"Relax, relax." Bishop glanced cautiously at Jack, who stood off to the side with a faint, unreadable smirk on his face, not saying a word. Taking the hint, Bishop smartly changed the subject.
"There's one thing I still want to confirm—why are you protecting me? I figured you'd toss me outside and try to negotiate with Duval, maybe beg him to let the rest of you go.
I'm sure if that old bastard were in charge here, I'd already be a corpse."
"I'm the sheriff of this precinct. I'm responsible for everyone here. That's my job," Ronick replied without hesitation, raising his eyebrows slightly.
"How noble that sounds," Bishop remarked with a tinge of sarcasm, then turned to Jack. "What about you, Mister Mysterious Federal Agent?"
"This is Sheriff Ronick's turf. My opinion doesn't matter," Jack said with a pleasant smile, already seeing through Bishop's intent—he was trying to strike a deal. If Ronick or Jack were willing to promise he'd be let go after this, he'd work with them. If not, he'd be looking for a chance to bail.
Sure enough, Bishop continued, "But I'm not like you people. I wouldn't have survived this long if I were. If someone ends up in danger in front of me—especially a cop—I'd stand by and watch. I'd only step in if helping them benefited me. That's just how people like me operate."
Ronick let out a derisive snort and was about to speak when Jack cut him off. "Then let's wait and see. I've already said—I'm not here for you. You're not my responsibility."
The two men responded with different expressions. Bishop raised his eyebrows slightly, as if a kind of mutual understanding had been reached. Ronick looked like he wanted to argue, but in the end, said nothing.
Just then, the sharp sound of high heels clacking in a run echoed from outside, followed by Iris's anxious voice. "Sheriff! Jack! Where are you? Someone's coming!"
Ronick shoved open the storage room door. "Who?"
"I don't know—it's a van or something. Too far to tell clearly. I saw it from the west window," Iris replied quickly, pointing them in the right direction.
"You and your people hold this area and the hallway," Ronick ordered Bishop, then ran toward the front entrance.
In the front lobby, John and old Officer Jasper were carefully peeking out a window through cracked blinds. As Jack entered, he quickly reminded them, "Kill the candles!"
Alex rushed to blow out the remaining candles in the room, and Iris led Jack and the others to another window.
The blizzard had let up a bit since nightfall. By the dim streetlights, they could just make out a DPD patrol car blocking a vehicle on the western road. The vehicle's make was still unclear.
"Oh God—that's Capra, Sheriff," Iris gasped softly after squinting for a long moment. "That's his old Ford."
"You know him?" Jack asked, drawing his SIG Sauer.
It was Ronick who answered. "He's one of ours—off duty today. Damn it, they'll kill him."
"Then let's warn him," Jack said, pushing past them and raising his pistol to fire a shot outside.
"Stop! That'll get him killed. They might be trying to lure him away," Ronick grabbed Jack's arm, stopping him.
But things clearly didn't go the way Ronick had hoped. The black cop blocking the road returned to the patrol car and pulled aside, letting the Ford van move forward. But just as it began to inch ahead, the black cop raised a long gun from inside his car and opened fire in a brutal burst.
A sniper on the rooftop across the street joined in. Sparks flew from the Ford's body as it skidded across the snowy road, weaving past the precinct's front entrance.
"Damn it—we have to help him." Ronick lifted his AR15, then set it down again. He had no clear shot and no chance of winning a shootout with the sniper.
Everyone moved from the west window to the east side and watched helplessly as the van swerved across the road, managed a clumsy turn, and skidded into the precinct's rear parking lot.
Ronick handed his AR15 to Iris and rushed toward the back door. "I'm going to help him!"
"What?" Iris stood frozen for a moment, unsure what to do.
"Wait. You two come with me. Everyone else—hold your positions." Jack immediately understood Ronick's intent. He pulled Iris and Alex toward the stairwell.
"You'll relay a message for me—tell the Sheriff I'll cover him. He just needs to time it right." After giving the instruction, Jack had Iris wait at the stairwell while he led Alex up to the second floor.
The precinct's second floor covered only about a third of the area of the ground floor. The central section formed the main structure, with the north and south wings as one-story annexes.
Jack quickly found an office facing east and saw the sniper he'd tangled with earlier still hunkered down beside an old, idling car just outside the chain-link fence. He felt a sense of relief.
This time, Jack wasn't stuck with just a couple of handguns. From this distance—just over a hundred meters—he could absolutely challenge the sniper with an AR15. And right now, he had the advantage of being hidden, while the enemy was exposed.
In the parking lot below, the Ford van had skidded to a stop, nose buried in a snowdrift. The driver was clearly still alive—he was moving, struggling.
"Tell the Sheriff I'm in position," Jack said as he carefully cleared the snow off the windowsill and readied his rifle. Alex stood by the door, watching him with deep concern.
"Okay," Alex snapped out of it, nodded, and ran back down. Jack soon heard the thump of boots—likely Iris—racing across the first floor. With radios jammed, this kind of old-school message relay was all they had.
Soon after, the back door opened again. Crouched low, Ronick sprinted across the open lot toward the van, about twenty or thirty meters away. Jack cracked the window slightly. Luck was on his side—no one seemed to notice him yet.
To be honest, Jack was impressed. The young sheriff, who at first had seemed totally unfit for the job and lacked any presence, was now stepping up when it counted.
Anyone even slightly cowardly would've just leaned out and waved at the driver from the doorway.
Bang! A faint gunshot rang out. A bullet shattered the van's windshield, showering Ronick in glass as he yanked the door open to pull the driver out.
This time, the sniper had learned his lesson. Realizing something was wrong, he abandoned his cover and crawled to a nearby snow mound for a better angle before opening fire.
What he didn't know was that every move he made was perfectly visible through Jack's sights.
Unlike video games, real red dot sights offer no magnification. Fortunately, the blizzard was easing, and a few dim yellow lights lit the parking lot.
Before the sniper could fire a second shot, Jack squeezed the trigger. He had the AR15 set to semi-auto and fired three quick shots.
The sniper's outfit was different from the others—he wore a white snow suit. Jack didn't know if he had body armor, so he aimed for the head.
Snowflakes and distance blurred the view, but it was unlikely a living person would bury their face in the snow like that. Jack ducked just in time as a bullet smashed through the window frame, spraying wood splinters everywhere.
More gunshots followed in rapid succession from afar. Bullets tore into the room, turning the window into a mess of broken glass.
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