Three moving vans were parked nose-to-tail along the curb outside the express moving company. A group of gunmen was busily hauling crates from the building and loading them into the trucks as if they owned the street.
Before Jay could even speak, someone spotted the cruiser. Several gunmen spun around without hesitation, unleashing a torrent of lead that sent sparks flying off the assault vehicle's armored plating.
Well, at least Gordon didn't have to worry about the cost of fixing the door anymore.
"Contact!"
Jay barked into the radio, flipped the sirens on, and yanked the steering wheel hard. The assault vehicle swung in a wide arc at the intersection, slammed into reverse, and Jay buried the gas pedal into the floorboard.
The engine let out a piercing roar as the truck became a wall of moving steel.
"You son of a bitch! I'm still a patient!"
Wilson cursed, gripping the handhold for dear life. Bullets rained against the rear doors like locusts but did nothing.
Finally, with a thunderous CRASH and a violent jolt—accompanied by the scream of a gunman caught between the vehicles—the assault vehicle's rear slammed squarely into the last van, pinning it against the wall in a cloud of dust and debris.
Amidst the screech of twisting metal, the dull thud of snapping bone and the wailing suddenly stopped.
"Get down!"
Jay lunged over and yanked Wilson down. Almost simultaneously, several rounds slammed into the passenger window. The bulletproof glass spiderwebbed into a white blur, instantly obscuring their vision.
"Shit! Shit! Shit! You stay in the car!"
Jay grabbed his AR and leaped out. Gordon's car pulled up right behind them. Taking advantage of the cruiser drawing fire, Jay leaned out and fired a short burst.
The enemy's reaction was terrifyingly fast; the driver ducked, and Jay's bullets only shattered the side mirror, sending fragments flying.
Muzzle flashes erupted from the van's window, forcing Harvey Bullock to fishtail in evasive maneuvers. His car veered off and sheared a fire hydrant, sending a geyser of water screaming into the sky.
Gordon shoved his door open, firing several rounds at the vans. But the militants had no intention of a prolonged shootout. They floored it, tires screaming and smoking as they tore away like panicked rabbits.
"All units! Pursue the target vehicles! Repeat, pursue the target vehicles!"
Gordon shouted into his radio. His Crown Vic scrambled out of the way, sirens wailing as it chased one of the vans like an arrow from a bow. A flood of following police cars roared past Jay's truck without stopping, kicking up a storm of dust and exhaust.
"Tsk, they move fast." Jay clicked his tongue and knocked on the door. "Let's go, Dar. Back to work."
"Huh? We aren't following them?" Wilson was confused, hopping out with his handgun drawn.
"Follow them for what? To cheer Gordon on?" Jay pointed his rifle at the moving company's entrance. "Cover me. There should still be people inside."
"Copy that!"
Wilson took a deep breath and moved forward. Only then did he see the carnage at the back of the third van. The left rear was completely caved in. The sheet metal was mangled, revealing the snapped frame and a mess of wiring.
A "person"—who had lost almost all recognizable human shape—was crushed between the two vehicles by the assault vehicle's rear bumper like a grain in a mill.
His torso had been flattened to half its original thickness, hanging limply. Burst organs and jagged bone fragments protruded from his shredded clothes.
Warm blood had sprayed in a radial pattern across the bullet-scarred doors of the assault vehicle and the cold walls of the van, dripping down to form a small, gurgling stream at their feet.
"Better luck in the next life."
The corpse didn't respond. Its head was tilted to the side, cheek pressed against the steel plating. Its one intact eye remained wide open, reflecting the absolute terror of its final moment and the silhouette of Jay walking slowly past.
"Watch it. I'm checking for survivors."
Jay yanked open the rear door of the van. There were no survivors, but what he saw made him pause for a beat.
The interior was a mess, filled with wooden crates and canvas bags. Several crates had split open in the collision, revealing long objects wrapped in oil paper.
But Jay's eyes were locked on several grey canvas bags in the back, stamped with GCPD Evidence. The drawstrings weren't fully tightened, revealing bundles of green cash.
Holy shit.
His throat moved as he swallowed hard. Suddenly, the crack of a Glock rang out beside him.
"Contact!"
Officers from a gang background have one major advantage over Academy grads: flexible moral boundaries. When they're happy, they follow procedure. When they aren't, they are as impulsive as the criminals they hunt.
