CHAPTER 80: CHAPTER 80

The abandoned factory was still four or five kilometers away, its rusted silhouette barely visible against the dawn sky. David’s instincts screamed that there was still time to warn Jason, giving his boss a chance to slip the noose tightening around him. He reached for his phone, his fingers hovering over the screen, only to freeze. ’What the fuck is Jason’s number?’ His mind drew a blank, the system’s implanted memories offering no help. All he had was a string of asterisks—*********—mocking him with its uselessness. "Goddamn it," He muttered, his jaw tightening. No time to fuck around.

With the police convoy barreling toward Jason’s hideout, David made a snap decision. After three years apart, he owed his boss a proper welcome—a bloody one. His hand dipped into his duffel bag, pulling out a sleek steel pen, its innocuous appearance belying its deadly potential. The taxi driver, a chatty man in his forties, was oblivious, his eyes glued to the flashy armored vans ahead, their sirens piercing the early morning stillness of South LA. He didn’t notice David’s subtle movements, the predator’s calm settling over the backseat.

David popped the pen’s cap, his muscles coiling like a spring. In one fluid motion, he lunged, clamping a hand over the driver’s mouth, stifling his shocked gasp. "Sorry, man," David whispered, his voice cold as he drove the ten-centimeter steel point through the driver’s temple, piercing bone with a sickening crunch. The man’s body went limp, his life snuffed out in an instant. David released him, giving the corpse a gentle push, letting it slump forward, the driver’s foot slamming onto the gas pedal.

The taxi roared to life, its engine snarling as it surged forward, tires screeching on the asphalt. David rifled through the glovebox, snatching a Glock and two spare magazines, their weight familiar in his hands. With his duffel slung over his shoulder, he kicked open the door and rolled out, hitting the ground hard but springing to his feet as the taxi careened toward the police convoy. The crash was deafening—a bone-rattling bang as the taxi slammed into the rear armored van, metal crumpling like paper.

Inside the van, the driver’s face smashed into the steering wheel, blood gushing from his nose. "Fuck!" He roared, slamming the brakes. The rear SWAT team member’s head cracked against the seatback, stars exploding in his vision. The entire convoy screeched to a halt, fifty elite operatives spilling out, rifles snapping to their shoulders, eyes scanning for threats. The taxi’s engine smoked, the driver’s body slumped over the wheel, a grisly tableau under the morning sun.

The SWAT team froze, confusion rippling through their ranks. "What the hell? This guy drunk or what?" One muttered, staring at the wreck. Two officers approached cautiously, weapons raised, one on each side of the taxi. They yanked open the driver’s door, revealing a blood-soaked interior, the steel pen jutting from the corpse’s skull like a macabre trophy.

"Lookout!" One officer shouted, his voice cracking with alarm.

Bang! A bullet, fired from an unseen vantage, punched through his forehead, dropping him like a sack of meat. No twitch, no gasp—just instant death. The second officer dove for cover, but the team’s discipline kicked in, the remaining operatives hitting the dirt, scrambling behind vehicles and concrete barriers.

Bang! Bang! Bang! A relentless barrage of gunfire erupted, each shot a surgical strike. Six more SWAT members collapsed, crimson blooming between their eyes, their bodies crumpling before they could scream. The survivors felt ice in their veins, their training no match for the unseen killer. The gunfire paused for a heartbeat, then resumed from a new angle, seven more officers falling, each with a perfect headshot. The air stank of blood and cordite, the convoy’s confidence shattered.

They’d lost over a dozen men in seconds, and the enemy remained a ghost. Fear gnawed at their resolve, the kind of primal dread that turned seasoned pros into quivering wrecks. "One shooter!" A surviving officer bellowed, his voice hoarse. "One fucking guy with aim like a goddamn machine!"

"Call for backup, now!" Another shouted, fumbling for his radio, his hands shaking as the specter of death loomed.

