Chapter 12 – These Crooks Are Pathetic: They Planned an Ambush, but One Idiot Shot Himself First
The truck slowly rolled into the depths of the parking lot. The Chevrolet was positioned with calculated strategy at an intersection, giving the occupants multiple escape routes once they'd eliminated Sean and his partner.
In the passenger seat, Blake was still coaching Cyril, warning him not to blow their plan:
"If you only see one cop exit, don't shoot. Wait until the second pig steps out—cap the first one who approaches; I'll drop the second, then we floor it out of here and disappear."
The moment the vehicle ahead killed its engine, Sean cracked his driver-side window. A heartbeat later, as though he'd genuinely detected something, he told Erin:
"That vehicle's got a weapon—I heard a slide being racked. I'll take the rifle; you grab the Remington 870 shotgun. Stay behind cover."
First, the statement was for Erin: the parked vehicle ahead posed a lethal threat.
Second—and more critically—it was for the dash-cam already recording everything in front of him.
An officer who hears a firearm being chambered, then deploys a patrol rifle to establish a tactical advantage and issue commands to suspects, isn't violating department policy; at worst he's being appropriately cautious.
It's a textbook response to a deadly force threat. And the best part—Sean was telling the absolute truth!
Even if Internal Affairs reviewed the footage later, they'd recover two loaded pistols with the suspects' fingerprints all over them—perfect corroboration of his threat assessment.
The instant he finished speaking, Sean pulled the HK416 from the rack behind the center console and handed the pump-action shotgun to Erin.
What pleased him most: Erin hadn't questioned a single directive. He could hear her breathing accelerate—she was amped up—so he coached her:
"Control your breathing. The hyperventilation is just adrenaline and stress response; it's completely normal."
He charged the rifle and performed a press-check to verify a round was chambered.
Sean's cruiser sat only thirty feet behind the pickup, but the Silverado's wide truck bed created a challenging angle.
So what?
Sean's philosophy:
"A stationary target and you're NOT going to engage?"
Suspect Blake—moments from death—would only say:
"I'm still sitting in the vehicle, haven't even seen your face, yet you're already lined up on my skull. Whether you pull that trigger, we both know the answer."
Blake waited for the officer to approach on foot, planning to ambush him while he was exposed and vulnerable. The sweat beading on his forehead betrayed his escalating anxiety.
The driver's door of the patrol vehicle opened deliberately. A cop in LAPD navy blue uniform, brown hair with a tactical beard, stepped out shouldering an M14 EBR designated marksman rifle. Glancing through the rear window, Blake saw the muzzle aimed directly—at his face. The EBR could function as a precision weapon or battle rifle, usually set to semi-automatic with the safety selector engaged; its recoil was legendary—fire it from a crouch and the bipod could still jump clean off the handguard.
Because the recoil is absolutely brutal—even firing from a kneeling position, the force can launch the rifle's bipod airborne.
M14 chambered in 7.62mm NATO, effective range eight hundred meters.
One shot, one permanent silence—every "customer" serviced leaves five-star mortality statistics.
Top-tier operators swear by it.
Inside the patrol vehicle Erin activated the PA system to address the pickup:
"LAPD Western Division. Show me your hands out the window—no sudden movements. I repeat, this is LAPD—"
The announcement rattled both Blake and Cyril to their cores.
Cyril, behind the wheel, completely panicked; the mere sound of the amplified police voice left him trembling uncontrollably.
"Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!"
Blake cursed three times—his perfect ambush strategy, yet the cops refused to follow the expected protocol.
Shouldn't the officer casually approach, deadpan expression, and demand driver's license, registration, and proof of insurance?
Then Blake would ventilate them both, empty his magazine, and Cyril would hit the gas and they'd vanish into traffic—right?
So why were these cops deploying long guns and establishing a tactical perimeter instead?
Blake could only think: This doesn't make any goddamn sense!
Cyril, voice cracking with fear, asked the tattooed man who suddenly looked far less intimidating:
"Blake, what the hell do we do now?"
Blake hadn't expected such complete collapse of nerve. Cyril looked absolutely fearless when he jumped rival gang members at night—why the total meltdown now?
Some people swagger through the criminal underworld, fearless because consequences never feel tangible;
but shine the official spotlight of law enforcement on them and they shake like cornered rats. Maybe that's the State's inherent psychological advantage over ordinary criminals.
Hearing Cyril's panic, Blake steeled himself. They were past the point of negotiation. "We engage. Think about our rap sheets—no way in hell I'm doing life in San Quentin."
Cyril swallowed his terror and nodded: no surrender.
Adrenaline is useful—until it causes catastrophic errors in judgment.
The next instant Cyril's twitching, nervous finger accidentally squeezed his trigger.
BANG!
The negligent discharge inside the cabin was like throwing a match into gasoline—everything exploded into chaos.
The moment Sean heard what was unmistakably a suspect's firearm discharging, he grinned: problem solving itself on a silver platter.
Blake watched Cyril accidentally shoot himself in the thigh and alarm klaxons screamed in his consciousness: We're completely fucked!
Sean, "reacting defensively," shouted:
"SHOTS FIRED! SUSPECT FIRED!"
Before the echo faded he squeezed off three rapid, controlled shots.
Three 7.62mm NATO rounds skimmed over the composite-steel truck bed, punched through the aluminum body panels, and—textbook Mozambique Drill—connected: two center mass, one cranial vault.
(Officer Sean Horace's exact tactical engagement pattern.)
Two in the chest, one in the head—even the best trauma surgeon in Los Angeles couldn't save you.
What? You think Sean's response was excessive?
That these scumbag criminals are human beings deserving of restraint?
Tell it to my union-appointed attorney during my paid administrative leave hearing.
The instant the rounds impacted Blake's brain partially shut down; only when he registered blood sprayed across the headliner and windshield did he comprehend he'd been shot.
His final coherent thought:
"Fuck... never partner with a complete moron again."
Adrenaline flooding his system, Cyril's brain temporarily blocked pain signals; the gunshot wound in his leg barely registered.
But when he saw the catastrophic exit wound in Blake's skull—visible brain matter and bone fragments—he completely froze.
Pieces of Blake's cerebral cortex dotted Cyril's lips—metallic, nauseating.
His partner was gone, a cop with a battle rifle waited outside, and absolute terror consumed him entirely.
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