The AR-15, M16, and M4 series of rifles come in many variants, but all originate from the Armalite AR-10 rifle, first released in 1956. The base model of the AR-10 was modified to create the AR-15, which initially used the .223 Remington cartridge.
Later, Armalite sold the patents for both the AR-10 and AR-15 to Colt. Colt continued developing the design, making key improvements—such as moving the charging handle from under the carrying handle to the rear of the receiver.
The improved AR-15 eventually entered service with the U.S. military. The Air Force was the first to adopt it, naming it the M16, while the semi-automatic civilian and police variants retained the AR-15 designation.
In the 1990s, the M4 carbine, derived from the M16A2, made its debut and gradually replaced the original M16. During this transition, the military donated many decommissioned M16s to local police departments.
Unlike the military's standardized naming, the expiration of Colt's AR-15 patent in 1977 led to a flood of civilian clones with inconsistent model designations. Generally, any semi-auto police or civilian rifle using the AR platform is lumped under the AR-15 name. So it's not all that surprising to see American police using AR-series rifles capable of three-round burst or full-auto fire.
The rifle in Jack's hands was one of those AR-15s with a fire selector. He didn't know the exact model. It lacked burst fire mode, but that didn't stop him from simulating the effect with fast trigger pulls.
This wasn't a rifle he'd customized himself, and he didn't have time to mess with it now. So he compensated for accuracy with volume: the first shot to gauge the drop, and the next two to correct by feel.
He knew another sniper in the southeast corner was likely watching him, so he fired one slow shot, followed by two quick ones, then ducked instantly below the windowsill.
Sure enough, even with the suppressor cutting down muzzle flash, Jack's shots drew the attention of the second sniper, who promptly returned fire.
But that was exactly what Jack wanted. If the sniper was busy firing at him, he wouldn't be watching Ronick rescuing the driver below.
By the time Jack had brushed off the glass and wood splinters and made it back downstairs, Ronick was already inside, half-dragging a man reeking of alcohol into the building. They were slumped against the bars of a holding cell, gasping for breath.
"What the hell's going on? Who's shooting at us? Sheriff?" the man asked, clearly terrified. He was wearing a pointed party hat, looking like someone who'd just left a New Year's bash. Though his speech still had a slight slur, the booze seemed to have mostly worn off.
Aside from John and Officer Jasper still guarding the front, everyone else—prisoners included—was now staring at this guy with intense curiosity.
"Fuck—who the hell was just shooting at us?" The man looked around and suddenly spotted the four black cop corpses Jack had earlier dragged into the cell. He jumped to his feet in fright.
"Fuck—what the hell happened here?"
His gaze moved across the prisoners' faces and finally landed on Jack, who was now approaching with a rifle. His expression morphed from shock to confusion, then to complete bewilderment.
"Who the fuck are these people?"
Alex, who regularly came to the precinct for her therapy sessions with Ronick, obviously recognized the man that Iris had called Capra. She looked conflicted as she spoke.
"What are you doing here right now, Capra?"
Still in a daze, Capra continued glancing around blankly until his eyes landed on Iris's fishnet stockings under her leather skirt. That finally snapped him out of it.
"It's New Year's Eve, you know? I figured it'd just be the three of you on duty tonight, so I came to have a drink with Iris."
"Great timing," Iris said with a massive eye roll. "And I've already told you, Capra—I only sleep with bad boys."
Capra hadn't even had time to react to that when a sudden clack of a bolt racking echoed from behind Bishop. The junkie among the prisoners had raised his rifle and was aiming straight at Capra.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. What a sweet little love story," the guy sneered in a voice so grating it felt wet just hearing it, like spit would spray everywhere if he got any louder. "So touching. Too bad I don't believe a single fucking word."
Before he could say more, both Iris and Alex reflexively raised their handguns—naturally aiming at the unstable junkie.
"Put the gun down!"
"Damn it, he's one of us!" shouted one of the other prisoners, seeing a fellow cop being held at gunpoint. The remaining two prisoners also instinctively raised their weapons, creating yet another tense standoff. Ronick groaned and dragged a hand down his face in frustration.
"Guns down, all of you! Please—can we not do this again?!"
Aside from the junkie, the others exchanged awkward glances and reluctantly lowered their weapons.
Jack subtly stepped to the side, tucking part of his body behind Alex's back. With a slight flick of his wrist, his SIG Sauer slipped into his palm. Then he glanced at Bishop, who was also repositioning.
The junkie kept rambling. "So what? He pretends he's here to hit on a girl? That's the genius plan? Sneak someone in and take us out one by one, huh? Come on, asshole, just admit your plan already!"
"Jesus, you saw the shooting, didn't you? If it weren't for Jack, both Capra and I would be dead!" Ronick protested.
"Yeah, they shot—sure. But maybe it was staged. Maybe they missed on purpose. It could all be part of the plan!"
That comment made Smalley and the Black woman exchange nervous glances. It did sound plausible.
By now, Capra had fully sobered up. Having a gun pointed at him by someone who clearly wasn't mentally stable did the trick. He threw open his jacket.
"Look at me! Do I look like Rambo? I don't even have a gun—how the hell am I supposed to kill you all?"
"At the very least, lock him up. Toss him in a cell—he can hide under the corpses. That way, if anyone storms in, they won't shoot him on sight."
As the junkie's rant became more unhinged, Ronick realized he'd been wasting his time arguing with a guy whose pupils were still dilated and twitching from whatever drugs he'd taken.
"I vouch for him. Capra's one of ours. OK? I vouch for him," he said aloud, but his eyes looked toward Bishop and Jack instead.
The junkie shook his head wildly, frothing at the mouth. "Sorry, but your word means shit now! You're not in charge anymore, right? Bishop—tell them! You're the boss here!"
Jack's patience was visibly thinning, eyes narrowing with cold intent. Before he could act, Bishop gave him a look—I've got this.
As the junkie babbled on, Bishop quietly walked over, laid a hand on the rifle's stock, and spoke low.
"Put the gun down."
"No, no, no—man, come on, you didn't hear me? This guy just shows up out of nowhere—he's trying to be slick—"
Before he could finish, Bishop snapped the barrel up with one hand and drove a knife-hand strike into his throat with the other.
"Ghhkk..." The junkie collapsed with a choking wheeze. Bishop calmly picked up the AR15 and handed it to Jack, then hoisted the twitching junkie off the floor.
"Sheriff Ronick is in charge here. Got that? There's no room for debate."
With his gang-leader aura flaring and menace written all over his face, Bishop was downright intimidating. In contrast, Jack's ever-present smile still looked as harmless as California sunshine.
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