Amidst Bracken's screams, Frank looked at Jack in astonishment. "What are you doing?"
"I can't stand it anymore," Jack thought. "I don't owe anyone here anything. Why should I endure this torture?" The disgusting tone made him sick to his stomach.
"I mean, why did you shoot him with my gun?" Frank said dejectedly.
"Of course, because both of my guns are registered in the FBI system. "
Jack pulled out his backup FK7.5 and waved it at him, deliberately showing him the caliber. "Besides, I just wanted to shut him up, not shoot him."
"Help!" Bracken wailed, clutching his leg, which had been pierced with a bloody wound
. "You lunatics, you can't kill me. I'm a Senator. Aa ...
"Who do you think you are? How dare you talk to me like that? Because of an order from you, my mother was stabbed in the alley and thrown there like garbage, all alone, dying slowly in pain from excessive blood loss.
My most respected teacher, Roy Montgomery, the mentor and friend who has been secretly protecting me, the man who cares about me like a father, was shot several times and died in front of me.
And you actually dare to speak so arrogantly in front of me, giving a speech boasting about your "great achievements", what gave you the courage to do so!"
"You have no evidence!" The senator, who was pinching his thigh hard to try to stop the bleeding, was now sweating profusely in pain, and his screams became hoarse.
"Even if you kill me, even if I die, I'll still be a respected senator, while you'll become a notorious female detective. This is the reality in the public eye.
Vigilante killings won't change anything. You were born into this country and understand the rules of the game. We were born to be superior, and the power of speech will always be in the hands of people like me.
The media will dig up your entire past, analyze your tragic childhood, and conclude that you'll become a psychopath, haunted by your mother's death, addicted to drugs, and develop paranoia after joining the NYPD.
You targeted an innocent senator for revenge and ultimately brutally murdered him. Is this the justice you seek? Hahaha, lunatics, you're all lunatics!"
These insane words were like hammers, hammering down on Beckett's heart like physical force.
The female detective's face paled, and she stumbled back a few steps. Her entire body seemed drained of strength, and her shoulders slumped.
Tsk, no wonder this guy was chosen by the Democratic Party as a campaign aide for the next presidential election and a candidate for Vice President. His rhetoric is truly remarkable.
I have to say, that performance could be a textbook example of how to use rhetoric in desperate situations, if such a textbook existed.
But it also shows that Bracken isn't so out of touch; he did have some understanding of Beckett's personality.
It's a shame Beckett wasn't facing this guy alone; he was surrounded by a bunch of old, ruthless, Cold War veterans.
Jack approached the Rolls-Royce Phantom and retrieved two brown paper bags from the back seat.
If it were just a matter of talking, Cassel might still hold her own here, but Beckett was far behind. After all, the female detective excelled at solving crimes, not presidential debates.
He dumped the two overflowing brown paper bags next to Bracken. Jack sneered and squatted before him, unbuckling his belt as he stared at him in horror.
He knotted the belt into a tourniquet and slipped the longer end into Bracken's hands, letting him hold it.
"As expected, no one who rises to the pinnacle of power in this country is a fool. But alas, Congressman, you're wrong."
Jack patted Bracken's cheek dismissively as he watched Bracken's horrified eyes. "It's clear that neither of your collaborators—Alexander Denning nor Cynthia Wilkes—gave you any warning."
"What are you talking about?" Bracken, evidently a man of his time, didn't dare to resort to rhetoric in the face of Jack, who had just shot him.
"Guatemala," Jack smiled, patting one of the brown paper bags. "That's a real war crime—the massacre of civilians, an entire village of Indians. This isn't the 19th century.
Honestly, Congressman, I've never understood how someone like you can have blood on your hands and yet have the audacity to portray yourself as a compassionate saint."
Frank approached, raising an eyebrow at Bracken. "Alexander Denning flew you away and then sent us to clean up the traces, so I was there."
Bracken, finally understanding the whole story, forced himself to calm down and forced a smile that looked uglier than tears. "Everything has a solution, doesn't it? What do you want?"
Frank glanced at Beckett casually and said hesitantly, "Say sorry to the victims?"
"I'm sorry! I was wrong!" Bracken immediately backed down. After all, he wasn't truly prepared for death. His previous nonsense might have worked for Beckett, but to a ruthless veteran agent like Frank, it was like a fart.
"I ordered the murder of your mother. I hired the assassins after that, including the gunman who tried to kill you at your funeral. I ordered it all. I plead guilty."
Beckett instinctively took a few steps back, away from the humanoid creature that disgusted her so deeply.
Even though her mother's killer had knelt before her and confessed everything, she felt no sense of revenge or relief.
The female detective now wished that this "inconvenient troublemaker," this cynical playboy, this smug narcissist, this childish, never-growing-up boy, was right there with her, so she could cry in his arms.
"He's yours." Beckett staggered aside, seemingly exhausted.
Jack winked at Anna, asking her to help take care of it, then pretended to check the time and said to Frank, "It's almost time. I promised someone that I would take care of all this this morning."
Happy New Year, brother and sister-in-law. Where's my monthly ticket?
(End of this chapter)