fired from too close, and with no soft armor, the bullet passed right through.

He sealed the exit wound on Rick’s back as well, then quickly applied a tourniquet to his thigh.

By now, backup patrol cars had arrived.

“The suspect’s in the parking lot—he’s got a long gun! Someone help me bandage Rick!”

The suspect, hiding behind a car, fired at the new arrivals. The officers returned fire, some drawing AR-15s and engaging in a fierce exchange of gunfire that made Ozzie feel like he’d landed in Afghanistan.

A colleague crouched and ran over, pressing down on Rick’s leg, helping Ozzie pack the wound with gauze, covering it with a sterile dressing, and wrapping it tightly with a pressure bandage.

Ozzie slapped Rick’s face, hard. “Stay with me, buddy. Don’t fall asleep. You don’t even have a girlfriend yet—if you die, your family line ends here.”

“If I die, I’ll make sure to take you with me first,” Rick retorted, swatting Ozzie’s hand away.

Still strong—he was going to make it.

Ozzie reached behind the car seat for a bulletproof vest and put it on. “Cover me. I’m going to pull Brian back!”

His colleague nodded, moved to the front of the car, and opened fire at the suspect.

“Cover Ozzie!”

The other officers immediately joined in, suppressing the suspect so he couldn’t raise his head.

Ozzie quickly peeked out—he saw the suspect pinned behind a car—and then sprinted out, grabbing Brian by the collar and dragging him back with all his strength.

Bullets whistled overhead, mingling with his colleagues’ shouts. Ozzie’s scalp tingled; time had never felt so slow or a few meters so long.

But finally, he managed to drag Brian safely behind the patrol car.

While covering him, Ozzie reached out and felt Brian’s neck, then shook his head. “He’s gone.”

“I’m hit! Help me!”

Ozzie turned to see another officer crawling desperately backward, only to collapse after a few moves. Another cop rushed over and dragged him to safety.

“Damn it!”

Ozzie scrambled up and ran to the back of the car, fishing out a ballistic shield and a small pouch with two flashbangs inside.

He gripped the shield and stuffed a flashbang in his pocket. “Hey, what’s your name?”

“Jim Collins.”

“All right, Jim. You take this flashbang—toss it at the suspect in a moment. I’ll rush in and take him down, okay?”

“That sounds too dangerous…”

“Fine, I’ll throw the flashbang, you go take him down.”

“I’ll throw as soon as you’re ready.”

Not much for modesty, are you? Geez.

Ozzie half-straightened, adjusted the shield, and called, “Everyone ready. Flashbang going in.”

He nodded at Jim, who immediately stood up, yanked the pin, and hurled the flashbang.

Bang!

A scream echoed nearby.

Ozzie dashed out, shield raised, but through the observation window saw the suspect stumble through a side door into the motel.

“He’s inside!”

With the suspect now inside, things became easier. Ozzie charged through the front entrance, tossed aside the ballistic shield, and ducked behind a car for cover.

Though the American police shield was truly bulletproof, it was unwieldy and conspicuous—an easy target for rifle fire, and who could guarantee it would hold up under a barrage? Most of all, whoever carried the shield would have to lead the charge, and Ozzie had no intention of being the first target.

Other officers quickly advanced—some provided cover while others evacuated Rick, Brian, and the recently wounded colleague, loading them into patrol cars bound for the hospital.

“Send a team around back—don’t let him escape.”

“Surround the motel. Call for SEB!”