Jack liked dealing with smart people, and right now, both Sheriff Ronick and gang boss Bishop fit that description. In the world of detective fiction, there's a term known as the "island scenario," also called "snowbound mansion"—a group of people trapped in a relatively closed environment, cut off from the outside world.
None of them can escape for the time being, and in the meantime, something terrible—like murder—happens among them, triggering mutual suspicion and fear.
It's a classic setup. In a sealed-off space with limited resources and no external interference, fear spreads rapidly, paranoia grows, and dramatic conflicts arise. This trope has been borrowed by countless novels and films, spawning many variations.
For instance, the film Mindhunters—which tells the story of FBI agents stuck on an island amid a string of murders—is a representative example of the genre, with strong psychological suspense elements.
But Jack preferred another movie with a touch of dark humor: The Mist, where people of different backgrounds are trapped in a supermarket, gradually forming factions and spiraling into fierce internal conflict.
It wasn't too different from what was happening at the 13th Precinct now. As sheriff, Ronick was trying to rally everyone together against the threat of the rogue cops.
Bishop, for all his private calculations, clearly understood the situation. As a seasoned gang leader, he knew when to pick his battles. Right now, survival came before freedom. After all, if he went to prison, he might not die. But outside, those black cops were willing to kill everyone here just to silence him.
The natural opposition between police and criminals had already given way to reluctant cooperation under the external threat. A degree of trust was starting to form. That made old Officer Jasper's attempt to stir things up look downright foolish.
This had nothing to do with a sense of justice. In Jack's eyes, Jasper was just clinging to seniority in a situation where Ronick—the acting chief—hadn't shown much authority in the past.
If Jack had been alone, he might've already swapped into black cop gear and slipped out in the chaos. Once outside the signal-jamming zone, he could've called for reinforcements and wrapped things up.
But then there was John—good old John. Even if Jack could take him along, someone like John wouldn't agree to the plan.
Rather than force Jack to fight a dozen or more black cops outside, it was honestly safer to stay put and fortify their position.
That's why Jack had John hand over the extra weapons and gear to Ronick—it was a clear stance. He was siding with the sheriff, helping him suppress dissent and, indirectly, warning the prisoners to stay in line.
Meanwhile, outside, the black cops were in a bit of a panic. The firefight at the front entrance had gone nowhere, and their teammates who entered from other directions were disappearing without a trace.
The people inside the precinct, once stuck in defensive positions with little firepower, had now armed themselves with captured rifles and ammo, returning fire from the second floor. What happened to those missing teammates was clear enough.
There had been a total of more than a dozen black cops involved in the attack. At its peak, at least five or six rifles had been laying down suppressive fire at the front entrance, trying to keep the defenders distracted.
But every single attack had failed. Even after using breaching charges and flashbangs, of the seven who made it inside, only one— a shield bearer—had gotten out, and he was badly burned.
Now, fewer than twenty black cops remained around the 13th Precinct. Not only had they lost their numerical superiority, their advantage in gear had been leveled as well.
They found themselves in a painful dilemma. If they didn't silence Bishop, over twenty of them could end up in prison. But if they launched another reckless assault, how many more would have to die? Would they rather risk life in prison or death tonight? It was a hard question to answer.
"They're not attacking, and they're not retreating—so what are they planning?" Iris cautiously peeked outside from behind the window. Only a single GMC had pulled away, likely transporting the lone injured survivor. The two DPD-marked patrol cars blocking the street hadn't moved an inch.
"They're waiting for reinforcements," Jack said as he wrapped bandages around Alex's feet, then slipped her shoes on and draped her old coat over her shoulders.
At that moment, old Officer Jasper came stomping out of the storage room with an annoyed expression. He and Ronick had gathered tools and were prying boards from desks and chairs, nailing them over the blown-out windows.
The sniper across the street fired a few rounds, trying to disrupt them, but it didn't work. Jack didn't fire back either.
Even with the storm raging outside, Jack was about sixty to seventy percent confident he could snipe the enemy across the hundred-meter street. But now wasn't the time. The enemy had no idea they could retaliate and showed no intention of relocating yet.
As it stood, the exposed sniper wasn't much of a threat. The precinct had enough windows to maintain a view while staying out of his line of fire. But if Jack killed him and a new sniper replaced him from an unknown position, they'd be right back to cautious guesswork—and someone on their side might get hurt.
——
"I heard you've been shot at least five times—and still have bullets in your body. Is that true, Bishop? Someone even said you once ripped out a man's spine…"
When Jack and Ronick walked into the holding area, they found the junkie pestering Bishop with endless questions about his "legendary exploits" while patching up bullet holes in the wall.
"Shut up! That was his Adam's apple. You keep running your mouth, and I won't mind letting you feel what that's like." Bishop, clearly annoyed, shot a glare at Jack walking in, then leaned toward the junkie and hissed the words in a low growl.
It was a weird feeling—like a regular high school student watching their proud parent boast about them to the national valedictorian. That kind of secondhand embarrassment.
Jack pretended not to hear a thing, tossed a spare magazine to the junkie, and warned, "If you waste any more ammo, I won't mind wasting a bullet on you too."
The junkie fumbled to catch the mag, visibly flinched, and quickly ducked behind Bishop.
"It's too quiet," Bishop said, hammering down the last nail and tugging on the board to make sure it was secure. "Something's not right. We need to talk."
Ronick glanced at the jittery junkie and gave Bishop a look. The three of them slipped into the back storage room.
"Marcus Duval won't just let us wait out the night," Bishop said bluntly.
Ronick looked at Jack, then back at Bishop. "We've got guns and manpower now. As long as everyone holds their area, they can't get in. What are you worried about?"
"Let me put it this way," Bishop said, turning to Jack. "If it were you out there, would you let the people inside wait till morning?"
Jack spread his hands. "You've got a point. But I'm not Marcus Duval. I don't know what he's got up his sleeve. Do you?"
Bishop scratched his head, frustrated. "No. But I don't want to sit here waiting to die."
Ronick finally caught on and gave a warning. "If you're thinking about using this situation to make a run for it, let me remind you: I won't let that happen. When this is over, your next stop is prison."
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