Metamorphosis (7)
Bike riders switched on their headlights, blinding us with the glare. These weren't ordinary high beams—they were intensely bright and focused, leaving spots in anyone's vision. With over ten of them blazing at once, normal eyesight couldn't manage effective suppressing fire. Even my subordinates, wearing protective goggles to hide their identities, were losing accuracy.
"Damn it!" Hushan Liang spat, squeezing his eyes shut. Amid the chaos, only I kept precise aim, shattering the vanguard of the enemy assault. Rifle propped on an improvised shield, I fired controlled single shots like a burst. The lead charge, barreling straight at us in blind faith of their lights, collapsed in seconds.
With the front line crumbling in droves, the rear scrambled into evasive maneuvers.
"Dodge!"
"They're gonna crash!"
Desperate cries echoed from their side. But as eight bikes spun like tops and twice as many riders tumbled across the pavement, avoiding the pileup entirely would have been a miracle for the whole rear guard. Collisions multiplied, sending men and machines flying into the air together.
I vaulted low over a screeching, sliding bike and bellowed,
"Now! Fire! Concentrate on the front right!"
The evading group split left and right, exposing a wide flank. I focused fire on the right cluster to collapse one side first, funneling their assault into a single direction. Blocking one front is always easier than two. My Cantonese shout had Hushan Liang's crew unconsciously following my lead.
Crack-crack!Clang!Tic— The sharp metallic ring of interrupted bursts. Magazines ran dry at the worst moment. Shielding enemy fire on one knee, I secured my rifle behind it and swapped mags one-handed in under two breaths. By the fifth shot from the fresh mag, the right group scattered into cover, abandoning their charge.
The cost? The left flank closed in fast. Roaring exhausts battered my eardrums up close. Frustrated that bullets couldn't pierce my shield, their furious leader drew a greatsword and cocked it over his shoulder.
I surged my circuit's limited output into raw physical reinforcement for that instant.
"Die!"
Clang! Full swing met full block—the blade bit into my shield, its wielder rebounding. A sickening crunch came from his wrist. I nailed him and his pillion rider with two three-round bursts each as they rolled, then parried the follow-up slashes in rapid succession.
"Hyungnim! Grenade!"
Kyung-tae's urgent shout drew my eyes to the lobbed explosive. My eyes highlighted the propellant hue, spiking my pulse. Adrenaline surged hot. Spoils from an earlier skirmish, no doubt.
Suppress the fuse? Too flashy a "luck." In a flash, I ditched the rifle, yanked the sword from my shield.
Shing! Draw and deflect in one motion—the broad Anti-Japanese Great Sword was perfect for swatting it away. I poured every ounce of strength; the grenade rocketed off several times faster, veering wildly.
The ground convulsed. Blast wave and roar shook dust from the asphalt. Rolling under burning wrecks before detonating, shrapnel sprayed upward at a shallow angle from the rebound. The right-front group, reforming beyond obstacles, caught some fragments. No serious wounds, though—helmets saved skulls, and their studded leather jackets hid brigandine-style plate inside. Partial armor like medieval brigandine or splint, but enough for light injuries and bleeding.
"Agh! It hurts! Help!"
Who was screaming? Hushan Liang. The rushers past us fired from behind, and our wide-open car doors offered no cover. Erratic potshots from zigzagging Black Sea Party bikes—no hits yet—but ample for a self-preserving bureaucrat to panic. He scrambled into the car, terrified.
That was the point of suppression fire.
"Cover the rear! Draw their eyes out!"
At my order, Kyung-tae led his six men to new rear cover. Seizing the gap, I bit down on the sword, reclaimed my rifle, and lunged forward—toward the right-front group emerging for a fresh attack amid smoke and debris.
"What the—?!"
The first rider out of a six-bike pileup spotted me at five meters, eyes bulging, then cranked the throttle wide. Instead of shooting, I tilted my shield and body-checked the surge. Distance from Hushan Liang allowed cranking my circuit higher.
Front wheel climbed the shield—then the whole bike launched airborne. Rider and fighter gaped at my sudden mass, flipping like boars tossed by an elephant. I hosed the fuel tank mid-air, invoking ignition incantation.
