Chapter 40 — The Counterstrike
Hank tore through the mob under a storm of gunfire.
Every stop, every turn, every movement came with a shot or a brutal close-quarters strike.
Efficient.
Cold.
Precise.
He was using every ounce of combat training he had — and then some.
But there were too many of them.
Bullets tore past his arms and shoulders, shaving the air beside him—
THUMP!
Hank staggered — pain exploded across his chest.
A handgun round struck the front of his plate carrier.
The armor stopped the bullet, but the impact left him breathless.
"There! He's over there!"
"Surround him!"
Hank's eyes flashed. He dove forward and rolled just as a burst of gunfire swept through the space where he'd been standing seconds ago.
Mid-roll, his hand closed around a pump-action shotgun somebody had dropped.
CH-CHAK— BOOM!
No aim needed at this range.
The point-blank blast hit the charging raider like a freight train — hurling him backward with a roar of agony, his chest reduced to pulp.
As the shotgun ran dry, Hank swung it like a club, smashing another man across the skull — then raised the P226 again, firing into the flank to force enemies back.
He finally reached Glenn.
The boy was still face-down on the ground, trembling so hard he couldn't move while bullets tore through the air around him.
Hank grabbed him and sliced the ropes with his tactical knife.
"On your feet — stick with me!"
He dragged Glenn along, firing suppressive shots in every direction while charging toward the cruiser.
"Don't let them run!"
"Cut them off!"
Scarface — one hand clamped to his bleeding shoulder — ducked behind a shipping container and screamed orders:
"Bury them where they stand!"
Gunfire erupted, hotter than ever.
Hank shoved Glenn toward the cruiser's passenger door.
He used the vehicle itself as hard cover, returning brutal fire toward the charging raiders.
"GET IN!" he roared, wrenching open the driver's door.
Glenn rolled into the passenger seat, shaking uncontrollably.
Hank leapt behind the wheel — the key was still in the ignition.
He twisted it.
WHRR— ROOOAR!
The V8 engine bellowed to life.
"Hold tight!" Hank shouted.
The gearshift slammed into Reverse, and he stomped the accelerator.
The cruiser's tires screeched, smoking against the pavement, then the vehicle shot backward like a wild animal.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
Rounds peppered the vehicle — the rear windshield shattered instantly.
Hank kept his eyes locked on the rear-view mirror, weaving the car backward between equipment piles and rusted obstacles, barely avoiding impact.
SCREEEE—!
A brutal drift turn swung the cruiser around, pointing the nose at the factory's gate.
"STOP HIM!" Scarface howled.
A shotgun barrel poked out from a second-floor window.
Hank's pupils contracted. He slammed the pedal to the floor and dropped as low in the seat as possible.
BOOM!
Steel pellets hammered the hood and windshield frame in a hail of sparks and noise.
Too late.
The cruiser — roaring like a steel juggernaut — smashed through a cluster of tipped dumpsters and burst out of the factory gate, tearing onto the open road.
Gunfire and screaming shrank in the distance as the factory vanished behind them.
Hank kept driving hard until they'd taken several turns and the factory was long gone.
Only then did he ease off the gas.
Both men were drenched in adrenaline, gasping for breath.
The smell of blood, cordite, and sweat filled the cabin.
"Officer—!" Glenn stammered, looking at Hank, then at the ruined rear windshield, then back at him again, struggling to form words.
"I'm fine," Hank muttered.
He glanced down — the plate carrier had stopped the bullet.
He dug the flattened, misshapen slug from the vest and tossed it out the window.
His ribs screamed with pain, but nothing felt broken.
"I—I'm okay too!" Glenn patted himself all over, finally realizing he was alive. His shoulders dropped in pure relief.
Hank did a rapid ammo check.
The P226 still held 15 rounds.
Two loaded magazines remained in the vest — 55 rounds total.
That was all the long-range firepower he had left.
The assault pack — with most of the ammo — was still inside the factory.
He looked at Glenn — shaken, bruised, alive.
Then he looked in the rear-view mirror toward the factory — though it was long out of sight.
They couldn't just leave.
The enemy had taken massive losses.
There was no way they would just let it go.
So Hank would hit them with a counterstrike — a brutal one.
The decision crystallized instantly.
He twisted the steering wheel sharply and turned into a narrow alley.
"Glenn," Hank said, voice disturbingly calm. "Can you wait here?"
Glenn blinked — then nodded instinctively.
"Good."
Hank pulled the key from the ignition and pressed it into Glenn's palm.
"Hide here. Don't make a sound. Wait for me to come back."
"And… what about you?" Glenn's voice trembled. He already knew the answer — and he didn't like it.
"Me?"
A cold glint flashed in Hank's eyes.
"I'm going to deliver them a farewell present."
"That's suicide — there are too many of them!" Glenn grabbed his arm desperately.
Hank tore his hand free.
"That's exactly why this is the perfect moment."
He opened the door and stepped out.
Glenn knew he couldn't stop him. He grit his teeth and forced out, "Officer… please be careful!"
"Clementine is waiting for you to take her to Savannah!"
Hank froze for a heartbeat.
"…Yeah."
His voice dropped to a low rumble. "I know. Stay hidden."
Then he walked away without looking back.
Glenn stared until Hank disappeared from sight.
He swallowed hard, crawled into the backseat, and gripped Lucille with shaking hands.
---
Hank reached the factory again — not through the gate this time, but the back.
The wall was high, but a stack of discarded tires formed a makeshift ramp.
He sprinted, stepped off the pile, grabbed the top of the wall, and slipped over it with a smooth pull-up, landing silently inside the yard.
The chaos inside hadn't fully settled.
Angry shouting echoed across the site.
Scarface snarled orders while his men cleared the scene.
Most of the smoke had faded.
Hank crouched behind a heap of rust-covered scrap metal and surveyed the situation.
Around the yard lay ten corpses, most with execution-style headshots — the gang killing wounded allies to prevent them turning.
A few survivors writhed on the ground in pain.
Of the original twenty-plus, only about ten were still able to fight — shaken, wounded, and rattled.
Nobody could have predicted that someone under hostage threat would fight through them alone, escape, and take the hostage with him.
Scarface had wrapped a quick bandage around his wounded shoulder.
Pale and furious, he screamed at his men:
"Useless trash! That was my ambush! My score! And you idiots blew it!"
"If my brother hears about this, he's gonna laugh in my face!"
"Find every weapon that still works! He couldn't have gotten far! When I catch that bastard, I'm gonna skin him alive!"
Hank waited — patient as a venomous snake.
One scavenger, swearing nonstop, dragged a corpse right past the pile of scrap metal where Hank hid.
Now.