Chapter 39 — Crossfire
Hank's fingers clenched around the radio mic, knuckles turning white.
The voice on the other end dripped with mockery and cruelty — whoever these people were, they weren't amateurs.
"What do you want?" Hank asked, voice cold, fury buried deep beneath control.
"It's simple," the stranger drawled. In the background, Glenn's muffled whimpers could be heard.
"That police cruiser you just drove out with — and all the weapons and ammo you're carrying. Bring them to us obediently."
"Don't play dumb, officer." The man's tone turned frigid. "We've been watching your little performance the whole time."
As if to prove his point—
CRACK!
A gunshot tore into the dirt less than a meter in front of the cruiser's bumper. Gravel kicked up violently.
Every instinct in Hank screamed to duck — but he forced himself still.
He was already sighted in; panicking now would only get him killed.
"How about it?" the voice purred through the radio, like a cat toying with a mouse.
"Trade your supplies for your pal's skull staying intact? Or do you want to watch it pop like a watermelon?"
Hank's mind raced.
He wasn't thinking about surrendering — he was thinking about buying time.
Damn it. He knew nothing about the enemy.
But the enemy knew everything about him.
That uneasy feeling of being watched since last night — it was them.
He had to stall. Force a mistake.
"Prove Glenn's alive."
On the radio, there was a sigh — and then static.
A moment later Glenn's voice burst through — shaking with pain and fear:
"Officer—! There's a lot of them — they have guns— ah!"
A hard strike landed, and Glenn's cry was cut off.
The original voice returned, satisfied.
"See? Loyal kid. Now listen carefully: right now — not later — you drive to the intersection ahead and turn right. There's an abandoned factory."
"You park at the front gate. You get out. You drop every weapon. Hands up. You walk to us."
"Don't make me say it twice. My patience is thin. Next bullet won't hit the dirt."
The transmission cut.
Hank slowly set the radio down. His eyes were icy — dead calm.
His fists creaked from how tightly he clenched them.
He glanced toward the passenger seat — toward the assault pack.
All those supplies… everything he'd risked his life for.
And Glenn.
Hank wasn't a saint.
But he wasn't someone who abandoned the people who bled beside him.
He drew a long breath — pulled a smoke grenade from the pack, checked the ring, and slid it into an easy-access vest pocket.
Then he restarted the cruiser and followed the instructions — toward the factory.
At the intersection, he turned right.
Ahead… the ruins of an industrial site.
Rust-eaten warehouses. A towering overhead gantry crane.
Stacks of metal scrap tossed in corners. Smashed windows.
Every detail was locked into Hank's mind — calculating cover, elevation, choke points, firing lines.
The factory gate stood open.
Inside was a wide unloading bay — and the situation was far worse than expected.
More than twenty people.
Almost everyone armed.
On top of the baseball bats and machetes, Hank counted at least seven or eight shotguns and hunting rifles, and five or six handguns.
They stood scattered among the machinery, leaning with the posture of men who had killed before.
Like a pre-apocalypse gang that had traded nightlife for blood.
Glenn was on his knees, hands tied behind his back, face swollen and bloodied.
A tall, lanky man pressed a shotgun to the back of Glenn's skull.
Leading them was a scar-faced man holding a pump-action shotgun.
He grinned when he saw the cruiser roll up.
Hank stopped at the gate.
Through the windshield, he evaluated their firepower instantly.
He was badly outnumbered.
They held the high ground, the cover, and the hostage.
On paper… there was no chance at all.
But Hank wasn't planning on playing by the paper.
A straight firefight would be suicide.
Hank drew a slow breath, pushed open the cruiser door, and stepped out with both hands raised.
"The supplies are in the car… and in this pack."
He shook the heavy assault pack slightly, keeping his voice steady and neutral.
Scarface, a cigarette hanging from his mouth, pointed his shotgun at the ground in front of Hank.
"Drop the bag. Slowly. Then strip that fancy armor off piece by piece—don't make us do it for you."
Hank didn't move. His gaze flicked to Glenn.
"I want proof he's alive first."
Scarface groaned impatiently and gestured.
The tall man yanked Glenn's head up by the hair.
"Officer…" Glenn's voice trembled with terror.
"He's breathing," Hank replied calmly. He nodded once. "Alright. I'll put the bag down. Then you release him and let him walk over. When he's clear, everything is yours."
Scarface laughed, low and vicious.
"First, draw your little pistol. Put it on the ground. Kick it over. NOW."
The tension hit its peak — a hair away from snapping.
Hank's eyes narrowed.
He and Glenn locked eyes for a fraction of a second.
Hank gave the tiniest nod — almost imperceptible.
Then — slowly — he reached for the P226 at his waist.
Every gun in the factory pointed at him.
Five — no, six — barrels locked onto his chest and skull.
The pistol was halfway out of the holster—
And Hank turned into lightning.
Quadruple Agility — Quickdraw — American Iaijutsu.
The P226 erupted from the holster like a black streak, faster than the eye could follow.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Three shots tore the air apart.
The tall gunman's forehead exploded — he dropped instantly.
Scarface screamed as his shoulder burst open, shotgun flying from his hands.
A scavenger with a hunting rifle took a round square in the chest and crashed onto his back.
"GLENN — GET DOWN!"
Hank hit the ground in a combat roll, already grabbing for the smoke grenade.
He yanked the pin and hurled it forward.
PSSSSSH!!
A thick cloud of gray-white smoke erupted, swallowing half the unloading bay.
"Boss is hit!"
"Kill him! Kill him!"
Chaos detonated.
Shouts. Coughing. Screams. Swearing.
And blind, uncontrolled gunfire.
Shotguns thundered at point-blank range.
Handgun rounds zipped wildly through the smoke.
The cruiser's windows shattered under the hail of bullets.
Hank used the cover like a predator.
He dived into the smoke and into the heart of the crowd.
BANG! BANG!
Two more round bursts — one scavenger dropped mid-scream.
Close-quarters. Melee. Raw survival.
Their numbers no longer mattered when they couldn't aim.
A man with a machete burst through the smoke — just in time for Hank to slam into him.
Hank's left hand smashed the attacker's wrist aside, redirecting the blade.
The pistol barrel pressed under the man's jaw —
BANG!
A red plume burst from the back of his skull.
Hank spun aside just in time to avoid a thrusting knife.
He rammed the pistol downward —
CRACK!
The skull-shattering sound of a broken nose.
Before the man could scream, Hank's knee crashed into his gut, folding him in half like a dying shrimp.
BANG!
Another shot — another attacker dropped mid-trigger pull.
Smoke. Gunfire. Screams. Confusion.
Hank ripped through the chaos like a wolf in a flock of sheep.
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