Chapter Text
From above, death felt impersonal, almost serene.
“Three o’clock approx thirty mils,” Bosko directed.
The rooftop was cold, the rifle steady, and his target oblivious.
“Contact.”
“Go to glass.”
He adjusted his position, the rifle stock pressed firmly against his shoulder. The view sharpened – a crowded street below, faces milling like ants. His voice crackled low over the comms.
“Target in the smoking area,” he murmured. “Black jacket, silver trim, blond.”
He paused, shifting slightly to widen his view.
“Left leg partially obscured – red sign. Black Ford – twelve o’clock.”
“That’s your target. Check parallax and mil.”
The reticule moved and he adjusted the knob until it stayed fixed on the head. He checked the markings and compared them to the mil scale. Adjusted.
“One point one six.”
Waited for Bosko’s response.
“Check level. Holdover three point nine.”
He adapted.
“Hold fire,” Captain Maynard ordered.
“Holding.”
“Got another male approaching, approx. six-two,” she said. “SWAT, position?”
“By the door,” Sergeant Grant responded. “Ready on your go.”
“Diaz,” Maynard stressed.
“I know.” He grinned, flexing his finger around the trigger. “Last resort.”
His finger hovered, his breath steady as the crosshairs centered. The target pinned the hooded man against the wall, a pistol pressed to his temple, teeth bared.
“Stand by. Move on my mark.”
The target’s body convulsed, the gun clattering on the concrete with a frantic shot that cracked through the night as he crumpled to the ground. The other man staggered forward, screams tearing through the air. People scattered like startled birds, and in seconds, his field of vision was a storm of motion.
“Diaz, report!” Grant barked.
“Field’s unclear,” Bosko cut in, frustration biting at her words.
He gritted his teeth, scanning the chaos. Through the flurry of bodies, he spotted his target, sprawled on the pavement, blood pooling. A gloved hand brushed across his face, a finger tracing his cheeks, yanking out the tactical knife embedded in his chest.
“Target’s down!” he relayed.
“Move!”
SWAT breached with precision, Sergeant Grant at the front. Guns drawn, shields raised, she kicked the firearm away from his body and crouched, pressing her fingers to his neck. Seconds ticked by before her voice came through, grim and sharp.
“Dead.”
A curse hissed from Maynard. “Diaz, get eyes. Now.”
He swung the scope, scanning for anything – movement, a lead, a clue. The hooded figure strolled toward the base of his building. The knife in their hand catching the moonlight as they wiped it on their pants.
“Hooded suspect heading south toward six.”
He kept his crosshairs centered as his comms echoed with urgent orders and relays of positions.
“Lost visual,” he called as the concrete edge of the roof crept into his scope. “At my location.”
Maynard’s voice snapped back. “They’re coming. Hold your position.”
But he was already moving, abandoning his post, reaching for his sidearm.
“Diaz! Stay in position!” Bosko’s voice roared through the comms.
He ignored her, boots pounding against the rooftop as he headed for the stairs. He wasn’t letting this one slip away. Not again.
Metallic scraping echoed as he kicked down the rusted ladder, feet barely catching the steps as he jumped off the last few and sprinted down the alley. Weaving through the streets, he checked the corners at each turn, barking at a blazed couple to move as he shoved past them. Spotting a glimpse of the suspect on the street over, he drew his gun, gripping it with both hands. The suspect’s head twitched toward him before they took off running.
He cursed, the distant wail of sirens echoing as he chased after them. He sprinted past darkened storefronts and crumbling brick walls, cutting through a side street to intercept.
There.
He raised his gun, hands perfectly steady, adrenaline coursing through his veins. “Hands up!”
The suspect stopped mid-stride, their hands buried in their pockets. He kept his aim trained, cocking the hammer.
“I said hands up,” he repeated, his voice hard. “Turn around. Slow.”
Hands emerged from the pockets – one empty, the other gripping the bloodied knife.
“Drop the weapon.”
They tilted their head slightly, as if considering the demand. Their fingers relaxed on the blade, but it remained loosely in their grip. He could see the glint of the metal in the dim light, red smears glistening along its edge.
“Drop it. Now.”
They began to turn, slow and methodical, and his jaw tightened. The world narrowed, the sounds of the city fading until all that existed was the suspect before him. When they fully faced him, his breath hitched.
That mask.
It was black and red, shaped like a cat’s face, with small, jagged bells dangling from the pointed ears. The soft chime they made as the suspect tilted their head was haunting, a knell that sank into his bones. His hands tightened around the gun.
Shit.
His vision tunneled, his blood roaring in his ears as the suspect raised their free hand and wiggled their fingers at him in mock greeting. He gritted his teeth, knowing there’d be a smug smile paired with it.
“Eddie, report!” Bosko’s voice cracked. “What’s your position?”
He didn’t respond. The gun trembled.
The suspect cradled the knife in their hand, turning it over lazily before wiping the blood away with two fingers. Then, in a sickening motion, they lifted the bottom of the mask just enough to reveal their mouth. His stomach twisted as they licked the blood clean, their tongue dragging slowly over their fingers, before giving him a wicked grin and dropping the mask back into place.
“Diaz, come in! Do you have eyes?”
He forced himself to breathe.
“We’re almost on you,” Sergeant Grant’s voice broke through.
His heart pounded as the suspect tilted their head again, the bells chiming softly as they lowered into a crouch. He didn’t take the shot. The suspect bolted.
“Move! Move!” Sergeant Grant ordered as they rounded the corner.
The SWAT team streamed past, storming the alley and spreading around the neighbouring streets.
“Was that…?” She lowered her gun, standing beside him.
He didn’t answer immediately, his hands still trembling, his fingers slowly lifting from the trigger.
The comms crackled: “We’ve lost visual. Suspect’s gone.”
He exhaled harshly, lowering his weapon completely. His jaw clenched as he fought to steady himself, his mind replaying the sound of those goddamn bells, the taunting wave of fingers.
He grimaced, his voice low and tight. “He’s back.”