Guardian Angels

Chapter 14

Under the cover of night, a secluded warehouse on the outskirts of Angel City became the stage for a clandestine gathering. Illuminated only by the sporadic flicker of makeshift lanterns, the atmosphere was ripe with anticipation and the heavy scent of illicit substances. Hushed voices echoed softly against the concrete, as crates, filled with the Godfather's latest shipment, were methodically arranged by a group of gangsters. Crates were being meticulously loaded into a nondescript van—the same vehicle Sam had tagged with a GPS tracker just the night before.

Among the group of men orchestrating the operation were the two individuals from Diaz's Crossroads, their conversation a toxic mix of business and derogatory bravado. "Once we're done here, we should celebrate. Maybe find ourselves a little 'party,'" one of them suggested, a lecherous grin spreading across his face.

"Yeah, speaking of parties, did you see that cop chick, Sam Gray, turning into a wild party girl? Saw her all over some dude on social media," the other scoffed, his disdain thinly veiled under a layer of amusement. "Maybe after this, we can offer her a 'real' confrontation. Show her some fun. Bet she's not so tough out of that uniform."

Their laughter, coarse and dismissive, filled the air, a stark contrast to the silence that enveloped the rest of the warehouse district. They were oblivious to the fact that their misogynistic jesting about Sam Gray would soon be met with an entirely different confrontation—one that none of them could have anticipated.

Their crude jesting was abruptly was cut short as the leader of the group, a burly man with a scar tracing down his cheek, called for silence. "Enough chatter. Let's get this done, and I want everything ready for distribution." As they continued their loading operations, none noticed the faint red dot that danced across the surface of the van parked nearby.

A sudden whistling sound cut through the night, followed by a resounding explosion. An incendiary round, fired with precision from a distance, struck the van, igniting it in a fiery blaze. The warehouse, moments ago a hub of illicit activity, now resembled a scene from a battlefield, the fire casting sinister shadows as it devoured the van and consumed the precious cargo.

Flames licked the sky, casting an infernal glow over the stunned faces of the gangsters. Panic ensued, their earlier bravado evaporating in the heat of the fire, realizing too late that they were under attack. Shouts and curses filled the air as they were now caught in a maelstrom of fear and confusion.

The irony of their situation—a confrontation, yes, but not with the party girl they had mockingly anticipated—was lost on them as they faced a threat far beyond their expectations. Unbeknownst to them, Alex Mason had entered the fray, a silent specter of vengeance poised to turn their night of profitable crime into a nightmare of retribution.

As the flames from the ignited van painted the night in hues of orange and red, the sudden appearance of a zip line, shot from a hidden vantage point, heralded the arrival of Angel City's unseen avenger. Alex Mason, his figure shrouded in the darkness, hooked onto the line with a swift, practiced motion. Within moments, he was gliding across the air, descending into the heart of chaos like an avenging angel.

Before the gangsters could fully process the fiery spectacle that had thrown their operation into disarray, Mason landed amidst them, the revolver now transformed back from the sniper mode to its standard configuration. The panic that had initially seized the criminals at the sight of their burning vehicle shifted to a wild fear as Mason emerged from the shadows, an embodiment of the retribution they had never anticipated facing.

In the close quarters of the warehouse's exterior, Mason's combat prowess was immediately evident. He moved with a fluidity and precision that belied the bulk of his armor, each motion calculated and deliberate. The first gangster barely had time to react before a stun round from Mason's revolver sent him collapsing to the ground, his muscles seizing in involuntary spasms.

As others tried to swarm Mason, he employed the fanning technique, rapidly firing stun rounds at multiple targets. The revolver's hammer danced under Mason's left palm, the barrage of non-lethal ammunition scattering the attackers, their numbers dwindling as each one was methodically incapacitated.

But Mason wasn't reliant on firearms alone. When a gangster managed to close the distance, Mason's training in melee combat came to the forefront. A swift, punishing elbow to the solar plexus took the wind out of his assailant, followed by a precise revolver butt strike to a pressure point that rendered the man's arm useless. Another attacker, emboldened by desperation, lunged with a makeshift weapon, only to find himself disarmed with a practiced twist and on the ground, courtesy of a well-placed kick.

The warehouse, once a quiet facilitator of illicit dealings, echoed with the sounds of combat—a symphony of grunts, the thud of bodies hitting the concrete, and the distinctive crackle of stun rounds. Mason moved through the chaos with an eerie calm, each action deliberate, a testament to his training and resolve.

As the last gangster attempted a feeble counterattack, Mason's response was swift. He feinted to the left before striking hard and fast to the right, his movement a blur. The gangster, caught off guard, was swiftly incapacitated with a combination of a stomp to the leg and a solid punch that rendered him unconscious. The immediate threat neutralized, Mason stood amidst the fallen adversaries, his breathing steady, the only sign of exertion in the slight rise and fall of his chest.

In the aftermath of the swift, decisive combat, the warehouse exterior was eerily silent, save for the crackling of flames consuming the van and the labored breathing of the incapacitated gangsters strewn about. Alex Mason, his presence now an inescapable fact of the night, turned his attention to the gang's leader, the only one left conscious, albeit barely.

"Talk," Mason commanded, his voice distorted by the voice changer, adding a chilling layer to his burnt tone and lending him an even more intimidating presence. It was a simple command, but it carried the weight of inevitability.

The leader, trying to muster what little defiance he had left, glared up at Mason, his lips curling into a sneer. "You think you scare me? I won't tell you anything," he spat out, his voice a mixture of pain and false bravado.

Without a word, Mason extracted a single incendiary round from his bandolier, holding it up for the leader to see before methodically loading it into the revolver. The click of the cylinder closing was like a death knell in the quiet night. He then pointed the revolver directly at the leader, the metallic glint of the gun contrasting sharply with the flickering firelight.

The sound of Mason's heavy, labored breathing filled the air, amplified by the mask to sound like a man who had known pain of severe burns, who had been scorched by flames and lived to tell the tale. "This round... it may not kill you instantly," Mason's voice was a low growl, filled with a promise of agony. "But you'll wish it did. It will burn you, just like what the Taliban did to me. Except, I survived. Will you?"

The leader's eyes widened in terror. His gaze darting from Mason's masked visage to the burning van, the reality of the threat dawning on him. The heat from the flames, the smell of burning rubber and fuel, all served to amplify his fear, his imagination painting vivid pictures of the pain that awaits. The thought of enduring a torment akin to what Mason described, of being consumed by fire, was too much to bear.

Scared beyond measure, his bravado crumbling like ash, the leader caved. "Okay, okay! I'll talk! Just... just don't do it, man. Please." Words tumbled from him in a frantic rush, spilling the secrets of the operation, the names of those involved, and the extent of the Godfather's plans. He talked of shipments, routes, contacts—information Mason needed to dismantle the network piece by piece.

As the leader spoke, Mason listened, his revolver still aimed, unwavering. Each piece of information was a victory, not just for Mason but for the city that lay unaware of the darkness that thrived in its heart. Tonight, that darkness had been challenged, and Alex Mason was the herald of a new dawn—one where the corrupt and the wicked found no shadow to hide in.

When the leader had finished, his voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper, Mason holstered his revolver. The message had been delivered, the information gained. Alex Mason stepped back into the shadows from whence he came, leaving the gangsters to the mercy of the flames and the law. Tonight's operation was a success, but it was just the beginning. Angel City's underworld would soon learn to fear the name Alex Mason, a symbol of retribution for those who believed themselves beyond the reach of justice.