Chuck versus The Last Wish

Chapter 33 – Enemy at the Gates

Sarah and Chuck walked back toward their room, bone-weary and exhausted. Chuck let out a massive yawn just as an operator carrying an assault rifle stepped silently out from the stairwell, nearly smashing Chuck in the face with his suppressor.

Sarah reacted faster.

In a single, fluid motion, she shoved Chuck violently aside while knocking the barrel of the rifle away with her other hand.

The suppressor spat three muffled shots with dull pops. The rounds slammed into the ceiling, sending jagged chunks of plaster raining down onto the stairs.

The operator was already pulling the weapon back for another angle when Sarah lunged at him. She seized the handguard, twisted it sideways, then drove her knee hard into the man's groin.

“Chuck!”

That was all it took. A violent surge of images flashed through Chuck's mind as the Intersect activated. The world seemed to slow to a crawl. He instantly saw the operator's center of gravity shift, mapped his left elbow, and calculated the line of leverage.

Moving on pure instinct, Chuck caught the man's wrist, twisted it outward, and launched him over the railing with a textbook shoulder throw.

The operator crashed onto the hardwood floor below with a heavy, sickening thud.

“That…” Chuck gasped, catching his breath. “That definitely hurt.”

Sarah was already ignoring him, her focus shifting down the corridor. Another shadow materialized at the far end of the hallway. A thin green laser beam swept across the wall.

“Another one!”

The second operator stepped silently out of the darkness, raising his weapon. Before he could acquire his target, Sarah pulled out her knife and sent the blade flashing through the air.

The operator tried to duck, but the knife embedded itself deep into him, he fell to the floor face down and remained motionless.A third operator appeared and that single moment of hesitation was all Chuck needed. He rushed him, closing the distance instantly.

The operator switched to close combat, yanking the carbine across his body to use as a strike weapon, but Chuck was already inside the weapon's effective range. Chuck drove a sharp elbow strike into him, forcing the operator off balance.

Sarah was there instantly, kicking the weapon out of his hands. The carbine skidded across the slick hardwood floor.

The man reached for his sidearm, but Sarah caught his hand and drove her right elbow hard into his face. It still wasn't enough—the attacker shoved her aside, completed the motion, and pulled the pistol free.

He aimed it at Sarah just as Chuck hurled a vase straight into his face.

The impact bought Sarah the second she needed to step aside. Chuck didn't hesitate—he launched himself forward, driving both feet squarely into the man's chest. The force sent the attacker tumbling down the stairs until he came to rest beside the first operator at the bottom.

Suddenly, gunfire erupted from the ground floor—short, controlled bursts echoing through the foyer.

Sarah shot Chuck a single, urgent glance, then snatched the fallen weapon from the floor.

“Get Müller!”

They both took off at a full sprint as more gunshots echoed violently from deep inside the house.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Casey pulled Gertrude closer with one arm, his grip firm.

“You know…” he grumbled, his voice low in the quiet room.

“What?” she asked, looking up at him with a faint glint of amusement in her eyes.

“You’ve been provoking me all night.”

Gertrude smiled, her gaze sharp and bright. “And it’s working.”

She leaned in and kissed him. Casey returned the kiss, his arm wrapping around her back. For several long seconds, the surrounding quiet of the house held, and the world around them ceased to exist.

Then… Casey’s eyes snapped open.

Gertrude froze in the exact same fraction of a second, the kiss ending in an instant.

“Did you hear that?” she asked quietly, her tone shifting immediately into cold operational focus.

Casey nodded, his jaw setting hard. “Suppressor.”

Gertrude leaned down in a single fluid motion and picked up the pistol she had left resting on the couch cushion. Beside her, Casey popped open a hidden wall cabinet and pulled out a compact, short-barreled assault rifle. He checked the magazine, slapped it back into the magwell, and racked the bolt, chambering a round with a sharp, metallic clack.

