Explosions and gunfire erupted along the Hudson River, prompting someone to call the police.
In the United States, police response times can be unpredictable—sometimes alarmingly quick, sometimes frustratingly slow. The determining factor isn't just the urgency of the call, but also the location. In affluent neighborhoods or city centers, the police embody the authority of a world-class force. In poorer areas, however, their arrival often feels more like an abstract concept.
This discrepancy is well understood by Americans; police funding is not allocated nationally but comes from local tax revenues. The middle and upper classes contribute the most, and there's an expectation that the police will serve them well.
This particular incident fell outside the police's usual focus. Given the reports of explosions and gun battles, they could only rush to the scene after ensuring the immediate danger had passed.
Unexpectedly, Sean, known for his sense of responsibility, didn't think to request the police clean up the aftermath.
Da da da. Da da da.
The sudden gunfire startled the police rushing to the scene, causing them to slam on their brakes. Four police cars skidded to a halt, and officers tumbled out, using their doors for cover.
Many U.S. police vehicles are designed with bulletproof doors—not solely for officer safety, but also due to budget constraints.
In the distance, Bill scowled as he popped out the magazine of his weapon, replacing it with one filled with tracer rounds. Observing that the other side had ceased fire, the police were momentarily confused. The sheriff, leading the team, ordered them to release the brakes and move closer.
Just a few meters away, Bill fired again, sending a series of flames into the night sky, creating a line of tracer fire right in front of the police vehicle.
"What's going on?" The sheriff raised an eyebrow, puzzled. Tracer bullets made it easy to hit their vehicle, yet the other side refrained.
"Are they trying to send us a message?" one officer whispered.
"Damn it!" the sheriff exclaimed, realizing the provocation. "These guys think they can intimidate us?! The Jersey City police will never back down!" He drew his pistol, aiming at the sky, and fired several shots.
His subordinates quickly understood the signal and joined him, firing into the air. In the dark night, the muzzle flashes were stark against the backdrop, and Bill watched in disbelief. "What a talented group!"
Out of courtesy, Bill ordered his team to follow suit, and soon the night was filled with the sounds of gunfire, a strange dance of chaos between police and criminals.
After more than ten minutes of this back-and-forth, Bill suspected the bodies had been cleared away. He signaled his team to retreat, using tracer bullets to mark their departure.
Once assured that the threat had truly dissipated, the sheriff commanded his officers to get back in their vehicles and head to the scene.
When they arrived, the sight was shocking. The car, manufactured by Hector, was utterly destroyed. The sheriff nervously scratched his head, cursing under his breath, "Crazy! Is this how you use shells?"
He felt a wave of relief wash over him; had they acted impulsively, the bulletproof doors might not have withstood such firepower. Casualties would have been a nightmare to explain.
"Report: no bodies found, just some remains scattered about," one subordinate said quietly.
"As long as there are no casualties, that's a relief," the sheriff replied, waving for the debris to be collected. The police lights flickered to life as they disappeared into the night.
"Go straight ahead and turn left."
"Stop, right here!" Sean barked, leaping from the vehicle before it had fully stopped.
"Boss, are you sure?" Jonas, slumped in the backseat with a pale face, objected. "This is a pet hospital!"
"Of course I know that!" Sean snapped, glancing back as he ordered someone to force the lock open and rush inside.
Once inside, he seized the phone from the counter and dialed. After two rings, a grumpy voice answered, "Damn it, can't you check the time before calling?!"
"Veterinarian, I'm in your shop," Sean replied.
"Wait, you're nuts! Why are you in my shop?" the veterinarian retorted.
"I need you here within ten minutes to perform surgery on a person. Don't try to say you can't do it." With that, Sean hung up, ushering Jonas and the others inside before securing the door.
The veterinarian slammed down the phone in frustration, cursing loudly as he realized he needed to find a vet for late-night emergency surgery—likely a gunshot wound. It was hard to believe that a decent person could be shot at this hour.
His gut feeling told him that nine out of ten times, it was a drug dealer involved, and he wanted no part of that world. The thought of being implicated made him even angrier. While he vented his frustrations, he comforted his worried girlfriend and hurriedly dressed.
Despite his reluctance, he knew he had to act quickly; he couldn't let someone die in his clinic. The consequences of failing to help could be deadly, especially if the shooter sought revenge.
With his girlfriend's worried eyes on him, he jumped into his car and sped toward the clinic. When he arrived, he cursed again at the closed electric door, frustrated by the obstacle.
Inside, he found Jonas pale and sweating, with both arms injured. Relieved that it was manageable, he quickly assessed the situation. After providing first aid to stop the bleeding, he instructed Sean and the others to prepare for surgery.
Even though he was technically a veterinarian, his skills extended beyond animals, and he had clearly done this before. After nearly two hours of surgery, he successfully removed the bullets.
Once the operation was over, he turned to Sean, his expression serious. "I don't like dealing with people like you. From now on, you're not to bother me again."