Chapter 85: Chapter 85

The roar of the car’s engine cut through the tense silence as Harley screeched back to the group, tires kicking up clouds of dust and gravel. She slammed on the brakes, the car skidding to a stop near the carnage of the earlier SWAT massacre. The rear door flew open, revealing a chaotic pile of firearms and ammunition spilling across the back seat—rifles, pistols, magazines, and grenades, all looted from the wrecked convoy. The metallic tang of gun oil mingled with the lingering stench of blood and cordite, creating a heady cocktail that set Jason’s pulse racing. This wasn’t just a fight; it was a fucking goldmine of opportunity.

The four of them—Jason, Harley, Christine, and David—approached the arsenal, their boots crunching on the shattered asphalt. Jason’s eyes scanned the pile, his hands moving with practiced ease as he plucked a Colt M4A1 carbine from the heap. The weapon’s familiar weight settled in his grip, its cold steel a promise of controlled chaos. He checked the chamber, the click of the slide a comforting ritual in the midst of the madness. ’Old reliable,’ He thought, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

Christine, her expression cool and calculating, sifted through the weapons with the precision of a surgeon. Her fingers closed around an G3 SG1 semi-automatic sniper rifle, its sleek barrel glinting in the dawn light. The 7.62mm rounds, fed by a 20-round magazine, were designed for precision at up to 800 meters—a perfect tool for a woman who thrived on control. She ran her hand along the stock, her lips curling into a satisfied smile. ’This’ll do,’ She thought, already picturing the havoc she’d wreak from a distance.

David, ever the perfectionist, rummaged through the pile, his brow furrowed in dissatisfaction. None of the rifles felt right—too bulky, too slow for his lightning-fast style. Harley, watching him with a mischievous grin, unbuckled her tactical belt and tossed it his way. “Yo, catch! You’re gonna love these.”

David caught the belt mid-air, his eyes lighting up as he inspected the twin Glock 18s strapped to it. The pistols had been modified by their previous owner, fitted with double-stack magazines that held 33 rounds each. With a blistering fire rate of 1,100 rounds per minute, these beasts could empty their clips in under two seconds. ’Fucking perfect,’ David thought, his fingers tracing the sleek contours of the guns. “I like these,” He said, nodding at Harley. “Thanks.”

Harley’s grin widened, her eyes sparkling with chaotic glee. “Knew you’d dig ’em. Speed’s your thing, right?”

David nodded, his mind already racing with possibilities. For him, firepower and range were secondary; raw speed was king. The Glocks were an extension of his reflexes, tools for a man who moved like a phantom and killed like a machine.

Harley, however, hadn’t picked a weapon. She stood empty-handed, her posture relaxed, a playful smirk on her face. Jason raised an eyebrow, his voice laced with sarcasm. “What, you planning to fistfight the cops? Gonna go all Bruce Lee on their asses?”

Harley laughed, a sharp, infectious sound that cut through the tension. She jerked her thumb toward one of the wrecked SWAT vans nearby, where a heavy machine gun sat mounted on the roof, its barrel gleaming ominously. “Nah, boss. I’m thinking bigger.”

Jason followed her gaze, spotting the belt-fed monstrosity behind a reinforced ballistic shield. ’That’s my girl,’ He thought, a mix of pride and amusement flickering in his chest. Harley wasn’t just chaotic—she was a fucking force of nature.

With weapons chosen, the group turned to tactics. Even with their Level 10 Firearms Mastery, facing a hundred-plus heavily armed cops head-on was a death sentence without a plan. Numbers didn’t mean shit when you were outgunned and surrounded, but brains and precision could turn the tide. They huddled briefly, the air thick with anticipation, as they mapped out their positions.

Harley, bold as ever, volunteered to take the front line. “I’m going straight at ’em,” She said, her voice brimming with excitement. She’d man the heavy machine gun on the SWAT van, using its ballistic shield to soak up incoming fire while she mowed down the enemy. ’Like a goddamn action movie,’ She thought, her heart pounding with adrenaline.

Christine pointed to a rocky outcrop on a nearby hill, its elevated position offering a clear line of sight over the battlefield. “I’ll set up there,” She said, her voice calm but resolute. “Snipe their rear, pick off stragglers, and keep their heads down.” Her SG1 would turn the cops’ backline into a shooting gallery, exploiting gaps in their formation with surgical precision.

David, ever the wildcard, opted for mobility. “I’ll flank ’em,” He said, his tone casual but deadly. “Duck in and out between the boulders on either side of the road, kite ’em like fish.” His speed and uncanny aim would let him dance through the chaos, picking off targets with surgical headshots before vanishing into the terrain.

Jason listened, his mind racing. A tank on the front, a sniper in the back, and a ghost on the flanks. ’Fuck, that’s a solid lineup,’ He thought. Harley’s brute force, Christine’s precision, and David’s relentless mobility formed a perfect trifecta. He glanced at his own stats—Level 8 Firearms Mastery, respectable but a far cry from the godlike skill of his crew. For a moment, a flicker of envy sparked in his chest. ’They’re out here playing Call of Duty on expert mode, and I’m stuck at advanced.’ He pushed the thought aside, straightening his shoulders. He was the boss, the mastermind. Charging in guns blazing was for grunts; his job was to orchestrate the slaughter, cool and collected from the rear.

’Yeah, that’s it. I’m not jealous. I’m strategic,’ He told himself, though the smirk on his face felt a little forced.

He turned to Rhodes, who was still slumped in the dirt, blood pooling beneath him. With a grunt, Jason grabbed the colonel by the collar, hauling him up like a ragdoll. “You’re coming with me,” He said, tossing the man into the back of the sedan. Rhodes groaned, his wounds screaming, but Jason didn’t give a shit. The guy was too valuable to kill—not until he’d delivered the message to Stark. ’Stay alive, you bastard. You’re my ticket to fucking with Tony’s head.’

