“Max kicked the door open, sending it flying ten feet inside and we rushed into the building, right into the storm of bullets coming from all sides. Hot lead poured from cold steel like it was lifeblood spilling from open veins, the supersonic metal passing our heads by the hair's breath as the gangsters unleashed the firepower of the entire battle at Gettysburg just to drive us into cover. From the opposite side of the hall, the dark-clad, inexorable vigilante fired burst after burst of detonating death, high-explosive shotgun shells shattering the furniture and splattering the mobsters in a rain of gore like ripe watermelons. Caught in a lethal crossfire from both sides, we raised our trusty guns to our shoulders and-”

“Cuthbert, if you don't shut up this instant I swear I'll shoot you myself.”

A grave silence confirmed the rest of the team shared the sentiment.

“Sorry,” the gunslinger superhero muttered. There was genuine remorse in his voice, somewhere deep beneath apprehension.

“You're only making me more jumpy.”

I realised that he was trying to lift the tension, but it wasn't working. If anything, thinking about a firefight made me want to turn and flee. Run for the hills or jump into the nearest cover and curl into a ball. Whatever, just get the hell out of here.

As though the smell of our collective fear wasn't bad enough. We were all tense, ready to spring into action at the first loud noise. Anxiety and suspense hung in the air like a cloud, driving the lower parts of our brains mad.

Six people with loaded guns working each other up into panic. A recipe for a disaster.

“God, just listen to it,” Max said quietly.

The worst thing about Cuthbert's crappy narration was – it was accurate.

The warehouse resounded with gunfire. The snappy pistol shots, the deep bass of assault rifles, the booming shotguns – judging by our ears, there was a regular battle inside. All sides had brought all firepower they could muster and now they unleashed it with no restraint. Well, at least the mob and Kowalski did. I couldn't imagine the SWAT going trigger-happy.

Thank God we weren't there.

The moment we'd located the explosions, practically all SWAT teams in the city were deployed to suppress the fight. That included the e-SWAT, brought in to take Kowalski down. It still wasn't enough.

The cordon around the building was manned by hastily-armed officers, drawn from the riot squads or taken straight from the streets. Naturally, we were drafted as well. It was our case and the commissioner wanted all Empowered officers on the spot. That, or he'd sent us in because we were already armed and geared.

Fortunately, no one wanted detectives in a major fire-fight. Cuthbert had volunteered, naturally, but SWAT wouldn't hear about a 'civilian' in the operation. In the end we were sent to guard this spot: A rear wall with a bunch of windows on the first floor. It held some importance since it was close to a parking lot. In practice, we couldn't be further from the action.

None of us would complain, maybe save for Jim, but didn't make us any less anxious. Our minds clung to Murphy's Law for some weird reason. The danger was minimal, yet it was the only thing we could think of. What if the fight spilled onto us? What if someone chose this avenue of escape? There was a one-in-a-hundred chance, at best, but we couldn't see the other ninety-nine. Only the worst case scenarios.

It was the wait, I knew. Things always rolled once I was in the thick of action, one way or the other. Like in our last fight with Breathless. Everything had gone so fast we didn't have time to get scared. Today we stood watch in the back, listening to the gunfire and waiting for the worst. It was still better that taking a stroll in the bullet drizzle, but the suspense was eating us alive.

“But yeah, Jim, do the world a favour and never write fiction,” Carlucci broke the silence in a nervous voice. “Or anything else. Seriously. If you want an autobiography, hire a ghost-writer. I don't want to bring you in for an attempted murder on English language.”

“I was trying to make it bad, you know.”

“You shouldn't write anyway. You're a natural at bad prose,” I couldn't resist twisting the knife. “And what the hell is with the 'high-explosive shotgun shells'? There's no such thing.”

“Uh... Sometimes there is.”

“Shut your traps and stay sharp, everyone!” Dan growled.

I tightened the grip on my submachine gun. So much for comic relief.

I leaned against the concrete barrier, trying my best to stay calm and focused. It didn't work. As ever, when you try not to think about something, it comes back on your mind with double force. Seconds stretched into minutes, filled with worries and dark thoughts. Time flew so slowly it was driving me mad.

“Is it just me, or is the gunfire drawing closer?” Carlucci's imagination ran rampant, too.