“Our romantic evenings always end like this,” Gertrude sighed softly, taking up a low tactical stance.

A faint, dangerous smile appeared at the corner of Casey’s mouth. “No.” He heaved his body armor over his head, tightening the straps. “The good ones end with an explosion.”

At that exact moment, a chaotic cascade of noise erupted from upstairs—shouting, heavy impacts, and scrambling boots. The next second, as Casey and Gertrude both started heading toward the foyer, a man came tumbling head-over-heels down the upper steps, crashing hard onto the hardwood floor and sprawling flat beside another operator already lying unconscious there.

Before the dust could settle, three more heavily armed operators appeared in the hallway at once, simply flooding into view like a wave.

Casey didn't hesitate. He raised his rifle and opened fire.

Short, precise bursts ripped through the hall.

The three operators immediately dove for cover. One slid low behind the heavy wooden stair railing, another threw himself behind a structural pillar, while the third answered Casey's fire with two quick, suppressed shots.

The rounds slammed violently into the plaster beside Casey’s head, showering his shoulder with fine white dust.

Gertrude dropped low behind the sofa, leaning around the armrest to return fire with two quick, calculated pistol shots.

“Three!” she shouted over the thunder of the gunfire.

“I know!” Casey growled through gritted teeth.

He leaned out and fired another controlled burst toward the stairs, keeping the breach team pinned behind their cover.

Outside the safe house, the distant wail of police sirens began to grow rapidly louder, cutting through the night—followed immediately by the heavy, terrifying roar of machine guns opening fire in the street.

XXXXXXXXXXX

A police car screeched to a sudden stop at the far end of the street, its siren wailing loudly into the damp night air.

“Shots fired! Multiple automatic weapons!” crackled a panicked voice over the radio, but the thunderous roar of heavy gunfire quickly drowned out even the piercing siren.

The two uniformed officers scrambled frantically out of the cruiser, diving low to take cover behind the heavy engine hood.

One of them cautiously leaned around the edge of the fender to assess the threat.

At that exact moment, a short, devastating burst of heavy machine-gun fire slammed into the wet pavement directly in front of them. A bright tracer round sparked violently off the cobblestone, ricocheting upward into the darkness and leaving a blinding, red-glowing streak in its wake.

“Machine gun! Machine gun!” he shouted, ducking his head back behind cover as stone fragments showered over his uniform.

The second officer was already clutching his radio transmitter, his knuckles white. “Dispatch, this is Delta-21! Attackers are heavily armed! Requesting immediate tactical support!”

The dispatch radio responded almost instantly through a spray of static. “All units be asvised, I repeat, all units! Military-grade weapons in use within the district. Extreme caution advised. RAID support is en route.”

Another violent burst tore through the row of parked cars along the curb, the high-caliber rounds instantly ripping through the glass light bar of one of the police cruisers in a shower of blue plastic.

“Dispatch! Where the hell is the backup?” the officer shouted into the mic over the deafening clatter of the heavy gun.

“Delta-21, additional units two minutes out.”

“Where the hell is RAID?” the other officer cursed under his breath, pressing his back flat against the metal frame of the tire.

More police cars arrived at the perimeter with screeching tires, only to be methodically pinned down the moment their doors opened by the relentless, sweeping lines of fire.

A few seconds later, the radio crackled once more through the drifting gunsmoke. “Delta-21! RAID arrival within five minutes.”

Inside the three-story townhouse, another fresh volley of gunshots erupted, echoing wildly through the structure.

The two pinned officers exchanged a look of sheer, bewildered disbelief through the strobe of flashing blue lights.

“What the hell is going on in there?”

XXXXXXXXXXX

The guest room door suddenly flew open with a sharp creak.

Morgan stepped out into the hallway clad in his plaid pajamas, rubbing his eyes and blinking sleepily against the chaotic noise echoing through the house.

“Guys… what the hell is—”

Before he could finish his sentence, a high-caliber bullet punched straight through the wooden doorframe, missing his head by mere inches.