—

The team split, each moving to their assigned positions with predatory efficiency. Harley clambered onto the SWAT van, her hands flying over the heavy machine gun’s controls, the weapon’s weight grounding her like an anchor. Christine scaled the hill, her movements graceful but deliberate, setting up her sniper nest with the precision of a seasoned killer. David vanished into the shadows of the boulders, his twin Glocks gleaming as he melted into the terrain. Jason settled into the sedan, the driver’s seat creaking under his weight, his eyes scanning the horizon as he waited for the storm to break.

The wail of sirens grew deafening, a swarm of armored vans cresting the rise like a pack of wolves. Four lead vehicles surged forward, their reinforced hulls gleaming in the morning light, blocking the road in a wall of steel. Doors flew open, and dozens of SWAT officers poured out, their movements crisp and disciplined. They carried high-strength alloy riot shields, each one a slab of near-impenetrable metal. The officers formed a circular shield wall, a modern-day phalanx, their automatic rifles locked into firing ports as they advanced in pairs, slow and relentless. ’Fish-scale formation,’ Jason thought, recognizing the tactic. ’Clever bastards.’ They’d learned from David’s earlier massacre, banking on their shields to stop a sharpshooter’s bullets. ’Good luck with that.’

From her perch on the hill, Christine peered through her SG1’s high-powered scope, her breath steady as she tracked the formation. The fish-scale array looked formidable from the ground, a fortress of steel and firepower. But from her elevated vantage point, it was riddled with flaws—gaps in the shield line, exposed flanks, and overconfident officers who thought they were untouchable. She smirked, her finger curling around the trigger. ’Time to teach ’em.’

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The SG1 barked, spitting 7.62mm rounds with lethal precision. The first volley tore through the front rank, each bullet finding a forehead or temple, blood and brain matter spraying as a dozen SWAT officers crumpled. The shield wall wavered, gaps widening like cracks in a dam.

The gunfire was Harley’s cue. She popped up from behind the van’s ballistic shield, her hands gripping the heavy machine gun’s handles. “Surprise, motherfuckers!” She screamed, her voice wild with glee as she squeezed the trigger.

Da-da-da!

The gun roared, spitting a torrent of bullets, orange shell casings dancing in the air like deadly confetti. With her Level 10 Firearms Mastery, the weapon’s raw power was tamed into pinpoint accuracy, each round slamming into chests, throats, and guts. Another dozen cops fell, their screams echoing as the fish-scale formation began to collapse, shields clattering to the ground.

“Fuck!” The commander, tucked in the rear van, bellowed into his radio. “Fall back! Hold the line!” His voice was hoarse with panic, the plan unraveling faster than he could think.

Before the cops could regroup, a shadow moved on the roadside. David appeared atop a massive boulder, his silhouette stark against the rising sun. Twin Glocks crossed over his chest, he leaped, spinning 360 degrees in mid-air like a gymnast, his body a blur of motion. As he twisted, his fingers worked the triggers, the pistols barking in unison.

Da-da-da!

Sixty-six rounds erupted in a two-second storm, each bullet finding a mark—heads, necks, hearts. The fish-scale formation shattered, officers dropping like dominoes, their shields useless against David’s inhuman precision. He hit the ground, reloading in a fluid motion, the empty magazines clattering as he vanished back into the boulders.

“Flank! Enemy on the flank!” The commander screamed, his eyes bloodshot with rage and fear. The surviving SWAT officers swung their rifles toward the boulders, but David was already gone, a ghost in the morning haze.

—

Inside the sedan, Jason leaned back in the driver’s seat, his eyes half-closed, a faint smile playing on his lips. The symphony of gunfire—bang, bang, da-da-da—was music to his ears, each shot a note in a deadly orchestra. He tapped his finger on his thigh, keeping rhythm with the chaos. Beside him, Rhodes sat rigid, his face a mask of anguish and guilt. Every scream, every burst of gunfire, was a colleague’s life snuffed out, and he was powerless, trapped in the car with a monster. ’They’re dying out there, and I’m fucking useless,’ He thought, his hands trembling as he clutched his bleeding leg.

One minute into the firefight, the gunfire’s tempo slowed, the relentless barrage giving way to sporadic pops. Two minutes in, only a handful of shots rang out. By the third minute, silence fell, heavy and final, broken only by the distant hum of the wrecked vans’ engines.

Ding!

[Villainous ally ’David’ killed 51 SWAT officers. +5100 Villain Points. Current Progress: 14170/10000!]

Ding!

[Congratulations, Host has reached Level 11! +10 Attribute Points. Current Progress: 4170/11000!]

Ding!

[Villainous ally ’Harley Quinn’ killed 46 SWAT officers. +4600 Villain Points. Current Progress: 8770/11000!]

Ding!

[Villainous ally ’Christine’ killed 35 SWAT officers. +3500 Villain Points. Current Progress: 12270/11000!]

Ding!

[Congratulations, Host has reached Level 12! +10 Attribute Points. Current Progress: 1270/12000!]

Jason’s eyes snapped open, a grin spreading across his face as the system’s notifications flooded his vision. ’Fucking jackpot,’ He thought, his heart pounding with triumph. His crew had turned the battlefield into a slaughterhouse, racking up points like they were playing a goddamn video game. He glanced at Rhodes, whose face was ashen, his eyes hollow with the weight of the massacre. ’Welcome to my world, asshole,’ Jason thought, his grin widening. The cops never stood a chance.

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