Chapter 1174: Suicide Robot

Midnight had come and gone, the police helicopter patrols above had already switched shifts, yet the standoff showed no sign of ending.

That said, Texas certainly outperformed California in terms of operational execution. DPD swiftly coordinated with the FAA to issue a temporary no-fly zone, permitting only law enforcement aircraft to fly over the city.

As a result, the embarrassment common in Los Angeles—where news choppers outnumber police ones—was avoided, and all news vans were blocked two miles from the scene.

Aubrey leaned against the command vehicle, cradling his rifle while squinting at the second floor of the library, its exterior lit to a blinding white by numerous searchlights. He let out a yawn.

“If you’ve got nothing better to do, go bring our vehicle around. Once this wraps up, we’ll grab some late-night food.”

Jack frowned at how Aubrey looked completely relaxed while the surrounding DPD officers were all wound tighter than a drum.

“I overheard that the bomb squad’s working on a suspicious package in the underground garage. If it turns out to be a fake, does that mean SWAT can finally move in?”

Aubrey had been through more than a few high-stakes situations with Jack. While he wasn’t completely unfazed by danger, the current tension didn’t rattle him one bit.

“Even if it’s a fake, that doesn’t mean Micah Johnson isn’t carrying another explosive. The guy came prepared.”

Hearing him bring up the bomb squad, Jack’s curiosity piqued. He thought he’d caught a glimpse of a bomb disposal robot earlier. If he didn’t have to risk life and limb this time, playing spectator wasn’t half bad.

Men sometimes have simple pleasures. A lone excavator digging a trench can draw a crowd of onlookers who’ll stand there for hours, hypnotized by the repetitive scoop-and-dump motion. It’s like watching stress get shoveled away, one load at a time.

The DPD’s bomb disposal robot looked a lot like a miniature excavator—except instead of a cab, it had a pole-mounted camera, and instead of a digging arm, it sported a multi-directional robotic claw.

Well, at least the treads looked familiar.

“This is our latest bomb-disposal remote-operated vehicle—the Remotec Model F-5. We’ve just fitted it with a water disruptor,” explained a man who, judging by his rigid posture and hardened features, was clearly a former military EOD specialist.

“We didn’t detect any explosives in the package, but just to be safe, we’re going to neutralize it with compressed air.”

“Won’t that risk detonating a real bomb?” Aubrey asked curiously.

“Unlikely. The high-velocity jet should disable any triggering mechanism and the detonator. And besides, we’re almost certain it’s a false alarm. Probably just some idiot student who forgot his backpack.”

The bomb tech, who looked stern and unyielding, turned out to be surprisingly chatty once he got going. His stone-cold face betrayed none of the warmth in his voice as he explained while carefully maneuvering the robot with a remote controller.

“Three... two... one—” A muffled thud rang out as the suspicious backpack, placed beside a column, was punctured by the air disruptor. Shreds of paper fluttered through the air, and a plume of dust billowed outward.

The technician had been right. The so-called bomb was likely just a forgotten student’s backpack. The whole thing ended too quickly—nowhere near as entertaining as watching an excavator dig. Jack could’ve watched that all afternoon.

Just as he was about to thank the tech and leave, he noticed Aubrey rubbing his chin, staring intently at the robot.

“You know,” Aubrey said, “if the only reason we’re stuck in this standoff is the fear of explosives and collateral damage... then what if we...”

——

“Send a remote-control robot at Micah Johnson? And then what? I don’t recall our bomb squad robots being armed,” Chief David Brown said gruffly, his tone stiff with frustration. The hours-long standoff had dragged on too long, and now the media wouldn’t be able to accuse the DPD of a hasty execution. But if this dragged into morning, the headlines might skewer the department as incompetent and wasteful.

“But modifying it wouldn’t be hard,” Aubrey replied with a grin, holding up one finger. “Sergeant Lake here says he can jury-rig a simple device to deploy a flashbang using materials we’ve got on hand. Should take no more than an hour.”

Sergeant Lake, the seemingly stern bomb technician, was standing quietly behind them, listening.

“An hour? That’s too long. And a flashbang doesn’t guarantee the suspect will be disabled. I’m not sending my officers in there just to get blown up,” said Chief Brown, frowning in thought. Then he motioned Lake forward. “Twenty minutes. Mount one pound of remote-detonated C4 on your little toy. Can you do it?”

“Huh?” Even the usually composed EOD tech was momentarily stunned. But then he nodded. “Of course, sir. Fifteen minutes tops.”

Jack and Aubrey exchanged wide-eyed glances. C4? Seriously? Was this DPD chief always this hardcore?

——

In the silent hallway, Micah Johnson’s ragged breathing echoed clearly, even across nearly ten meters of space.

The hostage negotiator had long since lost his voice. The police sirens below had been shut off. Yet the hallway remained starkly illuminated by harsh beams of white light from outside, interspersed with flickers of red and blue.

Micah knew he was dying. A bullet had gone through his left arm, and though he loosened his tourniquet every twenty minutes to stave off permanent nerve damage, the numbness in his fingers was spreading.

Another round was lodged in his back, having pierced his ceramic plate and jammed into his ribs. It wasn’t bleeding much now, but each breath sent an icy lance of pain down to his toes.

He should’ve gone with those cheap Selys-made armor inserts. Tons of guys in Afghanistan used them without issue.

The white powder he’d taken earlier was wearing off. The euphoria was fading fast, and sleepiness crept up like a tidal wave.

He’d just finished his last dose. It hadn’t even worked that well. That bastard dealer probably sold him trash. If he lived through this, the first thing he’d do was put a bullet through that scumbag’s skull.

Maybe he should try playing dead—lure those pigs in close. He still had plenty of bullets left. Even taking one more with him would be worth it.

Just as his mind started to wander down darker paths, a strange mechanical noise broke the stillness.

Creeeak. Crrrunch. The sound echoed through the hallway like a slow grinding of gears, an eerie, inhuman rasp.

It reminded Micah of an old childhood movie—Short Circuit, he thought. The robot in that flick made a similar sound.

Curiosity got the better of him. He quickly peeked down the hall and blinked in disbelief.

Was that really Johnny Five? No, he preferred E.T. as a kid, didn’t he?

Still half-delirious, Micah peeked again. There was no mistake—it was a robot, with wide tank treads and a mechanical arm holding something white.

“You bastards! What the hell are you trying to pull?” he screamed, firing round after round at the robot.

Bullets sparked off its armor and treads, but it kept moving. Slowly, inexorably—eight meters... five... three... it was almost at his feet.

“Go to hell!” he roared.

But before he could make another move, a brilliant flash exploded before him. The deafening blast shattered every window in the corridor and tore the ceiling clean off.