Morgan instantly dropped flat onto his stomach, slamming against the hardwood floor. Slowly, his eyes tracked upward, staring in terror at the fresh, splintered hole inches above where his ear had just been.

“Okay…”

Thump.

Another shot slammed into the masonry beside him. A chunk of plaster exploded from the wall in a cloud of dust, splattering violently across his face and beard.

“That definitely isn't the neighbor!”

He threw himself flat again, pressing his chest against the floorboards, and began scrambling forward on all fours toward the middle of the hallway.

“Casey! Sarah! Anybody!” Morgan shouted over the booming gunfire. “I don't like this!”

XXXXXXXXXXX

Chuck had already kicked in the heavy door to Müller’s room with a sharp crack.

“Doctor!”

Müller startled in place, throwing his hands up in alarm. “What’s happening?”

“Johnson.”

That single word was enough. In an instant, the remaining color drained completely from Müller’s face, leaving him deathly pale under the dim ceiling light.

Chuck snatched a bulletproof vest off the nearby chair and tossed it straight into the scientist's lap. “Put it on! Now!”

More violent bursts of gunfire rang out from the lower floor, punctuated by the distinct, terrifying cadence of the heavy machine guns echoing in from the rain-slicked street outside.

Sarah’s voice cut through the dynamic noise, echoing urgently down the hallway. “Chuck! Hurry!”

Chuck glanced back toward the doorway for a brief moment, verifying their retreat path. “Doctor, stay directly behind me! Whatever happens, don’t stop!”

Müller nodded frantically, clutching the tactical vest to his chest. “Understood.”

Chuck cautiously peeked his head out into the hallway. Sarah was crouched low at the head of the stairwell, her captured assault rifle locked on the lower floor to cover the choke point. A few feet away, Morgan lay flat on the floor, frantically scrambling to press himself against any bit of available cover.

“Chuck!” Morgan shouted over the deafening pops of suppressed fire. “You have some kind of genius plan, right?”

Chuck surveyed the smoke-filled hallway, then let out a heavy, stressed sigh. “Get out alive?!”

Then, as his eyes swept over the layout of the adjacent structures, an idea suddenly struck him.

“Sarah! Not down! Up!”

Sarah glanced back without dropping her guard. “To the roof?”

“No. The house next door!”

“Pretty genius!” Morgan gasped, crawling toward the staircase on all fours as fast as he could.

Inside the room, Müller hurriedly hauled the heavy bulletproof vest over his shoulders and pulled the side straps tight. His fingers were trembling violently, and the sharp, ripping sound of the velcro fasteners seemed painfully loud in the brief, fleeting silences between bursts of gunfire.

Sarah slowly backed down the corridor, the stock of the captured assault rifle pressed firmly against her shoulder. The sights never drifted from the stairwell for even a fraction of a second, the trembling green laser at the end of the barrel sweeping across the wooden railing as she kept Johnson's operators pinned below.

“Morgan! Move!”

Morgan finally managed to push himself up onto his feet. One leg of his plaid pajama pants was pulled halfway up to his knee, and he shuffled frantically barefoot across the cold hardwood floor.

“I’m trying!” he gasped, dusting plaster out of his hair. “But I’d like to officially point out that it’s much harder to be a hero in pajamas!”

Sarah reached out, grabbed his arm in an iron grip, and practically dragged him along beside her. “Now!”

Turning as one, the four of them vanished down the shadowy hallway, heading quickly toward the rear of the house.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Across the street, propped behind the low stone wall, the two-man crew operating the M240B was submerged in their own deafening, mechanical universe.

The gunner’s forehead was pressed hard against the rubber brow-pad, his body shuddering with every heavy impulse of the receiver. Bright orange muzzle flashes illuminated the swirling gunpowder smoke in rhythmic, blinding strobes. Beside him a deep pile of hot, steaming brass casings and disintegrating steel links, the assistant gunner knelt in the dirt, his hand guiding the ammunition line.

