Chapter 85: Sweeping Fire

Whether or not the gun shop owner was crying didn't really matter. After reporting up the chain, Deputy Chief Robin rushed over to supervise as the shop's employees conducted an inventory. The final tally made his face turn ashen: over twenty rifles missing, more than fifty handguns, and tens of thousands of rounds of ammunition.

“What are they planning?” Robin roared in anger.

Everyone knew the gangs had guns, but typically, a significant portion were acquired legally—bought straight from gun shops. If you couldn’t afford a new one, a used one was just a stolen purse away. Truly illegal firearms weren’t so prevalent. This kind of large-scale gun theft clearly meant something was being plotted. If anything serious happened, the gun shop robbery would definitely be brought up, and the precinct leadership would be held responsible.

“All officers to the streets. Contact the Data Bureau to pull all surveillance along their possible routes. We must find them!”

The officers exchanged glances before heading out, but all knew it was nearly impossible to recover the weapons. Not only was there little official surveillance, but anyone bold enough to rob a gun shop surely had some kind of plan. It didn’t even need to be that elaborate—just stash a few cars nearby and drive off after the job. Surely, they couldn't stop every car driven by Black men.

And besides, I only draw a salary, someone thought. If there’s a sudden shootout, that’s one thing, but am I really going to risk my neck actively searching for a carload of armed men? That’s asking far too much.

“Austin, don’t turn in your gun yet. Go out on patrol with them. Write your report and hand in your weapon tomorrow morning when you’re back at the station.”

He scratched his head. Fine, it was getting harder and harder to sneak in some administrative leave these days. Austin understood—things had been getting tenser by the day.

Sigh, am I cursed or something?

Impossible! Absolutely not!

Unfortunately, Austin’s fourth patrol car had once again been riddled with bullets and needed repairs. Assigning another vehicle late at night was a hassle, so he could only ride with Mark for a two-man patrol.

Austin settled comfortably in the passenger seat, directing Mark as they zigzagged around. That was patrol duty: crisscross the main streets to remind would-be criminals of the police presence. Spend more time in affluent areas, skip the slums if you didn’t feel like going—after all, the police budget came from taxes and wealthy donors. If they were paying, was it so wrong to serve them a bit more?

As they made their rounds, dispatch came over the radio: “Adam 29, officers have spotted a suspicious vehicle on Jenny Street and request backup. Please respond immediately.”

Mark acknowledged and drove toward the location.

The call for backup had come from beside a bar’s rear lot, down a dim side street where an officer had found a suspicious car. There were no streetlights—pitch dark. The officers’ flashlights and patrol car beams weren’t enough to reveal all the dangers, so they called for backup. There’s strength in numbers.

Austin and Mark joined two other officers, their cars blocking both ends of the suspect’s vehicle. The four of them approached in a loose encirclement.

Since the other officers had spotted the car, it was up to them to question the driver; Austin and Mark just provided cover.

The driver was still sitting calmly inside, looking perfectly innocent. If he’d had anything to hide, he’d have run already.

An officer approached. “Turn on your interior light, roll down the window, and put your hands on the steering wheel where I can see them. Move slowly, okay?”

“Of course, officer. There are no guns in my car, so please don’t be nervous.”

The driver, a white man in his twenties, followed instructions, turning on the light and rolling down the window.

“Well done. Now, please slowly take out your license, proof of insurance, and vehicle registration. I need to check them.”

“Do I have to give them to you?”

“You don’t have to, but I won’t let you leave. I have reason to believe your car may be involved in illegal activity. If you refuse to cooperate, I’ll apply for a search warrant. But until then, you’ll have to stay here to prevent any other offenses. Given that it’s late, the judge might not handle the request before morning. Do you really want to wait here until sunrise?”

The young man hesitated, then gave up on asserting his rights. He slowly opened the center console, took out the documents, and handed them over.

The officer shrugged. “Thought you could outsmart me? You can complain if you want, but for something this minor, you’ll get nowhere.”

He returned to the patrol car to check the records, then came back. “Everything checks out, but your registration sticker is expired. I’ll write you a ticket, and you’ll need to renew it as soon as possible.”

“Oh, come on, officer. Cut me some slack—I’m a good citizen, never broken the law.”

“Exactly. If you had, I’d have you out of the car by now. But you’re not skipping the ticket.”

A five-hundred-dollar fine—if everyone begged their way out of those, how would the police get paid?

Austin had no patience for their back-and-forth. He turned away, scanning the area. Near the building in the bar’s parking lot, a Black man walking caught his eye. Above his head was a bright red aura of danger—a criminal marker—and both his hands were shoved deep into his hoodie, which bulged suspiciously.

“Mark, look over by the bar...”

Mark had barely turned when the man sprang into action, pulling a long gun from under his clothes and firing toward the restaurant.

The deafening staccato of automatic gunfire shattered the night, bullets sending glass flying as partygoers inside erupted in screams of terror.

Austin instantly drew his sidearm, sprinted several steps closer to the parking lot fence, and shouted, “Police!”

He fired twice, but the distance was too great; both shots missed. The shooter turned, spotted the officers, and unleashed a burst their way.

Austin dove behind a nearby car as bullets hammered the metal with a brutal, unrelenting clatter.

“Shots fired! Shots fired! Officer involved in a gunfight!”

The officer who’d been writing the ticket hastily tossed it to the young driver; the fine was non-negotiable. The white kid peeled out immediately.

Mark ducked behind a dumpster, let off two shots at the gunman, and quickly withdrew. The other two officers were pinned down by the onslaught, unable to poke their heads up.

“I thought fully automatic weapons weren’t allowed on the civilian market!” someone yelled.

“And Trump claimed he would make America great again!”

Austin rolled his eyes. What was there to say?

Suddenly, the shooting stopped. Austin looked up. The gunman was running, fumbling for something in his pocket.

“He’s out of ammo!”

“Open fire!”

All four officers leaned out and unleashed a volley. The suspect darted erratically, leaping behind a nearby wall.

“He’s wearing body armor!”

Austin yanked open the patrol car, tossed a vest to Mark, wriggled into one himself, and grabbed the shotgun—nothing beat a shotgun for close quarters.

“Someone stay here and keep watch. We’re going to flank him!”

“Shouldn’t we wait for backup?”

“If we wait, he’ll be long gone!”

Mark muttered to himself—let him run, who cares?—but when Austin charged ahead, he clenched his teeth and followed.