Even lighthearted shows like The Rookie had seen characters die. And in this stitched-together TV world, where storylines collided and escalated, body counts were inevitable.
Jack had always wondered: if the women here were even more striking than their TV counterparts, then somewhere out there were faces he hadn't met yet. Faces worth crossing paths with. But that was still far off. For now, he was just a rookie patrol officer with no connections and an empty wallet. His only edge was the system. With time, he'd climb.
3:00 PM.
The radio crackled — request for backup. Jack and Angela leaned forward instantly.
Then John's voice came over the private channel: they'd pinched Darius Nguyen, and the man had given up Lance Selby's location. A house on Zhongguan Street.
Lucy and Bradford were closest. They'd move in first.
Angela relayed their own status to command. Jack hit the lights and siren, weaving through traffic as the Chevy roared down side streets.
But the next transmission froze them both.
Lucy's panicked voice, shouting over gunfire: Bradford down. Automatic weapons. Alley behind the target house.
Jack slammed the accelerator to the floor. Angela reached into the trunk for the M16s, slamming a mag home, checking the chamber with practiced hands.
A police helicopter thundered overhead. Bishop's voice cut in: one accomplice caught, but Selby himself was fleeing toward Clinton Street.
Jack swung the car hard into Clinton.
A figure burst from a backyard ahead — Selby, rifle in hand. He spun and sprayed the cruiser with a burst.
Glass shattered. A round sliced past Jack's ear and buried in the seat.
"Fuck!" Jack roared, adrenaline hitting like fire. He snatched the M16 from Angela, braced it on the steering wheel, and ripped off three bursts through the shattered windshield. Angela's fire joined his, cracking sharp and fast.
Selby stumbled, caught himself, then bolted down the street.
Jack and Angela bailed from the car and gave chase on foot.
They turned a corner and nearly collided with John. The older rookie stood square in the street, face-to-face with Selby.
Selby had dumped the empty rifle and now pressed a Browning M1911 to the head of a screaming woman. His eyes were wide, twitching, high on adrenaline and rage.
Angela gestured low. Jack flanked with her, slipping behind a row of palm trees.
Selby waved the gun between the hostage and John, screaming, raving. John stayed calm, words steady, trying to talk him down.
Angela leaned close, whispering, "You sure about your rifle work?"
Jack shouldered the weapon. His voice was steady, though his chest pounded. "Less than twenty meters. If he swings at John, I'll take the shot."
Angela raised her own rifle. "I'll back your head. Don't tag the hostage."
Selby whipped the pistol toward John again.
Two rifles cracked in the same instant.
Blood and bone sprayed. Selby collapsed, wrist dangling by a thread, half his skull blown open.
The hostage shrieked. John rushed to her, shielding her from the sight, whispering comfort. Angela kicked the pistol clear. Jack forced himself to look — forced his stomach to hold.
The reality was nothing like TV. Rifle rounds didn't just drop people cleanly. They tore. They ruined. He fought down bile, locking the scene in memory. Get used to it, he told himself. There'll be more.
Angela noticed his stiff expression. She grabbed his shoulder, shouting over the chaos: "Rookie! You good?"
Jack pulled his lips into a brittle smile. "Yeah. I'm fine. If you wear the badge… this day comes sooner or later."
By evening, reports painted the aftermath. Jack, who'd fired, was placed on three days' administrative leave with mandatory counseling.
John, meanwhile, caught hell. In his rush to rescue Lucy and Bradford, he'd left Bishop dangerously exposed. Gray had nearly booted him from Wilshire outright, and it had taken Zoe herself to shield him.
Later, in Zoe's arms, Jack let the tension unwind. She rested against him, while his hand strayed playfully over her.
"Jack!" Zoe squealed, swatting him. But she was laughing, breathless.
"Seriously," she said after a beat, looking up at him. "I brought you and John in because of who you are. Because you could change things here. Gray… he probably sees himself in John. That's where the resentment comes from."
Jack brushed her hair back, murmuring, "Twenty years in uniform, eligible for pension… family pushing him to retire. Maybe he's just in his own midlife crisis."
And with that thought, he realized — every cop here was fighting their own battles. Not just on the street.
(End of Chapter 7)