"Keep the belt clear!" the gunner screamed into the loader’s ear, his voice fighting against the continuous, concussive barking of the weapon. "Don't let it drag in the gravel!"

The loader didn't answer, just adjusted the belt. The gunner’s finger buried in the trigger guard, sweeping the heavy barrel between the police cars.

"Prepare the next belt!" the gunner shouted, as the loader reached back into the canvas ammo satchel with his left hand. He pulled a fresh two-hundred-round belt, the heavy brass clinking together like iron teeth. As the final links of the first belt whipped upward into the feed mechanism, the loader lined up the belt.

The gunner opened the feed tray cover, the loader placed the belt.

"Keep going!" the loader roared, slapping the gunner's shoulder.

The gunner yanked the heavy charging handle back—a sharp, mechanical click locking the bolt to the rear. He squeezed the trigger. A single shot punched into the night air before the gun died with a dull, sickening metallic thud. The bolt stuck forward on a pinched casing.

"Shit!"

Without missing a beat, the gunner reached up with his gloved left hand and slapped the feed tray cover latches, ripping the heavy steel lid open. Wisps of acrid, grey smoke curled out of the hot chamber. A crushed, bent brass shell was wedged sideways against the feed pawl.

“Come’on, get on it!” yelled the loader. “Faster!”

The gunner jammed his gloved index finger into the mechanism, violently sweeping the hot ruined casing out onto the cobblestones and yanked the charging handle again and again.

Before the casing even hit the ground, the assistant gunner shoved the lead tab of the fresh belt squarely over the tray pawls.

“Go!”

The gunner smashed the heavy top cover down into place, locking it shut. He grabbed the charging handle, hauled it back until the bolt locked into the rear sear, and pulled the trigger.

The M240B roared back to life with bone-rattling chatter, spitting a continuous ribbon of fire and brass into the rain as the heavy barrel hammered away.

"Keep going!"

XXXXXXXXXXX

The lead RAID armored transport rounded the corner hard, its heavy Michelin tires screaming in a long, agonized skid across the wet cobblestones.

Then the street opened up before them, and the world inside the steel cabin went dead silent.

Framed through the thick, rain-streaked bulletproof glass, the quiet Paris avenue didn't look like a crime scene—it looked like the remnants of a meat grinder. Police cruisers sat dead at grotesque angles, their doors blasted off their hinges, windshields caved inward into thousands of tiny, glittering diamonds. The flashing blue light-bars strobed uselessly through a swirling shroud of greasy black smoke, painting the scene in sickening, rhythmic pulses of electric blue and shadow. Near the intersection, a patrol car burned with a guttural, roaring hiss, sending thick plumes of toxic smoke into the damp morning sky.

And then there was the pavement.

Bodies lay strewn across the wet asphalt like discarded rags. Some were unnatural in their stillness, pooled in dark, expanding halos that rain couldn't wash away fast enough. Others were still fighting. A young patrol officer, his uniform soaked in dark crimson, was desperately dragging himself across the cobblestones on his elbows, leaving a thick, glistening smear behind him. Another officer lunged out from behind a shredded tire, grabbed the screaming man by his tactical vest, and hauled him backward into cover behind a mound of pulverized masonry.

Inside the dark interior of the RAID transport, red staging lights reflected off wide, terrified eyes.

“Jesus…” an operator rasped into his throat mic, his hand tightening so hard around his carbine’s pistol grip.

The heavy transport ground down its speed, the driver’s boots hovering over the brake as he navigated a graveyard of burning metal.

“Seal the perimeter! Block the rear alley!” the team leader barked, his voice cutting cleanly over the static humming in their earpieces. “Nobody gets out! Contain the breach!”

From the second vehicle, the back doors hissed open with pneumatic force. Operators hit the wet asphalt in fluid, and practiced synchronization. Two men dropped to a knee, unrolling a heavy steel spike strip across the mouth of the side street with a metallic clatter, while a trailing team hauled modular ballistic shields into position to lock down the rear exit vector.

