Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 82187 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82187 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Hart’s team fanned out along the walls, clearing blind spots, dragging stunned guards into zip ties.
Mercer staggered, coughing, eyes tearing up as he fired wild shots that went high or into the shields.
God and Day were already closing in, firing round after round of nonlethal bullets, but Mercer wore armor that made the rubber bullets and tasers ineffective.
Mercer staggered backward, coughing, hacking, sweat pouring down his face, gun swinging wildly.
Mercer turned the gun on himself and pressed the muzzle to his temple. Don’t come any closer!” he huffed, panting like a trapped animal.
“Oh shit,” Wes whispered. “He’s about to off himself.”
For a heartbeat, the whole room held its breath.
Law flinched as two sharp, explosive cracks blasted through the dirty apartment window and shattered the silence.
Ro and Michaels fired synched sniper shots, hitting Mercer in two different places.
Mercer lurched violently, his body twisting as crimson blossomed at his shoulder and thigh.
The pistol flew from his hand, clattering across the hardwood floor as he collapsed, howling in pain but still breathing.
He cursed them all as he crumpled over.
“You didn’t think I was going to let you off that easy, did you?”
“Fuck you, God.” Mercer spat blood.
Two of the SWAT officers dropped to their knees and pressed bandages to Mercer’s wounds.
“Radio for medical. I want this fucker alive,” Day snarled, his face locked in hot fury as he stood over the man who’d taken and destroyed countless lives.
Free’s voice came over the comms. “Be advised. IA in route.”
Law stayed pressed to the wall outside the blown apartment door, barely blinking as the last trails of smoke thinned through the ruined space.
He continued to inhale and exhale until his breathing was slow and steady.
Wes gave him a grim nod, sweat pouring down his face.
“It’s over. Finally, it’s fuckin’ over.”
Day
Day walked out of the blown-out front doors of the apartment building and into a roar of noise and light.
It slammed into him like a physical force—the brilliant chaos of Atlanta’s flashing blue and red spinning across concrete, broken glass, and dilapidated houses.
Fire engines idled at the curb, their pumps hissing steam. EMTs jogged past him wheeling stretchers, shouting orders to each other as blood-smeared, wailing criminals were loaded into the rigs.
The scent of burned powder and acrid chemicals clung to his skin in a stench that made him want to vomit.
A massive crowd surged against the yellow caution tape lining the street from corner to corner. People screamed and cheered, waving their phones over their heads.
News teams were already set up and eager to get the drop on their competition to air the raid.
“Lieutenant, Day! Godfrey! Over here!”
“Is Mercer off the streets for good this time?”
“Lieutenant Day, Channel 2 News. Did you or your enforcers kill anybody in there tonight?”
Day kept walking. He hated interviews.
“God! God! CBS46, how big was the seizure tonight?”
“Atlanta strong!” a woman screamed, pounding her fist against a metal barricade.
The crowd pressed so close that the yellow police tape bowed outward under the weight. Flashbulbs popped like tiny explosions that made his eyes water. People balanced on car hoods and lamp posts, craning their necks for a glimpse of them.
“Godfrey, any comment on rumors of internal corruption in your task force?”
Day glowered at the Chanel 11 asshole with his overly gelled hair, cashmere coat, and bitch-ass earmuffs.
No matter how much good his team did, Chanel 11 wouldn’t run the story, but as soon as they fucked up, they’d run it morning, noon, and night.
“Fuck off, Dyson.” Day flipped him off, never stopping his strides to their armored caravan.
God came up beside him, massive in his armor, face locked in a scowl as he shoved Dyson’s mic out of his face.
“Back the fuck up,” God growled. “And I better not see you at the press conference, or I’m gonna shove your camera up your ass.”
Day caught sight of Captain Murphy stepping out of the mobile command center. Beside him were two precinct lieutenants, radios pressed to their ears, and the chief scene negotiator, looking relieved but wrung-out.
Evidence techs were everywhere, kneeling on tarps laid across the asphalt, packing bricks of meth into thick plastic bins.
The haul of materials was staggering: pallets of vacuum-sealed bundles, stacks of chemical drums labeled with hazmat stickers, and duffel bags half-zipped with rolls of cash.
Day scrubbed a shaking hand over his sweaty hair. He knew the street value of all that weight. Knew what people would do to get it back.
But tonight, it belonged to them.
“Hey! Channel 11 fucker. Make sure you get my good side!” Ruxs called out, flipping up both middle fingers.
A female reporter screamed over the noise, voice as piercing as a cruiser’s siren.
“Detectives Ruxs and Green—what’s the body count this time?”
“No comment.” Green laughed.
“Will Mercer be getting off again because of excessive force?” Dyson yelled.
Day spun on his heel, face tight.
“You see any body bags, jerk-off? Is anyone bleeding out in the street right now?”