Construction sites were a nightmare in a pursuit.

Half-constructed walls, scaffolds, metal bars and wooden planks. Crates and sacks, concrete mixers, piles of sand – they created a labyrinth stretching left and right, up and down. Dozens of escape routes, hundreds of hiding spots. Just moving through was a challenge, never mind searching it. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

When the criminal was armed and dangerous, the needle was covered in a lethal poison. Each corner or elevated spot could hide an ambush. Every hole could be a booby trap. Even if we moved at a snail pace, covering each other would be impossible. There was always a line of fire we'd miss, some spot out of sight. In a terrain like this, the culprit always had an advantage.

Unless you could follow his every step.

“He took a morphine shot,” I announced, rising from a crouch. “The syringe should be somewhere around.”

We'd found several discarded items since I'd sniffed his track down the ramp. He'd thrown away his shotgun near the entrance to the reconstructed mall. To our collective relief, the drum was empty. No more deadly high-explosive shells.

“Let's waste no time.” As the most senior officer, Max took the charge of the team. “The forensics can fish for evidence later. For now, make sure we don't lose his track.”

“No chance of that,” I assured him.

The construction sites had a powerful dormant aroma. Concrete, plaster, paint, rusting steel, welded metal, sawed wood, ozone, glue – the odour was powerful to the point of irritation. It was monotonous, though, the same smell all over the place. Very easy to tune out if I concentrated on scents that didn't fit in.

Kowalski's trail stuck out like a sore thumb.

“He's close,” I said, getting back down on all fours and inhaling his scent deep. “I'd say he's got maybe one minute advantage. We're catching up.”

“He's slowing down,” Cuthbert pointed out.

“Yes. Wounds and fatigue are really getting to him.”

“He took morphine, too,” Max pointed out. “I guess he'll be really drowsy?”

“I... Wouldn't count on that.” I got back up and bid the team to follow me. “He mixed it with amphetamine. I don't know how that affects consciousness.”

“Amphetamine?” Cuthbert whispered with disbelief. “It makes no sense.”

“Actually, it does,” O'Brien replied quietly. “They sometimes mix the two in medical practice to max out the morphine's effects. The thing is in proportions, though. And the purity of both drugs. When done wrong, it's absolutely lethal. Most of the time, it is done wrong.”

“We'll take your word on that, Captain Steroid.”

“Screw you, Sun.”

“Quiet!” Max hushed us down, then pointed us forward.

We made our way towards an unloading area in the back of the mall. Much like the rest of the place, it was cramped with obstacles and cover. One of the walls was half torn down and boarded up halfway through. A huge pile of plaster bricks and concrete slabs formed an impromptu wall, cutting off a section of the hall. In there-

We heard the sound of cracked wood.

I breathed in. He was there. Just around the corner.

I gestured the rest of the team. Max took a quick look around, then pointed us to several spots at the entrance to the closed-off area. A row of wooden crates, a pile of concrete slabs, a stack of heavy bags. Good cover, with a clear line of fire inside.

Cuthbert reached into his coat and produced a mirror on a telescopic selfie stick. Carefully, he pointed it towards the area on the other side of the wall. I leaned closer to get a better look.

The area was a closed-off corner, two walls with a stack of scaffolds and building materials on the side. It was littered with boxes, barrels and crates. A concrete mixer stood somewhere to the far right. The scaffolds were accessible with a ladder next to the rear wall.

Kowalski was crouching down, his back turned to us. He was rummaging through an open wood crate. As I looked, he took out one item after another. A small, T-shaped submachine gun. A pistol. A first aid kit, a canteen. A white box with some black writings.

This wasn't just a random hiding spot. He stashed supplies here.

Crap. This was bad.

Max tapped me on the shoulder, then pointed towards the cover. He was right. We had to finish this now, while he was defenceless.

We sprinted towards our hiding spots in a low crouch, trying to make as little noise as possible. I reached my spot first, dove in and pointed my gun at the vigilante. The others fell into their places fast. I drew the air in for a scream.

Kowalski turned his head towards us. Before we could react, he raised the submachine gun to bear.

Cuthbert shot his rifle. The round hit the vigilante square in the chest, tearing another hole in his vest. He staggered back, disappearing behind behind a wooden crate.

Everyone else was frozen in their spots.

Our daze only lasted for a splinter of a second, but that was enough for the former SEAL. He raised his hand unleashed a spray of bullets at us.

We returned fire, but it was already too late. Kowalski took several snap shots, driving Max and O'Brien deeper into hiding. Cuthbert fired, but the shot only tore splinters out of the box.

“I can't get a good angle from here,” he growled. “At best, I can pin him down-”

A burst of submachine gun fire cut his words short. The shot came just from above the ground, tearing into the crates I was hiding behind. To my horror, two bullets came through right next to my leg.

The boxes were empty. I was hiding behind thin wood and air.

I screamed and returned fire on full auto. I didn't even bothering to aim, just putting a suppressive volley. Barely a second later my gun stopped firing with a series of repeated clicks.

“I'm spent!” I cried out with desperation, reaching for my pistol.

“'Cause you're spraying like an idiot!” O'Brien cut back, then rose to aim.

