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For years, Clay had pondered why some cops let themselves get so badly out of shape. In that moment, he realized that they had something there. The massacres to never missed. A day at the gym would always beat the beer belly to the barrel of some drugged out perps. Gun yelling, I'm on the job! I'm on the job to alert them. He was NYPD. He came up behind the cops. Justus, the object of their pursuit, rounded the corner onto Park Avenue. The large apartment building that took up the corner extended a good way down 81st with two separate entrances for doctor's offices. Suddenly, the man reappeared, a gun in his hand. Simultaneously, Clay and one of the officers screamed out Gun! And they all scrambled for cover. The more agile of the two catapulted into the gutter between two parked cars. His heavyset partner ducked behind a tree circled by a wrought iron fence, some arborist double shield against the dings of parallel parkers in the dung of dogs. Clay pressed himself flat in the scant hollow of the doctors doorway closest to park in a shooter stance. The guy in Gray fired off a series of rounds that boomed as if he had a portable cannon and his hand. From the way he was aiming. He taken no notice of clay. He was concentrating solely on the uniforms. Glass and metal erupted everywhere. His attempts to hit the cop concealed between the cars turned into an automotive volcano at full spew. The force of the barrage left a Hyundai literally rocking on its wheels, and a large chunk of the stone lentil framing clay's doorway exploded into a nasty spray of shards before the bullet lob to the ground. A ricochet, most likely guards it hits so close, See instantly, recalled his post swim cockiness about air bubbles. Now he could add death mode number two to the never in the same day list. Slug deflected off anti dogshit device.