The movement was surgical, fast, and born of endless drilling. Twenty seconds of pure, cold efficiency.

Then a loud explosion.

The lead six-wheeled transport violently bucked to the left, throwing the operators inside against their harness straps as a concussive shockwave rattled the floorboards.

“Flat!” the driver shouted, his arms flexing violently as he fought the heavy power steering to keep the fifteen-ton vehicle from slamming sideways into an abandoned sedan. The transport rolled another ten feet with a sickening, grinding shudder before coming to a dead halt, listing heavily on its front axle.

The operators inside stared at one another through the red ambient light, their breath misting in the cold air.

“Was that an IED?” someone hissed.

The driver leaned close to the thick windshield, staring down at the asphalt directly ahead.

“Positive.”

A beat of heavy, agonizing silence stretched between them.

“We hit the war zone before we even reached the front door,” the driver muttered, his jaw setting hard.

“This is the police! Lay down your weapons!” said the team leader as an announcement through the loadspeaker.

“A bit late for that announcement Commander,” said the driver.

The rear hydraulic doors tossed open, dumping cold air, the sharp stench of raw copper, and the suffocating stink of burnt cordite into the cabin.

The tactical element spilled out onto the street like a black wave, carbines raised, boots crunching over shattered glass and pulverized plaster as they advanced through the wreckage toward the silent townhouse. Behind them, combat medics were already sprinting through the smoke, hauling the bleeding police officers behind the armored flank of the secondary transport.

Ahead of them, the deafening chatter of heavy automatic weapons had suddenly vanished. The violent chaos had dissolved into an eerie, suffocating stillness.

The sudden silence was infinitely worse than the gunfire.

The team leader stepped over a severed length of iron gate, bringing his short-barreled carbine to bear on the shattered, smoke-filled entrance of the building. Rain dripped from his helmet visor onto his nose, but he didn't blink.

He keyed his mic, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rasp. “RAID moving in.”

No one answered over the channel.

They didn't need to. The heavy, suffocating silence hanging over the ruined houses and cars told them everything they needed to know.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Casey heard the amplified announcement echo into the house as well. He glanced at Gertrude for a fleeting second, their eyes meeting in the dynamic gloom.

The woman met his gaze, offering only a single, tense word: “RAID.”

Casey gave a tight nod.

One of the attackers peeked out from behind the hallway doorway again. Casey instantly drove him back into cover with a single, sharp burst. “They don’t have much time now.”

Gertrude slammed a fresh magazine into her sidearm with a metallic click. “Neither do we.”

Casey let out a rough sigh, adjusting his stance behind the pillar. “Bartowski… I hope you get them out.”

Casey leaned around the corner and opened fire again, the concussive echoes of the gunshots filling the narrow interior.

“Two or three minutes, John!” Gertrude shouted over the noise. “Then we have to move!”

“Copy that,” Casey grunted.

Outside, the RAID loudspeaker once again blasted through the rain-soaked street. “Police! Drop your weapons! The building is surrounded!”

The flashing red and blue siren strobes painted the worn nineteenth-century facades in rapid, alternating hues. For a brief moment, the tempo of the gunfire slackened as the perimeter operators adjusted to the imminent push by law enforcement.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Outside on the wet cobblestones, Johnson looked down at one of his fallen operators sprawled against the entrance wall. The man's lifeless hands were still clutching his assault rifle. Johnson bent down with cold, clinical detachment. With a single, fluid motion, he pulled the weapon free, checked the seating of the magazine, and racked the charging handle back.

The metallic click of a chambered round was buried beneath the rising wail of sirens.

An operator stepped up beside him, his voice tense under his tactical mask. “Sir, RAID is sealing off the entire perimeter.”

