Twirling the ends of his moustache, Dave Barrett watched it all from the armoured car. Despite his mighty stature, he would really rather sit back and enjoy the show than to throw any punches himself. Especially when more than punches were involved. 

The gangsters seemed unfazed by Taylor drawing his gun. In response, Xander simply pointed his own gun right at him. He was unwise. Ignoring that, Taylor walked closer to him, pushing his own against his opponent’s chest and whispering into his ear, “I saved your ass and you betrayed me like that? Wow! Some loyalty you have there!” 

“What?” Xander spat in confusion. “What sort of story is that? I did nothing! What the hell are you making up?”

The Hangman’s voice interrupted. “Dear Mr Policeman. You are Matthew Taylor, yes?” 

Taylor looked annoyed that his full name had been called, and by one who behaved behind a screen.

“You appear to be greatly confused about the situation. Do come in,” The Hangman said through the insignia. “You can explain what exactly you mean by—”

“Save us the trouble, you sorry little shits,” Taylor fanned out his left hand nonchalantly, then suddenly raised his right hand to shoot the insignia, blasting the ‘1564’ apart. The voice buzzed out. 

“What the hell was that? The bouncer turned his gun on the policeman. Those within the building followed suit.

Taylor reacted, and just as quickly, and turned the gun on the bouncer. Xander pointed his gun at Taylor’s head. Soon enough, the entire fleet of police had their weapons drawn. The 1564 members below aimed their guns out the window of the shabby building. Richard Tate, who had remained unnoticed on the roof, aimed his rifle down below. Barrett wasn’t worried. Taylor could handle it.

“Wait. Wait. All of you. Fellow kids,” The Hangman’s barely audible voice crept out from the speaker. “Ah. Come on. Let us lower our guns. But remember, you blue-shirted people. You are in my territory. You are obliged to give an explanation for why—”

“Boss! Instructions?” Taylor shouted in the direction of the armoured car among the vehicles.

“What?” Dave Barrett replied with a loudspeaker. “Come on. Do what you need to do. You’re the man in charge.” He turned it off with a deafening beep. He didn’t want to be fully in the game this time. He was just here to watch. That was much more fun.

*

The engine of a speeding car shook the ground. Taylor turned around. It screeched to a halt right before the base, next to Dave Barrett’s car. Team Alpha had arrived on the scene. Several officers alighted. Sanders and Smith leapt out with their guns drawn. Walking through the pair to the front of the group was none other than Carl Devon. Taylor smiled. His trusted partner in crime had arrived.

As he turned back, a glint above caught Taylor’s eye. A rifle! Devon pointed towards the roof resolvedly. That man was always quick to react. “Guns above! The sniper is there! Let’s kill that piece of shit!” he shouted. 

In this case, it was a great help to the team. The sneaky thing above had been spotted.

“Aha! You bastard!” Taylor shouted with venom. “Boss, I’m initiating the strike!”

Dave Barrett did not respond. He was probably not paying attention, as usual.

Matthew Taylor walked towards the building, looked up at the roof. Besides Richard Tate, there was a short, skinny thug and a large bald man with a ferocious beard—he recognised this one as the driver of Xander’s van whom he’d exonerated. Holstein, that idiot. Another ungrateful bastard. All brawn but no brains. No matter. They would all pay for their insult.

But only three armed men? Taylor didn’t need support. Oh, those poor things! They aimed at him as he raised his pistol. He simply fired straight at them. What could they do? He’d like to see what they could do! He aimed for the bald man’s heart. With one well-placed shot, he flew backwards across the roof, crashing on the hard concrete behind. That man was done. 

The Hawk took aim at a remarkable speed. He fired down at him. 

Taylor smiled. He felt the burning yellow surge well up in his eyes.

The burst of flame from the muzzle.

The bullet left. With a trail of smoke. 

And it came nearer, and nearer, and nearer. It was the size of a grain. A pea. A stone. 

An arm’s length from his face. He tilted his head to the side with a jolt.

The bullet floated past him. As always. 

It struck the asphalt behind him with a loud crack.

He flexed his arms and stretched his neck. Those above were absolutely horrified.

“What the hell?” Richard Tate exclaimed. “How did he just—”

Before he could finish, Taylor fired more shots at the roof. Tate and the other man ducked behind the parapet in time. But they couldn’t hide from him for long.

“Let them all die,” The Hangman’s frizzled voice boomed. So it appeared that his conditions for an offensive had been met. It was fine by him. It was only a pity how they had to be decimated when they were hoping for a quick step to success. He had no desire to ruin the plans of Dear Mr Vance, but he had no qualms doing so either. If that politician had anticipated his gang acting so brazenly, he might have insured against this outcome with some advance royalties. But now, Taylor was forced to carry out his legal duties. To eradicate these cocky idiots for their performative show of power.

The hole in the road still smoked from the shot. Oh, that bullet of Tate’s. They must have seen it whizzing past! But what did they know of his secret talent? This was the first taste they were to get of his Astra, the most formidable weapon they had yet seen, the last they would ever see in their pathetic lives, a weapon beyond any carbine or machine gun, a weapon which allowed him to dodge such undodgeable attacks—By a Hair’s Breadth.