“It's just you. Now shut up,” Dan snapped in reply.

“No... She's right. It is getting closer,” Cuthbert interjected, rising his head up. “Mostly pistol calibre, burst fire. Submachine guns.”

“What?”

“Don't worry,” Dan tried to calm us down. “The fight is just moving to this section of the building. We won't-”

“Zulu, come in,” his short-wave suddenly came live.

“This is Zulu,” he picked the call.

“Breathless is nearing your location.”

I felt a block of ice forming in my stomach.

“He is currently on the first floor. Expect him to pass by the window,” the voice continued. “Do not engage the target under any circumstances. Repeat, you are not to shoot at at the windows-”

A deafening explosion drowned all the sound, showering us with broken glass and splintered wood. I shrieked and fell to the ground behind my flimsy cover, hiding my head under my arms. There was a crash of metal and the scream of car alarms. I couldn't tell where it came from. My ears were ringing too hard.

Cuthbert muttered something, rising over the bonnet of a car. I grabbed the concrete and pulled myself up, only daring to raise my eyes over the obstacle.

The windows on the first floor were all shattered, along with a big chunk of the tin wall. A concentrated discharge tore a hole in the warehouse, four or five yards in diameter. And below, on the dented roof of a wrecked car-

He was there.

A mane of sandy blond hair framing a gaunt, unshaven face. A powerful physique clad in a tattered trench-coat, black cargo pants and military surplus boots. A damaged tactical vest, beige kevlar threads sticking out of the bullet holes. Studded leather gloves. Blood, chemicals, torn ballistic fibre and mortal levels of fatigue. White letters spelling 'Relentless' running across his chest.

Cuthbert cranked the lever of his carbine.

It broke me out of the daze. I rose the submachine gun to bear over the cover.

“PPD! Hands where we can see them!”

He groaned and shook his head.

I levelled the sights of my gun at him, painfully aware that I wasn't allowed to open fire. He turned his head and stared at us. His blue eyes were murky with pain, drugs and fever.

“I said hands where we can see them!” Dan roared.

Kowalski rose one arm. Slowly. Painfully. With obvious effort.

I stood up on bent knees to get a better aim.

His other hand was clenched into a fist. He swung it in our direction. A circular metal object fell to the ground, then rolled towards us-

Oh shit.

“Grenade!”

Cuthbert lunged himself at me. His torso shoved me off my feet, into the cover of a nearby car. The gunslinger covered me with his body.

I opened my mouth and closed my eyes, whispering my final prayers.

The metal cylinder gave a hiss, then vomited a cloud of thick, mauve mist.

It reached my nostrils in a flash. Saltpetre, sugar, soda and paint. It kept spilling out, completely covering the open space between us and the vigilante.

“A smoke flare,” I whispered, my throat dry.

Cuthbert blinked. He looked as though he couldn't believe he was still alive. So did I, probably.

Then I realised his face was inches away from mine. Blood suddenly rushed to my cheeks. My brow furrowed. A thousand insults passed to my brain, none of them reaching my tongue.

“Don't get out of cover!” Dan's shout reached me from somewhere to the right. It broke the spell, bringing me back to reality.

“He's running away!” Cuthbert screamed in return, rising up a bit too fast for a combat situation.

With my head pressed to the asphalt, I felt heavy, unsteady footsteps moving away.

“Don't let him get out of sight!”

As usual, O'Brien was the most reckless among us. He was already on his feet, his gun aimed into the smoke. Carlucci tentatively followed suit.

Cuthbert extended a hand, helping me up. I picked my weapon from the ground. The gunsliner placed his carbine on the car, the muzzle turned towards the target.

“I'm covering you. Go!”

Normally we wouldn't move an inch out of cover, but the encouragement of the supernatural gun prodigy gave us a boost of courage. Max was the first to dash out, his huge physique a natural target. He tried to draw fire away from us, I realised. It made me sick in the stomach.

O'Brien sprang right after, disappearing in the smoke. Carlucci jumped beneath a closer car and leant out to cover them. All for show, I realised. The flare obstructed us as much as it hid the vigilante.

Damn it all, I thought, dashing out of my cover.

This was stupid. The dumbest thing we could possibly do. Risking our lives playing heroes.