Cameras everywhere? As long as it looked mundane!
Whoomph! Mid-air fireball. Two men roasted alive, shrieking. Sparks singed my shield briefly.
Four bikes left. Aiming at the clustered stragglers squeezing through a gap, I emptied my remaining rounds in one head-height burst. Visors shattered, revealing holed faces. Domino wrecks followed dead pilots.
But—
"Sh-shit!"
Rear-seat sword and gun men survived, using pilots as meatshields. Rifle rounds couldn't punch both skull and helmet-back together.
Distance to the scrambling survivors: seven steps max. I tossed the empty rifle and closed for melee.
Kakaka-clang! Batted aside a point-blank shot, closed in, cleaved the gunman's head with the broad blade. Shattered front teeth sprayed with blood as it dropped.
Three left: two swordies, one gunner. Fear-twisted faces over visors mirrored dead Chinese soldiers.
Smack! Shield-slam folded the gunner; before the swords synced, I diagonally bisected one. Continuous motion slashed down, finishing the groaning gunner.
"S-sp..."
The last swordie pissed himself, trembling.
"Please... spare me..."
"Drop the sword first."
He obeyed; I blurred a horizontal cut, decapitating the now-empty-handed fool. Couldn't leave a witness to my circuit spike.
Head spun, hit pavement, blinked twice in dying confusion. Vacant eyes stared back, blank on what hit him.
I reclaimed my shield, looted weapons and ammo from corpses. Emerging battle-ready, I saw the Black Sea Party group—poised for pincer—stir uneasily. Watching from cover, they made the smart, realistic call.
"Retreat!"
A ranking rider circled his fist; the remnants ebbed like tide. They still outnumbered us—prolonged firefight might favor them—but mounting losses and our reinforcements made it iffy.
"Incredible, Deputy Director!"
Hushan Liang finally crawled out, praising.
"You saved us! Beating that many rebels alone! Thought you'd bought it charging out!"
"Cut the dramatics. You're supposed to be the hero here—fawning on me in public like this?"
Catching on to the eyes watching, the third-grade detective straightened. His follow-up mixed caution, awe, greed, hope.
"You sure I can claim full credit? After Secretary Gao sets up my identity, I could rise to real Public Security brass—"
"No backtalk later. Don't worry."
"Yes... thank you..."
Caught shallow scheming, he grinned sheepish-excited.
"Reinforcements?"
"Not yet. Looks like attacks hit multiple spots."
"Request an ambulance then. Hospital's close—should be doable."
"No major injuries—why?"
"Get your head straight. Civilians got hurt, not us!"
"Ah."
Hero role needs proper finale. Battle high dulled his brain, testing my patience. Served him glory on a platter—why not eat?
Hushan Liang finally radioed medical support. Proximity to Guangdong No.2 People's Hospital meant priority.
"Hyungnim! First-aid kit here!"
Kyung-tae pulled a red bag from the trunk.
I prodded Hushan Liang post-radio again.
"At least pretend to direct rescues. We're your plainclothes cops under control."
"Right, Deputy Director."
Thus, my crew staged mock relief: prying victims from wrecked cars, triaging by injury for evac order, first aid for criticals.
"I... I can't see..."
"Hang on. Ambulance coming soon."
The bloodied middle-aged man sobbed against me—shrapnel from blast-shattered glass. Sole survivor of tempered-glass rain from high-rises. This mother wailed her child's name amid the bleeding.
"Xin Yan! Xin Yan! Sir, find my son Xin Yan! Red top, white pants!"
I spotted Xin Yan instantly. One child corpse amid the razor sleet. Pants blood-soaked, but matched.
"...We'll look. Rest now."
Irritation welled—not from this, but foreknowledge of nightmare-haunted sleep. Master's corpse would scrape my nerves raw again.
Trivial tragedy next to my grand design. Shaking disgust, cheers, support, praise poured in.
"Public Security rocks! Long live the Motherland!"
"Wipe out those rebel scum!"
"We believe in you!"
This fervor? Joy from the affluent elite in this rich district. Ninety million Party members converged with the wealthy—practically a noble class of cadres and kin. I resumed the act to charm them.