Max and Vivian hit the wet pavement with a heavy thud.


Vivian stared blankly at Max, who was sprawled on top of her. Her brain was buffering. What just happened? Did this guy just… go full bodyguard and take a bullet for her?


She couldn't process it. What possessed Max to jump in front of it?


"Damn it!" York cursed.


The adrenaline wore off instantly. York realized he'd just made a massive mistake. The rain might have drowned out the sound of their fistfight, but a gunshot? That was a dinner bell for the cops.


This wasn't some minor scuffle anymore. Once you fire a weapon, you bring down the heat—SWAT, Heavy Crimes, the works. Even with his skills, York knew you couldn't outrun the entire police force. If he had just let them go, he might have gotten slapped with attempted theft. A weekend in jail.


Now? He was looking at hard time.


He glared at Vivian, eyes full of malice. This is all their fault, he thought. If they hadn't fought back...


He hesitated, finger hovering over the trigger. Shooting them again would only make things worse. The more bodies, the bigger the manhunt.


Revenge could wait.


York spun around, ready to bolt.


He took exactly one step before something clamped around his ankle.


"Huh?" York looked down, confused.


His eyes nearly popped out of his skull. The guy—the insurance agent he had definitely just shot—was clinging to his leg like a rabid koala. And he was grinning. A wild, teeth-baring grin.


How is this possible? York's brain short-circuited. I shot him. I definitely shot him.


This was just an insurance agent! Even if he wasn't dead, shouldn't he be, you know, incapacitated? Or at least crying? Who tackles a gunman after getting shot? Was he protected by a premium life insurance policy or something?


Shock turned into rage. York felt insulted. Nobody respects a wallet thief, fine. But he was holding a gun! Did his firearm mean nothing to this kid? Where was the respect?


"You have a death wiiiiiiish—"


York's threat turned into a high-pitched vibrato.


He couldn't lift the gun. His limbs started vibrating like he was sitting on a washing machine during the spin cycle. His eyes rolled back into his head, showing only the whites, and he collapsed face-first into a puddle.


"Phew." Max exhaled, finally relaxing his grip. He pulled the flashlight-shaped object away from York's thigh.


ZZZZT. Blue arcs of electricity crackled ominously at the tip. It was a heavy-duty taser.


Max scrambled up and kicked the gun away from York's limp hand, wiping cold sweat/rain from his forehead. That had been way too close.


"You..." Vivian was still on the ground, staring at him with her jaw unhinged. "You're not dead?"


Max internally rolled his eyes. He had pinned his hopes on this lady being a martial arts master, but she'd turned out to be all flash and no finish. Great mid-fight damage, terrible mental game.


"Yeah, I'm tough like that," Max said, patting his chest where he'd padded his jacket beforehand. "Don't just sit there! Get a rope! Tie him up!"


"I... my legs," Vivian stammered. "They're jelly. I can't move."


Max stared at her. "Seriously? You're a Grandmaster of the Twelve Kicks and you're telling me your legs don't work?"


"It's my first time having a gun pointed at me, okay?" Vivian looked embarrassed. "Give me a break."


Fair enough. Even a Kung Fu master is still human.


"Unbelievable," Max muttered. He turned to find something to bind York's hands.


"Look out!" Vivian screamed. "He moved! He's moving again!"


Max jumped about a foot in the air. He spun around and saw York's leg twitch.


Oh, come on! Max thought. Is this guy part cockroach?


Max didn't wait to see if it was a reflex or a resurrection. He lunged forward, whipped out a can of pepper spray, and unleashed a cloud of spicy justice right into York's face.


"AHHH!" York shrieked, snapping awake.


"He's definitely still moving! What do we do?" Vivian panicked.


"Don't worry! The voltage must have been too low. I'll give him a recharge!"


ZAP. "URGGHH!" ZZZRRRT.


Down the hall, the door cracked open. Lily poked her small head out. Her eyes went wide, her mouth forming a perfect 'O' as she watched her neighbor electrocuting a screaming man in the rain.


Through the driving rain and darkness, the scene looked like something out of a low-budget horror movie. A man and a woman were hovering over a fallen figure. One of them was yelling, "Zap him! Come on, zap him again!" while the other was happily stabbing downward with a stun baton. Ghostly blue electricity crackled against the wet pavement, lighting up the gloom.


The guy on the ground was barely twitching. Only one of his legs was visible, jerking reflexively every few seconds like a dying bug.


No matter how you looked at it, the vibe was creepy.


Woo-woo!


Sirens wailed, cutting through the heavy rain as squad cars screeched to a halt.


...


"So... this is the dangerous gunman you reported?"


Four police officers—three men and one woman—stared at the heap of misery on the ground. The suspect was a mess of tears and snot, his eyes swollen shut, his body still vibrating with aftershocks from the taser.


Honestly, if Max hadn't pointed him out, the cops would have assumed this poor guy was the victim of a brutal mugging.


"Yep! That's him," Max said, pointing to a spot nearby. "Gun's over there."


A female officer jogged over, snapping on latex gloves. She marked the evidence, took a few pictures, and gingerly picked up the pistol. She ejected the magazine, checked the chamber, and bagged it.


"Captain Vance," she called out. "Looks like a homemade clone of a Colt 1911. Rough craftsmanship, but functional. And... the mag is missing one round."


Every head swiveled toward Max and his group. Little Lily squeaked and tried to make herself invisible behind Vivian's leg.


"It wasn't just the gun," Max added helpfully, pointing to another spot. "He brought a paring knife, too."


The cops looked. Sure enough, a knife was lying in a puddle.


You could practically see the question marks floating above the officers' heads. Gun and knife? And this seemingly average guy and girl had taken him down without breaking a sweat?


The most important part: the suspect had actually fired the gun.


Captain Vance, a middle-aged officer who looked like he'd seen it all, raised an eyebrow.


"Officer Ruth, log the evidence. Will, get cuffs on him. Search him for anything else sharp or explosive."


"Yes, sir!" The team scrambled into action.


By now, the commotion had drawn a crowd. Neighbors were peering out of windows or stepping onto porches. Auxiliary police were busy stringing up yellow tape and holding back the rubberneckers who were just there for the show.


Captain Vance scanned the area. "Who called this in?"


Vivian stared at Max, her jaw dropping. "Wait, when did you call the cops? I didn't see you do it."


"Right before I opened the door," Max said with a shrug. "I figured if we couldn't handle him, we'd need help. And if we could handle him, someone would need to haul him away. That's why they got here so fast."


"You..." Vivian's eyes went wide. This guy is a total mastermind, she thought.


Captain Vance looked equally speechless. Reporting the crime, spotting the perp, neutralizing the threat, and preserving the scene... Max had basically provided a full-service package. Vance had the distinct, annoying feeling that he hadn't been called to stop a crime, but rather to be the janitor—the "cleanup crew" called in to wash the floor after Max was done.


If every citizen was this efficient, the crime rate would hit zero by Tuesday.


"Captain! You need to see this," one of the officers shouting while handcuffing the suspect.


"What now?" Vance walked over.


"Look at his face."


Vance shined his flashlight on the suspect. The mask had been pulled down, revealing a wide forehead, a hooked nose, and a sinister, bird-like expression.


Vance's eyes widened. "No way."


This was York. A heavy hitter.