Chapter 331: The End of Heisenberg
In that split second, Pinkman ran through a dozen desperate options in his head.
The police cruiser was getting closer.
In the end, he did the only smart thing—he slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road.
Two officers stepped out of the patrol car and approached. If you looked closely, their hands never strayed far from the guns at their waists.
In the United States, being a cop is a high-risk job. You never know who might be armed. Even a homeless guy might pull out a gun—or worse—if things escalate.
So officers stay on alert at all times. If they sense danger, they won't hesitate to draw and fire. That's not exaggeration.
If you're pulled over in America, you follow instructions. Exactly.
Don't reach behind your back.
Don't fumble inside your jacket.
Don't make sudden movements.
People have been shot for less.
When the officers saw the driver was white, they visibly relaxed. Their hands eased away from their weapons. One less variable to worry about.
If it had been a Black driver or another minority… well. The difference in attitude would have been obvious.
"You were flying out there," one officer joked as he approached the window. "Almost looked like you were trying to take off."
Then he looked closer.
"Pinkman?"
Pinkman, both hands gripping the steering wheel, sweat running down his temples, jerked his head toward the voice.
"Tony?!"
He recognized him immediately.
Officer Tony had been to Frank's house several times. Frank had asked him for favors before. And since Pinkman was always around Frank, the two had met more than once.
Tony turned to his partner.
"It's fine. He's a friend."
The tension in the air dropped instantly.
Pinkman felt like his heart had just restarted.
Tony's partner nodded and returned to the patrol car.
"When did you get back?" Officer Tony asked casually, glancing around the interior of Pinkman's car.
"Just… a couple days ago," Pinkman replied, his heart practically lodged in his throat as he forced himself to sound calm.
Thankfully, all that time working under Frank had hardened him. He didn't look as panicked as he felt.
The old Pinkman would've blanked out completely—stammering, sweating, saying too much. Turning nothing into something.
Tony scanned the inside of the vehicle. His eyes paused briefly on the large duffel bags sitting on the seats—but he didn't think much of them.
"I won't write you up this time," Tony said after a few more casual exchanges. "But slow down. You were really pushing it."
They knew each other. Nothing had happened. A minor speeding violation wasn't worth the paperwork.
"Thanks. I had a lot on my mind—wasn't watching the speed," Pinkman said, finally breathing easier.
"You're thinking about Frank, huh?" Tony sighed. "No one expected a guy like him to get sick."
He shook his head.
"I remember one winter—snow up past your ankles. He got drunk, passed out in a snowbank, didn't get found until after midnight. Should've frozen to death."
"But he wakes up fine. Not even a cold. Like nothing happened. Then he just heads back to the bar."
Pinkman gave a faint, strained smile.
"Anyway," Tony added, noticing his partner waving from the cruiser. "Drive safer."
Tony walked back to the patrol car. The siren chirped briefly as they pulled away, driving past Pinkman before disappearing around a bend.
Pinkman slumped in his seat.
He pulled out a cigarette, stuck it between his lips, flicked his lighter—
Nothing.
He tried again.
Still nothing.
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"
He hurled the lighter out the window and slammed both fists against the steering wheel.
Whether he was cursing the lighter… or venting the adrenaline of almost getting caught… or something deeper entirely—even he didn't know.
---
Frank, unaware of any of this, was on the phone with Walter.
"He's quitting? He's just walking away?!" Walter's voice shot up an octave.
"Yeah," Frank answered.
"He can't just decide he's done! What does that even mean?"
Their operation had only ever been three people.
Frank was critically ill—basically sidelined already.
But he had trained Pinkman to take over field operations. The structure could hold.
Now Pinkman was gone.
One sick.
One quitting.
That left only Walter.
The irony wasn't lost on either of them.
Walter had once been the one dying. The one racing against time.
Now his treatment had worked. He was the healthiest of the three.
"It's that girl," Walter snapped. "It has to be."
"Calm down," Frank cut in. "This is Pinkman's decision. Even if you force him to stay, it won't be the same. You can't squeeze sweetness out of something rotten."
He paused.
"And he's using again. Remember the rule we set at the beginning? No product. No exceptions."
Even if Pinkman hadn't quit, they couldn't keep him.
Silence hung on the line.
"So what now?" Walter's voice wavered. "You can't move. He's gone. That leaves me alone. Is this it? Is Heisenberg finished?"
Frank didn't answer immediately.
Pinkman's departure had derailed everything.
Plans never survived reality.
"We've made enough money," Frank said slowly. "You're healthy now. Your family's set. You won't have to worry about bills ever again."
"And we still have the Blue Angel formula. If we sell it, that's another massive payout. You'd walk away a multi-millionaire."
He didn't need to spell it out.
Let it end here.
Walk away clean.
Take the money and disappear.
If Pinkman had stayed, Frank might've pushed forward. Expanded. Built something bigger.
But now?
He was ready to let Heisenberg die.
"No!" Walter's voice exploded through the phone.
Not hesitation.
Not fear.
Refusal.