Johnson raised his radio comm to his mouth. “All units.” A beat of heavy static hummed through the earpieces. “RAID is two minutes out. Then we withdraw.”

“Understood,” came the brief acknowledgement over the channel.

“Anyone who's inside comes with me,” Johnson added, his tone chillingly level.

He didn't wait for a response. He started walking straight toward the front gate of the townhouse. His steps were calm, measured, and unhurried—as if he weren't stepping directly into the crossfire of an active tactical siege.

He passed the bodies of his first two downed operators near the threshold without sparing them so much as a single glance. Raising his rifle, he vanished into the dimly lit, smoke-hazy foyer.

XXXXXXXXXXX

The hatch screeched against its frame as Chuck threw his weight upward. A cloud of ancient pine dust and bitter insulation rained straight down his throat, sending a suffocating cough burning through his lungs.

“This way!” he rasped into the dark.

Sarah cleared the opening in a single fluid motion, dropping low onto one knee with her captured carbine sweeping the rafters. Moonlight cut through broken roof tiles in thin, silver blades, illuminating a thick haze of floaters in the air.

Morgan’s frantic breath was warm against the back of Chuck's neck. “I swear… one day I’m going to escape using an actual staircase.”

“Quiet,” Sarah hissed, her muzzle tracking the shadows.

Müller scrambled up last, clutching his ribs with a wet, pained wheeze.

Floorboards vibrated two stories down—RAID boots or Johnson's mercs breaching the lower halls. The walls were closing in, the exit vector dead. Chuck's heart hammered against his sternum like a trapped bird—

A violent spike of static slammed through his temples, scorching his retinas with white-hot light. 1892 Haussmann-era residential modifications. Load-bearing brickwork versus interior curtain partitions. Cross-hatched blue schematics burned over his optic nerve, highlighting a thin wall of weathered brick tucked between two heavy joists.

The shock left his teeth buzzing, but the route was instantly clear.

“There.” He pointed into the gloom.

Sarah’s eyes flicked to the masonry. “You sure?”

“This partition was added later,” Chuck forced out, his pulse racing. “It’s not load-bearing.”

Morgan stared, eyes wide in the pale moonlight. “How do you know?”

“Long story.”

Chuck grabbed a rusty iron pry bar leaning against a rafter. He raised it high and drove the iron head into the mortar with everything in his shoulders. White plaster exploded into his face. He swung a second time, cracking the aging brick face down the middle.

Sarah stepped in, driving her foot squarely into the fracture. Masonry gave way with a heavy crunch, tumbling into the void on the other side.

A sharp draught of cold night air flooded through the fresh breach, sweeping away the suffocating dust. “We can fit through.”

Sarah slipped through the opening first, carbine raised and ready. Seconds stretched into an agonizing eternity as Chuck shielded Müller with his own body, listening to the creaking joists below.

“Clear.”

They scrambled through the gap one after another.

The neighboring attic was quiet as a tomb. Sheet-covered furniture loomed out of the dark like pale ghosts among stacked wooden crates and heavy cobwebs. From two floors below, the faint, muffled hum of a television drifted up through the floorboards—some oblivious resident watching a late-night broadcast.

Chuck pressed down on the metal latch of the access door. The wooden staircase lowered with a soft, agonizing creak that set his teeth on edge. Step by step, testing every riser before committing his weight, he led them down to the ground floor.

The interior stairs ended at a dark, chilly garage. The sharp smell of motor oil and cold concrete hit his nose, illuminated by a single fluorescent tube flickering overhead with a low, buzzing hum.

Parked in the center stood a dusty, dark-gray Peugeot 406.

Morgan blinked at the vehicle. “We’re escaping in that?”

Chuck moved on pure instinct, stepping straight to the driver's side door. The window was cracked two inches. He slid his hand through the gap, reaching up behind the vinyl sun visor until his fingers brushed cold, heavy brass. He pulled the key ring down, metal jingling in his palm.

“Yep. Morgan, you drive.”