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Back at LAPD headquarters, the conference room’s earlier tension had given way to smug anticipation. The three big shots—LAPD chief, FBI bureau head, and military general—lounged around the table, their earlier bickering replaced by jovial banter. A tray of chilled champagne awaited, ready to toast the inevitable rescue of Avril and Christine. They’d already mentally drafted their press statements, each imagining the headlines praising their leadership.

A video call buzzed through, the screen flickering to life. The LAPD chief grinned, leaning back. "Damn, these guys are fast. Half an hour, and they’ve already got the hostages?"

The general chuckled, swirling his coffee. "Fifty of our best, taking down a few punks? It’s a fucking cakewalk."

The tech patched the call through, and a panicked face filled the screen, blood splattered across his cheek. "Convoy’s under attack! Request immediate backup!" He screamed, his voice cracking with terror.

The room went deathly silent, the bosses’ smiles vanishing like smoke. The LAPD chief leaned forward, his face pale. "Attacked? By how many?"

"One!" The officer shrieked, his eyes wild. "Just one fucking guy!"

The bosses stared, dumbstruck, their minds reeling. Fifty heavily armed elites, ambushed by a single shooter? This wasn’t a prank—it was a nightmare. The chief snapped out of it, barking, "Hold the line! Reinforcements are on the way!"

Bang! Bang! Bang! Another volley of gunfire cut through the feed, the officer’s head jerking as a bullet tore through his brow, blood spraying the camera. The radio clattered to the ground, the lens fixed on his lifeless face, frozen in shock and despair. The conference room was a tomb, the silence suffocating as the reality sank in. One man had butchered their best, and they didn’t even know his face.

The general roared, shattering the stupor. "What the fuck are you waiting for? Get Rhodes on the line! Send the chopper for support! Mobilize every cop, agent, soldier, and medic in the city—move, now!"

The room erupted into chaos, aides scrambling to relay orders. SWAT teams waiting at the precinct stormed to their vehicles, engines roaring as they raced toward South LA, their faces grim with the knowledge they were charging into a slaughter.

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In the South LA suburbs, David crouched behind a massive boulder, his breath steady despite the carnage he’d unleashed. Three magazines—twenty-one rounds—had claimed twenty-one lives, each bullet a perfect kill shot. Thirty seconds, and he’d cut the convoy’s strength in half, his movements a blur of lethal precision. He tossed the empty Glock aside, its slide locked back, and scanned the battlefield. A fallen SWAT member lay nearby, his body surrounded by a cache of rifles, their matte black finishes glinting in the dawn light.

David exploded into motion, sprinting across the open ground, his body low and fluid. The remaining SWAT team, cowering behind their vans or sprawled in the dirt, missed their chance to spot him, their nerve shattered by his relentless assault. He dove, rolling through the dust, and came up gripping two automatic rifles, their weight a promise of more death. With a feral grin, he vaulted onto the roof of an armored van, his silhouette stark against the rising sun.

"Come on, you pussies!" He taunted, his voice booming across the carnage. "Twenty of you left, and I’m just one guy. Are you too scared to shoot back?"

A SWAT officer, hiding under a van, couldn’t resist. He peeked out, thinking his position was concealed, his rifle trembling in his hands. Bang! David’s shot was instantaneous, the bullet punching through the man’s forehead, his body slumping lifelessly. The gunfire gave away David’s perch, and the surviving officers, driven by desperation, leaped from cover, unloading a hail of bullets from all directions.

David’s sneer didn’t waver. He squeezed the triggers, the rifles barking in his hands. Rat-tat-tat! Bullets tore through the air like a swarm of hornets, each finding its mark with inhuman precision. The SWAT team’s counterattack collapsed in a spray of blood, their bodies jerking as headshots dropped them one by one. Crimson mist hung in the air, the ground slick with gore. They never saw his face, never stood a chance against a man whose aim was less human and more machine—a fucking aimbot in the flesh, oblivious to wind, recoil, or fear.

David stood atop the van, the rifles smoking, the battlefield silent save for the distant wail of approaching sirens. He’d bought Jason time, but the clock was ticking, and the city’s wrath was coming.

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