Wilson had spotted someone creeping down the stairs with a gun. This time, he didn't even bother with a warning. He fired three times, dropping the enemy flat.
"Captain, we going in?"
"No! Look at this."
Jay gestured toward the van. Wilson glanced inside, his eyes widening to the size of saucers. His breathing hitched.
"Don't space out. Keep watch. I'm grabbing the money."
Jay vaulted into the van and yanked open one of the bags. It was stuffed with used bills of various denominations, smelling of dust and age. He checked the other bags; same story.
Thinking fast, he grabbed the two heaviest bags and sprinted back to the assault vehicle. He scrambled into the driver's side, ignored the dull throb in his side, and squeezed into the back to shove the bags into the storage compartment under the seats.
After checking that nothing looked out of place, he hopped out, shouldered his rifle, and waved Wilson over. The two of them entered the moving company one after the other.
The two-story building was mostly gutted. Aside from a few battered desks and filing cabinets, it was empty. They crunched over shattered glass and waste paper, clearing the floors, but found no other enemies.
"Captain, what about this one?"
Wilson pointed to the gunman he had hit. The guy wasn't dead yet, lying on the floor gasping for air as the pool of blood beneath him widened.
"What else? We do a good deed." Jay jerked his head toward the door. "You want to leave a witness to talk about… the cargo?"
He turned and walked out. Two shots echoed behind him. Wilson caught up quickly, his face a bit pale. "So… what now?"
"First, we go back and find a safe place to hide this stuff. Remember: this stays between you, me, and the shadows."
"Not even Chief Bob?"
"Especially not him!" Jay said firmly. "We'll give it to him when he needs us to find money. Not before."
…
"Damn it, how did those bastards find us!"
Roman Sionis leaned against an oil-stained workbench, his smooth ebony mask reflecting the dim light with a cold sheen. The sleeve of his suit was sliced open, and a shallow but bleeding wound was sloppily bandaged.
"These were Falcone's men. Why?"
Looking at the bodies strewn outside, his voice sounded like it had been ground by sandpaper, suppressing a volcanic rage. Only a dozen core henchmen remained in the room, all injured, heads bowed, not daring to meet his gaze.
"We've been here less than forty-eight hours." Black Mask paced slowly, his finger trailing across the dusty tabletop. "Falcone's people are like sharks smelling blood. How did they know?"
Dead silence followed. Only the rhythmic drip of water echoed in the distance.
He turned to one of his pale-faced subordinates. "Number One. When the police arrived, how did you get out of Brandon Avenue?"
The man shivered. "It… it was a phone call, Boss. Just minutes before the cops breached, a call came into the landline… a voice through a modulator. Said the pigs were coming and to run…"
Black Mask froze. He turned slowly, the eye-slits of his mask locking onto Number One.
"A… stranger called?" he repeated.
"Y-yes! Boss! If it wasn't for that call, we would've been pinned in the building! We definitely would have—"
"You definitely would have fought like cornered animals and tied the police down for a long time," Black Mask interrupted, his voice dripping with violent irony. "That was the point, you idiots!"
He stepped forward, almost touching the man's face.
"That call wasn't to save you! It was to help the police!" Black Mask hissed.
"If you were pinned in the building, with your terrain and firepower, those GCPD losers would have lost a dozen men and spent hours trying to dig you out! But one 'kind' warning makes you run out like scared rats into the open street!"
He gestured wildly toward the window.
"On the street, you're sitting ducks! Panicked, out of formation, easier to chase, easier to split up, and easier to… follow."
He pointed to the wound on his arm. "Whoever notified you notified the police, and Falcone. Someone is herding us!"
"I… I didn't know, Boss! I really didn't!" Number One and the others stood shell-shocked. "I thought…"
BANG!
A single gunshot echoed through the empty garage. A hole appeared in Number One's forehead. With a look of shock and terror, his body collapsed backward.
"You don't have to think anymore."
Black Mask didn't even look at the corpse. He tucked the smoking pistol back into his waistband and pointed at another gunman nearby. "You're Number One now."
He walked to the window, looking at the gloomy Gotham skyline, his breathing heavy behind the mask. He needed to accelerate his recruitment plan.
"Clean this up. This place isn't safe anymore. Move out."
On a high-rise several blocks away, a lithe figure watched Black Mask through binoculars and smiled with satisfaction.
"Run, Roman, run. You'll find the hounds are everywhere. And when you're exhausted…"
——————
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