A tiny, fleeting flicker of a smile touched Sarah's tense face.

Morgan snatched the keys, jamming the brass tip into the driver’s lock. “I hope… it has a full tank.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

High above the street, the RAID snipers locked onto the muzzle flashes and returned fire toward the shots echoing from the townhouse windows. A high-caliber round slammed directly into one of the attackers’ firing positions, tearing through stone and sending a thick cloud of white plaster exploding into the night air. The heavy chatter of the machine gun instantly fell silent. The other barked some and got silenced just seconds later.

“Shields forward!” the squad commander shouted, his voice cutting cleanly through the static of his tactical radio.

Two heavy ballistic shields locked side-by-side, moving forward in synchronized precision. Behind the steel barrier, a column of black-clad operators advanced toward the safe house entrance at a dead run.

Meanwhile, a secondary breach element peeled off, moving quietly around the side of the building to stack up against the perimeter wall toward the backyard.

Within seconds, the wail of sirens, the bark of tactical orders, and the concussive echo of automatic gunfire merged into total, overwhelming chaos.

XXXXXXXXXXX

The air in the living room was thick and suffocating—a toxic soup of burnt cordite, hot copper, and pulverized drywall that coated the back of Casey's throat. Shards of the gilded mirror crunched beneath his boots like glass.

Then Johnson filled the doorway.

Eye contact across the drifting haze was instant. No words. No hesitation.

Both rifles came up in the exact same microsecond. The muzzles erupted with a deafening, metallic roar that slammed violently into Casey’s eardrums and ricocheted off the walls.

He threw his weight sideways toward cover, but the lead was faster. A white-hot blade sheared across his shoulder. The impact hit before the sound reached him, his chest disappeared into a wall of pressure. For half a second, Casey couldn't breathe and then came pain.

The vest did not stop it.

Pain flared behind his eyes as he hissed through gritted teeth. The vest had caught the worst of it, but the concussive force radiated through his ribs in a sickening wave, wet heat beginning to soak the fabric beneath his gear.

Johnson didn't stay exposed. He shifted fluidly from cover to cover, keeping Casey pinned behind the pillar with short, rhythmic bursts that chipped stone into Casey's face.

“It's over, Casey,” Johnson’s voice carried over the gunfire, terrifyingly level.

A dark silhouette swung into the line of fire from beside the tall wooden bookcase—Gertrude, her muzzle rising in a smooth, lethal arc.

“No.”

Two rapid double-taps. The first rounds struck Johnson’s ballistic plate with a dull, metallic spark; the second salvo bit cleanly into his exposed side seam.

Johnson’s body jerked backward, the impact snapping him hard against the doorframe. The hit drove the air from his lungs. Johnson looked down and felt the warmth of his own blood. For one brief second, everything became wonderfully clear.

He looked back toward Casey and a slow grin touched his mouth.

“Nice shot…” Johnson wheezed, wiping a streak of red off his lip, his eyes gleaming with sick, adrenaline-fueled entertainment and fired another burst.

Gertrude’s sights were already locked between his eyes. “The next one will be better.”

A hoarse shout echoed from the shattered window frame, followed instantly by the sharp, metallic clatter of a heavy cylinder skidding across the hardwood.

Casey’s vision locked onto the canister. His throat tore open. “Gertrude!”

Pure white daylight detonated inside the room.

The concussive shockwave hammered Casey’s chest like a physical blow. A blinding flash scorched his retinas, reducing the living room to a searing, white void. High-voltage pressure slammed through his ear canals, replacing the world with a shrill, deafening ringing that drowned out all sound.

Vision swimming, head reeling, he slammed his palms over his ears to fight the vertigo. Beside him, Gertrude staggered back, completely blinded.

Heavy, rhythmic thuds vibrated through the floorboards—RAID boots surging toward the threshold.

“Move!”

“Clear the ground floor!”

