At this moment, the silver Bugatti EB110 soared into the air, like a close-up shot in a movie. It flew parallel to the startled doves amidst intense gunfire, then, like a meteor, crashed straight toward the church doors.
Another shuddering impact!
The impact was immense. A slender figure, sent flying along with the church doors, crashed heavily into a distant corner and lay motionless.
As a result, the out-of-control Bugatti EB110 finally snagged on a protrusion of the building and shuddered to a halt.
Ross stared at the now-silent church, stupefied. "Detective Dean," he said dully, "I think I ran someone over..."
In front of the church doors, surrounding the car, stood several Southeast Asian men. They held submachine guns, their expressions just as dazed. They dumbly turned their heads to look at the car that had suddenly appeared in their midst, their fierce, dark faces filled with utter confusion.
A car falling from the sky?
Dean, without any hesitation, pulled out his pistol with one hand, slapped Ross across the face with the other, and yelled, "Open the car door!"
Damn it! This idiot drove straight into a crowd of gunmen and even ran one over! If they reacted and so much as pulled a trigger, he and Ross wouldn’t even need coffins; the Bugatti EB110 would become their iron tomb.
Stung by the slap and catching sight of several dark gun muzzles pointing their way, Ross finally came to his senses, frantically trying to stop the engine and open the door.
This car was equipped with the most advanced electronic control systems. If the engine didn’t stop, the doors wouldn’t open.
He pressed the engine stop button.
Dean tried the door, but it remained stubbornly shut.
Despair washed over Ross’s face. His voice turned shrill. "It won’t open..."
The orange glow of gunfire flickered.
Just in the nick of time, Dean forcefully pulled Ross from his seatbelt and shoved him down into the narrow space at their feet.
This damned car had so little space, and there was even a console between the driver’s and passenger’s seats. Otherwise, Dean wouldn’t have bothered to save Ross, the idiot; he would have used him as a human shield.
Poor him. At six-foot-two, he was a big, solidly built guy and couldn’t fully conceal himself. To minimize the chances of a vital spot being hit, he could only stick his large ass up high, exposing it to danger.
He just hoped the windows would shatter soon. Then he could return fire without worrying about ricochets.
But, unexpectedly, the anticipated sound of shattering glass never came. Instead, the car vibrated gently, and the windows merely thudded dully, as if someone were lightly tapping them with stones from outside.
Hearing this, Dean’s spirits lifted.
Holy shit! Could this car be specially modified with bulletproof glass?
He quickly looked up. The clear windshield and side windows were now pockmarked with dense white dots.
This car *had* been modified!
"Get up!" Dean hauled the curled-up Ross to his feet and gave the middle finger to the people outside.
Ross, yanked up, was so terrified he almost squeezed his eyes shut. But when he realized he was unharmed, he opened them wide in shocked disbelief. He saw bullets slamming against the car from all directions, but the glass and alloy body deflected them all, leaving only white spots.
A wave of joyous relief washed over Ross at having survived. Tears welled in his eyes as he exclaimed excitedly, "FK, I remember now! My father had this car specially modified. Unless the attackers have armor-piercing bullets, they can’t touch us for now!"
Dean glanced at Ross’s crotch, then looked away in disdain. Right in front of the grim-faced Southeast Asian gunmen, he took out his phone to call for backup. This was a wealthy suburban district. Once he called for backup, police cars would surround them in minutes.
Seeing the phone in Dean’s hand, one of the gunmen—a dark-skinned man with a fierce expression—raised his hand. He waved to his companions, and they all charged into the church.
Damn it! They knew they’d be caught if they didn’t run, yet they still went in to kill their targets? Were these specially trained death squads?
With that thought, Dean decided to let Ross, the rich kid, be the shield up front. He’d just be an invisible man this time.
As he was dialing, a few rapid gunshots and screams erupted from inside the church.
The next moment, a notification flashed in Dean’s mind: [Participated in killing all gunmen. Church shooting case solved. Experience Points +200]
Those gunmen... all dead in less than five seconds? And I just freeloaded a wave of Experience Points...
"Dean, what is it now?" came Lawrence’s lazy voice from the other end of the phone.
Dean stared at the now completely silent church. His lips twitched. After a few seconds of silence, he said hesitantly, "Lawrence, send a hearse for me..."
Lawrence was efficient. Hearing Dean had been in a shootout, he acted fast. In a little over ten minutes, seven or eight police cars and an ambulance converged on the scene.
With their help, Dean and Ross finally climbed out of the wrecked Bugatti EB110.
Perhaps prompted by the sirens, the inner church door, which had been still, creaked open, and a somewhat distorted voice called out, "Hey, are those police officers outside?"
Dean furrowed his brows. That voice sounds familiar.
He pushed past the patrol officer blocking his way and shouted into the church, "We’ve surrounded the place! You have three seconds to come out with your hands up!"
As he finished speaking, a familiar head poked out from inside.
It was Kapu! The guy who taught him Krav Maga! What was *he* doing here?
Kapu spotted Dean and sighed in relief. "FK, Dean, it’s you! Quick, call the paramedics! Someone’s injured in here!"
"Stand down! Medics, with me!" Dean quickly stopped the surrounding patrol officers, who were raising their guns, and strode forward.
The room Kapu was in seemed to be a small, temporary rest area for the church. Inside, several bodies lay strewn about like broken dolls. These were the corpses of the Southeast Asian gunmen who had charged in earlier, their deaths horrific.
Dean looked at the wounds on the bodies, licking his dry lips. The scene was gruesome.
Their necks were twisted at unnatural angles, cervical vertebrae snapped. Limbs were contorted, chests caved in, as if they’d been hacked with axes or bludgeoned with sledgehammers.
They hadn’t died peacefully. Not at all.
Spent bullet casings and a few slightly bent submachine guns lay scattered around the corpses.
What in God’s name happened to these gunmen in those five seconds? Dean felt a chill.
His gaze shifted. Only then did he notice a bald old man lying on the floor behind Ross. The old man was also Southeast Asian, appearing to be in his sixties. He was gaunt and dressed as a priest. He clutched a wound on his thigh, his eyes closed, silent and remarkably calm.
Kapu paid Dean no mind. Seeing two male nurses arrive with a stretcher, he quickly helped them lift the old man onto it and get him to the ambulance.
Patrol officers had already cordoned off the area.
Once the ambulance departed, Kapu finally walked over to Dean, still shaken. "Dean, give me a cigarette," he said, his voice tinged with lingering fear. "FK, I almost died in here today." He glared at Dean as he added, "And it’s all your fault!"
Dean, cigarette in hand, just stood there dumbfounded, a bewildered expression on his face.
What’s that got to do with me?