Kowalski peeked out and shot straight at him. Cuthbert's rifle boomed in response. Suddenly, the gunfire went silent.

“Did you get him?”

“Only his gun-”

In an instant, the ex-SEAL fired another burst. This time, he went straight for the gunslinger. The bullets chewed into the plastic blocks of his cover. Cuthbert slumped flat to the ground, completely pinned down.

I took a couple of snap shots to cover him. It earned me another burst of fire. The planks of the box creaked, right next to my belly. I dove back down with a curse.

“Submachine akimbo? Just how many guns does he have?” Max screamed. The volley of gunfire instantly moved onto him.

The gunslinger superhero didn't dare to raise up. He clung to the ground, reloading his carbine, one round at a time.

“This is bad,” he muttered.

No kidding.

We had the advantage of numbers, but we were clearly out-gunned. I ran dry. Max and O'Brien were in the red. Cuthbert's belt was practically blank. Meanwhile, Kowalski seemed to have a limitless supply of guns and bullets. We stood no chance in a protracted gunfight. I dreaded to think whether he had grenades in the stack.

Cuthbert looked around, then his eyes flared up.

“Morgan, what's in these sacks?” He pointed towards a pile next to the wall. I reached out, trying to identify the scent.

“Cement powder,” I replied, catching on his line of thought.

The superhero turned towards Max. The giant detective nodded, then laid down prone, ready to crawl.

“We'll buy you time.” O'Brien looked at us. “Cover me. I'll do something really stupid. I want to live to tell about it.”

Cuthbert and I peeked over the cover, pointing our guns at the vigilante's hiding spot. We heard a click, a clank of metal falling to the floor, then a crank. The sound of a reloading weapon.

“Now!” O'Brien sprang to his feet and jumped onto the box in front on him.

He bounced off from it in a ridiculously fluid jump, sending several shots towards the ex-SEAL from the air, then landed on a pile of bricks. It immediately started to fall down. He jumped up again, kicking them down in a landslide, then landed up on a scaffold.

Kowalski rose his aim up and fired a few shots in the air, too dumb-stuck to even aim properly. O'Brien replied immediately with a burst from the hip, spending the rest of his clip in a flash.

We joined in, showering the vigilante with bullets before he could aim at our colleague. O'Brien didn't make an easy target, jumping onto a metal rail hanging on two ropes. He landed, not even balancing, and drew his pistol.

My jaw dropped.

I knew he was an idiot, but I would never dream of something that dumb. A trick right out of a Hollywood movie. Very flashy. Completely impractical. Good only for confusing the enemy, and even that just for a couple of seconds.

A couple of seconds was all we needed.

Max rose to his feet and hurled two hundred pounds of cement like a ball.

Breathless turned to bear, instinctively unleashing two bursts onto the oncoming threat. We fired, too, sending more bullets into the bag. The fabric tore apart, casting a cloud of dust into the air.

I could swear I saw a glitter of understanding in Kowalski's eyes. Too late, though.

The projectile smashed into his cover, breaking apart, showering everything in ten feet radius with fine grey powder. The boxes shook and fell under the force, tripping the supervillain off his feet.

We sprang from our cover and rushed forward.

For the first six feet or so we thought it was over. Then, with a snap of breaking wood, Breathless rose up to stand.

He was wobbling on his feet, covered in cement from head to toe, coughing and spitting, teary eyes shut tight. And yet, he was still holding a gun in each hand. With a visible effort, he began to raise his arms.

Jesus , I thought, is this guy indestructible?

We sent three shots straight to his chest. The battered kevlar vest shook with impact, the vigilante made two weak steps back. He threw his head up and let out a weak, pathetic moan. The submachine guns fell from his hands.

But – he was still standing.

Max charged forward, grabbed the villain by the collar and threw him to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Kowalski fell with a painful groan. The giant detective turned him over, produced a pair of cuffs and restrained his wrists behind his back.

“Francis Kowalski, you are under arrest for multiple homicide,” he recited in a drained voice. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may – and will – be used against you.”

Kowalski didn't say anything. He just wheezed in pain, his breathing laboured and heavy.

“Someone carry him out of this mess before he suffocates,” I said, slumping down along the wall.

“And search him for weapons while we're at it.” O'Brien finally jumped down and moved on to help Max handle the captured murderer. Meanwhile, I reached for the phone.

“This is detective Sun. I need an ambulance and back-up at the old Green Terrace mall. We have apprehended Francis Kowalski. Repeat, Francis Kowalski is down.”

“Copy that.” The dispatcher took the matter off our hands.

“So, it's over,” Cuthbert whispered, sitting down next to me. He took his hat off and ran his hand through the sweaty hair, covering it in the concrete dust.

“Yup.” I gave him a stiff nod. It was finally over.

Until the next pile of mess dropped in. Like an Empowered teenager playing a neighbourhood superhero, or a cat burglar who could pass through the walls. Or a psychotic telepath out to save the world from anyone who thought different. Or a monster in a five-ton powered armour, with a minigun in one hand and a flamethrower in the other. Or a zombie apocalypse.

In the world of superheroes and supervillains everything was possible, and it was my unfortunate job to keep it in the boundaries of the law.