This intelligence update didn’t help him, as he was facing two well-armed suspects both firing automatic weapons when all he had was three mags for his service weapons and two for the smaller piece tucked in the rig under his left armpit. He dropped and rolled, taking cover behind the engine block of an abandoned cab before rising to his knee and looking for a target. They were gone, and all around him the street erupted in more chaos as the fire grew behind him and people’s screams pierced the night. He thought that someone behind him may have been hit because the screams from that direction swelled in pitch and intensity, but his priority was the shooters.
A massive part of his training had been dedicated to this. An active shooter scenario was something that was practiced and trained to law enforcement across most of the world. He remembered, vividly, being made to sit through the footage from Mumbai where a guy with an AK and a thousand rounds of 7.62 had run riot like a one-man army until he was put down. The damage a single man or woman could do with an automatic weapon was incredible, even worse in places like the UK where most cops relied on pepper spray and a stern talking to rather than firearms. Now he was faced with an active shooter situation, without backup, and he was outgunned by not one but both shooters.
He had sworn an oath, and he couldn’t allow himself to hide or run away.
The problem with the war on terror in any setting, be that war or in a scenario like Jake found himself, was that of rules. Jake had to justify every pull of his trigger, and he was identifiable by his uniform. His enemy, on the other hand, wore no uniform and abided by no rules that anyone knew of. They could kill, could murder, with impunity whereas he might walk straight by an enemy combatant and not even realize. When facing those limitations and those kinds of odds, the Western world was already losing the fight.
Except now he had a clear view of his quarry as they sprinted north. He followed, unthinkingly, only this time he didn’t announce his presence and wait to be fired on first to justify his actions. As far as he was concerned, he had already given them fair warning of who he was, and anyone in NYC who didn’t fully comprehend that firing an automatic weapon at an officer of the NYPD would result in lethal force being used against them was just plain tired of living. Or prepared for martyrdom, he thought more worryingly.
He knew that any further verbal warnings, or pointless shouts for them to freeze, would only result in them turning and laying down more fire at him, and that would mean endangering the lives of the people running to get off the street. Keeping low, he saw the lead shadow turn and take a knee, scanning the street in his direction over a rifle barrel. Jake dropped flat, skidding on the sidewalk and losing his hat. Instinctively he reached for the radio on his shoulder, clicking the button but saying nothing. It made no noise and he remembered it was dead.
He was on his own.
Cal put his handful of cash in the bag held by the thug who appeared to have been born without a visible neck. His hackles rose as the thug’s eyebrows under his receding hairline raised when he took a closer look at Louise beside him. Cal stiffened, but Louise placed a hand on his leg and smiled as she dropped in her handful of small notes and tried to placate the brutal man. He shot one last look of warning to Cal and moved on for greater spoils.
“Don’t even think about it,” Louise whispered to him. “Y’all ain’t big enough to take on these assholes.”
Cal didn’t care at that moment. He was offended, deeply, right to the core of his very soul, by these goons. Taking his money was one thing, but after what he had survived today already he was sure as hell not going to get killed by some petty thieves, especially not ones who were looking at Louise like they did.
“Gentlemen, please,” Cal heard from the front of the room, unmistakably Sebastian’s cultured tones. “I implore you not to hurt any of our guests, just take what you want and leave.”
Cal groaned inside. As sure as he was that Sebastian had to make the attempt, he knew that the thugs would be highly unlikely to respond positively to being told to—no matter how politely it was phrased—get the fuck out. The lead thug stopped, turned toward the source of the voice, and asked him to repeat himself. Sebastian stood, straightened his jacket, and calmly asked the thugs to go about their intended business and then leave, peacefully.
The thug smiled. “You hear that boys?” he said to his goons, laughing. “The gentleman here wishes us to leave peacefully,” he sneered, producing the oversized handgun from his waistband and waving it around the room as he spoke. He began to walk toward Sebastian slowly, waving the gun around recklessly in tune with his words as though he were directing some grotesque orchestra. “Well I regret to inform the gentleman that our business will not be concluded for some time,” he said, stepping close to Sebastian and craning his neck to look the suave man in the eye. Finding the height difference not to his liking he turned away in a feint, but spun and brought the barrel of his heavy pistol round to crack it across the smug man’s face.
Watch this, bitches, he thought to himself triumphantly, baring his teeth with a grunt as he put all his effort into the cheap shot.
His momentum pulled him straight through where the contact should have been, and he wasn’t rewarded with the sickening crunch he was anticipating. Instead he spun off balance, half stumbling to the floor tangled in his own feet.
And that was when the strike hit him. It wasn’t a punch as such, wasn’t a fist hitting him as he had experienced so many times in his life, but was more like being stabbed. Incidentally, that was also something he had experienced more than once in his life, but neither occasion had prepared him for this. A single protruding knuckle impacted just to the left of his windpipe, having the instant effect of removing the last shred of control he had over his feet. Worse still, before he could fulfill the intentions of gravity and hit the plush carpeted ground, a second jab impacted his right eye and blinded him. He finally finished his uncontrolled descent and hit the carpet so hard he bounced up a little. As he spun, in between the two sniper-accurate jabs that rendered him useless, Sebastian had snatched the gun from his hand and raised it to the surprised thugs, switching the aim from one to the other.
Confusion reigned over them, their panic evident in the glances they threw at one another. “Don’t!” Sebastian warned them. “Guns on the floor and get out,” he told them, waiting a few seconds before racking back the topslide of the weapon. A spinning brass round ejected from the port, showing that the thug already had a bullet chambered, but Sebastian wanted to make sure. He had learned long ago that the psychological effect of the action went a long way to invoke fear, like the unmistakable racking of a pump action shotgun. They both put down their guns and held up their hands.
“And take this”—he paused and shot a sharp kick into the ribs of the moaning, insensible gangster at his feet— “gentleman with you,” he finished, earning a small giggle from the few guests not paralyzed by fear.
Slowly, cautiously, the goons crept forward and dragged their diminutive boss with them. Sebastian followed them all the way to the shattered window they had used to admit themselves, shooting a glance at his security guard who has down and bleeding from the head. He watched as they retreated into the darkness before giving instructions to block the shattered window with furniture, for his remaining intact security guards to utilize the sawed-off shotguns they had now inherited, and for the injured man to be given medical attention, all before he furrowed his brow and thought hard about their next move. Cal found him there, flanked by Louise, still deep in thought.