But if Kowalski got away, we'd be back to square one. For once, we had to be idiots and act like this was a comic book. This had to end today.

We ran into the smoke. That was where things got tough.

We had to find cover. I crouched behind a car at the edge of the cloud and reached out. The intense, chemical smell irritated my nose, rendering my strongest sense nearly useless. Nearly.

I put all my will into it and tore the cover away, pulling at the all too familiar scent of death, disease and supernatural physique.

“About 40 yards in front of us. Somewhere between twelve and two o'clock,” I whispered.

Cuthbert fell to a crouch next to me and aimed in that general direction.

“I... I think he's moving. Towards three o'clock. I can't say with that crap in the air.”

The gunslinger nodded and adjusted his aim. Max ran out of smoke and dove behind a rusty pick-up, the large car barely providing him enough cover. O'Brien fell right next to him, hiding behind the wheel.

A gust of hot summer wind hit us in the faces, blowing the violet cloud back for a moment. I instantly took the chance, inhaling deeply and straining my nose to work through the cacophony of odours.

“Two o'clock now.”

“I see him.”

Cuthbert pointed his barrel at a white sedan. I mustered my courage and peeked over the cover. He was there, leaning down on the other side of the vehicle. Then, I heard the sound of breaking glass.

“Shit,” I breathed out.

Max and O'Brien must have shared my thoughts. They rose up from their cover, their submachine guns levelled at the criminal.

“Down on the ground, hands on your head!” Max boomed.

Kowalski rose his head up, then lifted a gun with a move almost too quick to follow. Carlucci swore in panic and fired a warning shot in the air.

Bad call.

The vigilante blazed away, sending three fast shots towards the pick-up. They stuck with a booming noise, smashing the bonnet apart and making the vehicle swoon on its springs. Fourth shot shattered the window and blew a fist-sized hole in the roof. O'Brien howled.

I grit my teeth and shot at the white car. I didn't aim. I just sprayed, desperate to push the vigilante back into cover.

All I did was attract his attention. He returned fire, unleashing a burst of rounds at me.

The shells hit the car, shattering the windows and blowing two-inch holes in the chassis. I dove back, shaking, shutting my eyes tight.

“What the hell is this?!?” I screamed.

“Twelve gauge high explosive!” Cuthbert shouted back.

“There is no such thing!”

“Sometimes there is!”

I curled into a ball, making myself as small a target as possible. The gun blazed three more times, sending the detonating shells at Max and O'Brien again. I stayed down, waiting for the next shots. Instead, I heard a car door opening.

Cuthbert swore and rose from cover, shooting his carbine at an incredible speed.

I joined him, aiming through the broken window and sending a few bullets towards the white car, as much to pin Kowalski down as anything. In the corner of my eye, I saw Jim aim lower. He fired two more times then crouched back, pulling fresh rounds from his belt. With a curse on his lips, he started pushing them into the carbine's chamber.

The white sedan's engine went live with a soft rumble. O'Brien let out a long stream of obscenities and stood up, firing at the car. I sent a few snap shots. So did Max.

All in vain.

The car accelerated backwards with a screech of tires, pivoted and dashed towards the gate out.

We failed again.

“Everybody all right?” I shouted. No one answered me. I took it for a yes.

“Son of a-” O'Brien spat through clenched teeth. “Not a chance. Not on my watch.”

“I put two in his front wheel,” Cuthbert shouted. “The angle was bad, but it should give in soon. As long as we can keep him in sight-”

“To my car. Now.” O'Brien turned towards the corner of the lot. We looked the red vehicle in the corner of the lot.

“Harris just called.” Dan finally caught up with us through the smoke.

He chose to stay out of the reckless pursuit, clinging for cover rather than risking his life. I was glad he did. He was too old for this superhero crap. I didn't know how I'd face his wife and daughters if he'd bought a bullet.

“So?” Max turned towards the senior detective.

“So I told him that you ran into the smoke and I lost sight of you. You chased Kowalski before I got a chance to rein you in.”

We looked at each other. Dan gave us a small nod, then looked at Carlucci. She closed her eyes and breathed out in a mixture of frustration and relief.

“Go give him hell.”

Right. From this point on, it was a strictly Empowered business.