Johnson backed toward the rear exit, hand clamped over his bleeding flank, still wearing a twisted, breathless grin. He raised his radio, his voice hoarse but completely unbothered. “All units… withdraw.”

Casey ground his jaw against the agony in his side, forcing his legs to lock as he dragged himself up against the stone pillar. Every breath was a lungful of fire; warm blood was trickling steadily down his hip beneath the vest.

Gertrude was beside him, her arm wrapping firmly around his waist, taking a portion of his weight before his knees could buckle.

“Can you walk?” Her voice sounded muffled, coming as if from down a long tunnel.

Casey swallowed the iron taste in his mouth, forcing a strained, defiant half-smile.

“Still can.”

They slipped into the shadows of the side exit just as black-clad operators breached the threshold, leaving behind nothing but gunsmoke, dripping blood, and shattered stone.

XXXXXXXXXXX

The Peugeot rolled quietly out of the garage, its engine barely audible beneath the distant wail of sirens and the gunshots still echoing through the streets.

Morgan gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands, his knuckles white. “Is… is this an automatic?”

Chuck glanced over at him. “Morgan…”

“Just checking,” Morgan muttered.

They slowly turned onto the narrow side street. Barely twenty yards away, blue siren lights were flashing rhythmically against the wet walls. The police were completely focused on the main street, and no one was paying any attention to the small side streets behind them.

“Stop!” Chuck said quietly.

Morgan immediately hit the brakes, bringing the car to a sudden halt. All four of them froze in silence.

Two police officers ran across the intersection just ahead. One of them shouted into his radio. “Seal off the back street too!”

“It’s not sealed yet?” a hoarse voice replied through the speaker.

The two officers disappeared around the corner.

Sarah watched the empty intersection for another few seconds. “Go.”

Morgan let out a heavy breath. “I… I hate this.”

They slowly continued down the street, slipping away into the night.

XXXXXXXXXXX

A few streets away from the chaos, Sarah spoke up.

“Wait.”

Morgan hit the brakes, bringing the Peugeot to a halt beside a narrow canal. The water flowed like a black mirror between the stone walls of the embankment, reflecting the solitary streetlamp on the opposite bank in a long, golden streak across the dark surface.

Sarah leaned down, grabbing the captured assault rifle with both hands, and pushed her door open. Cool night air immediately flooded into the car. Chuck looked back at her questioningly, but Sarah offered no explanation as she stepped out onto the damp pavement.

For a moment, she held the heavy weapon in her hands. Then, without any ceremony, she swung it. The assault rifle traced a short arc through the night air before plunging into the canal with a sharp splash. The black water swallowed it instantly, leaving only a few small ripples spreading across the surface.

That was it.

Sarah closed the door behind her and climbed back into the rear seat. “Go.”

Morgan started driving again. The car moved silently for several minutes, with only the quiet hum of the engine and the steady, rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers breaking the quiet.

Müller closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the seat, thoroughly exhausted. Chuck turned around in his seat. “Everything okay?”

The doctor gave a tired, faint nod. “Yes.”

Another long silence followed. Sarah stared out the window at the passing shadows, then looked down at herself. The T-shirt reached just below her hips. Her bare feet were muddy, with small scratches running across the soles from their escape.

In a completely matter-of-fact voice, she said, “I think… I should put some pants on.”

Chuck looked back at her, taking in her appearance for the first time since the attack started. “Yeah…”

Morgan glanced up at them in the rearview mirror. “Sarah, I’m driving a stolen Peugeot in plaid pajamas.”

Chuck looked down at his own clothes. “I’m not exactly dressed much better.”

Morgan gave a faint smile. “If someone pulls us over right now, this is going to be very hard to explain.”

For the first time that night, a real smile touched Sarah's lips. “Then they shouldn’t pull us over.”

Morgan nodded. “I’m really liking this plan so far.”

The Peugeot slipped away into the darkness of the Paris side streets, while far behind them, the night sky still flickered with the distant blue lights of the police cars.