Chapter 158: The Middle-Aged Man’s Tactical Genius
The moment the lock fell, Fatty didn’t hesitate—he raised his gun and aimed directly at the gaping keyhole.
But someone was faster than him.
Bang!
A gunshot echoed through the room. From outside came a scream, followed by the urgent shout of the squad captain:
“Man down! Call for medical support!”
Fatty froze, then turned to look at the middle-aged man in shock.
That’s right—the one who had just shot and hit an officer was none other than the middle-aged man!
“I had the perfect angle to see that officer’s leg, so I took the shot,” the middle-aged man shrugged and explained casually.
Fatty and the punk exchanged glances, momentarily speechless.
The original plan was just to fire a few shots through the keyhole to intimidate the police and buy more time. They hadn’t expected this stroke of luck—an actual hit!
“Nice work!” the punk praised.
The middle-aged man nodded but remained silent, his gun still trained on the keyhole, waiting for another opportunity to shoot.
Watching him, the punk thought to himself: This guy is ruthless!
Most ordinary people, even under duress, would hesitate to shoot at law enforcement. But this man? No hesitation, no fear. As if he was born for this.
“If you don’t have a target, just shoot anyway! Suppressing fire will force them back!”
After a brief pause, the punk handed the middle-aged man two extra magazines.
The middle-aged man took them, tucked them into his pocket, and listened closely. Then, with a slight adjustment of his aim, he squeezed the trigger again.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Three more shots rang out.
“Ahh!”
Another scream came from outside.
“Captain, I got hit by a ricochet!”
Hearing this, the punk was dumbfounded.
Fatty, on the other hand, shouted in disbelief, “No way! He actually hit another one?!”
The middle-aged man simply smiled, his gun never lowering as he continued listening for his next shot.
“Get the wounded to safety! Stay away from that damn keyhole! Keep breaking down the door—I want those bastards dead!”
The squad captain’s furious orders echoed into the room. He was livid.
They were just trying to break down a door, yet they had already lost two officers. If this kept up, they’d be down even more men before they even entered the room. He was starting to regret not calling for backup.
Outside, chaotic footsteps signaled that more officers had arrived to evacuate the injured.
The middle-aged man’s expression turned cold.
Click! He ejected his magazine.
Quickly, he retrieved a fresh one from his pocket, loaded it, and took aim once again.
More people outside meant a higher chance of hitting someone.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Eight rounds.
Every single shot passed cleanly through the small keyhole.
Even with the recoil, his accuracy remained deadly.
Both Fatty and the punk were stunned, their eyes wide.
The man wasn’t just shooting randomly—he was controlling his shots perfectly, adapting to the gun’s kickback like a seasoned marksman.
And then—
“Ahhh!”
Two more screams came from outside.
Four officers down.
Even the punk and Fatty, who were used to violence, found this unbelievable.
The middle-aged man had just fired blindly through a keyhole, yet somehow managed to land two more hits.
“Get them out of there! Use riot shields! Damn it!”
Shouts of frustration and urgency erupted outside.
For a brief moment, the punk and Fatty enjoyed the chaos.
But then—
“Shields are working! The bullets aren’t getting through!”
“Move in! Break down the door!”
Their amusement quickly vanished.
Though the middle-aged man had taken down four officers, he had also forced them to adapt. Now, with riot shields, the police could safely resume breaking in.
The middle-aged man, however, wasn’t fazed. He had expected this.
That’s why, after the police called for shields, he had only fired three more test shots.
Bullets were precious. No need to waste them.
The punk glanced at him and saw that he was calmly reorganizing his ammo, transferring rounds from half-empty magazines into full ones.
“Fatty, give him two of your magazines,” the punk ordered.
Fatty hesitated.
He didn’t want to give them up. But then he remembered the man’s precise shooting and reluctantly pulled out two magazines, tossing them over.
The middle-aged man caught them and nodded.
“Thanks, Fatty.”
“Don’t mention it… Just make sure to take down a few more of those bastards for me!”
“You got it.”
Meanwhile, outside, the officers were forming up, using their shields to cover the ones still breaking down the reinforced door.
Seeing this, the punk shut the wooden door behind them.
“Get ready!”
“This door won’t hold for long.”
His voice was grim.
“Those bastards are pushing us too far!” Fatty growled.
The punk ignored him and scanned the room.
“The space is too open,” he muttered, frustrated.
“We can set up a crossfire zone,” the middle-aged man suggested.
Hearing this, the punk’s eyes lit up.
“Explain!”
A crossfire setup sounded much more tactical than their usual approach—just shooting wildly and hoping for the best.
(End of Chapter 158)
