"Are you okay?" Angela handed him a paper cup of coffee.
Jack shook his head, took it, and muttered, "It feels terrible—seeing a man ripped away from his kid like that. I checked. The guy didn't even have a record. Yesterday was just a mistake, a moment of desperation. Before that, he was an honest man."
Angela shrugged. "Nobody said being a patrol cop was easy—physically or mentally. Maybe he was a good man, but that doesn't erase the crime."
Jack downed the coffee in three gulps, then sighed. "Maybe. Still—poor kid. Damn this world." A new thought was already forming in the back of his mind.
That afternoon, all hands were called back to the station. While Jack and Angela had been arresting a desperate father, John and Bishop had nabbed a wanted fugitive who'd bolted from court.
The reason? The guy just wanted to sneak into his daughter's coming-of-age ceremony. Grateful that John hadn't cuffed him in public, the fugitive spilled the location of a major drug deal.
Superintendent Gray gathered everyone in the conference room. His face was stone.
"At 3:00 PM, a car carrying eighty kilos of cocaine will arrive from Mexico. Location: the parking lot behind Stone's Home Furnishings, Sunset Boulevard. Once parked, the driver gets out and walks. The buyer takes the keys, gets in, and drives away. Less than a minute, clean handoff."
Lucy frowned as she scribbled notes. "Broad daylight? In a parking lot?"
Tim leaned back with veteran calm. "Best place for it. Constant traffic, easy exits, and enough people around to vanish into the crowd."
Gray nodded. "Intel says the drugs are hidden in a red Honda Civic, Nevada plates. The buyer's crew is in a blue Dodge Ram. There are only two ways out of that lot. Here's the assignment."
He rattled off placements, and Jack noticed his name missing. He raised a hand. "Sir? What about me?"
Gray pointed at him. "You stick with me. I'll be undercover in the lot. You cover me."
2:55 PM.
Jack pulled his cruiser in behind Gray's old Buick and pretended to write him a ticket. Gray, binoculars in hand, scanned the lot.
"Blue Dodge Ram, three Latino males inside. No Civic yet," he said into the radio.
John and Bishop reported in from one alley. Hannah and Angela from the opposite.
Five minutes later, a red Civic rolled in slow, Nevada plates gleaming. A man in a stocking cap climbed out and headed toward an empty pickup at the far end.
At the same time, the Dodge Ram's driver shifted into gear.
"Move!" Gray barked.
Sirens erupted. Police cruisers blocked the exits. Hannah and Angela surged out of the underground ramp, boxing in the Civic. Lucy and Tim sped after it as it barreled across a divider in a desperate escape.
Gray floored his Buick, tailing the Ram. Jack gunned it after him.
The Ram swerved hard, blocked by John and Bishop's unit. The passenger bailed out with a rifle, spraying lead across the lot.
Tires screamed. The Ram spun, slammed head-on into Gray's Buick. Airbag explosion—Gray slumped unconscious.
The driver staggered out with an AK, eyes wild, and began pumping rounds into Gray's cab.
Jack's heart hammered. Twenty meters away. No time to pop the trunk. No time to grab his M16. He kicked open his door, drew his Glock, and sighted in.
The world slowed. Gunfire in the distance faded into a dull echo. The gangster's bloodshot eyes filled Jack's sights.
The AK rose.
Jack squeezed. One, two, three—until the Glock clicked empty.
The suspect collapsed, riddled. Jack reloaded on muscle memory, advanced, and kicked the rifle clear.
Another gunman still resisted, firing wild. Jack leveled his Glock at his back. "Drop it! Hands on your head!"
The man froze. John rushed in, cuffing him.
Jack staggered, leaned against a hood, and retched. His hands shook violently.
Gray, conscious again, staggered over, clapped him on the shoulder. "You good, kid?"
Jack wiped his mouth, forcing a weak smile. "Just… nerves."
Gray's grim face cracked into a rare grin. "Well done. You saved my life."
A radio call broke through: Lucy and Tim had bagged the Civic and the last suspect.
Angela and Hannah walked up. Angela jabbed Jack in the chest with a fist. "All those hours on the range paid off. Fastest reflexes I've seen in a rookie. Fifteen for fifteen—over twenty meters. First time I've ever seen it done in a real firefight."
Jack blinked, staring at the body. Multiple chest hits. Abdomen shredded. Neck torn apart. Did he really land every single shot? Even he wasn't sure.
And then the system pinged.
[Congratulations, host. Mental Power successfully applied in combat. Pistol Shooting upgraded to Proficiency.]
Jack exhaled hard. So that was it. Mental strength tied directly into skills. If he hadn't broken through twenty points, Gray might be a corpse right now.
This system… never explained anything. Always trial and error. Always at the edge.
Because of the shootout, every officer who discharged their weapon got three days' administrative leave pending DA review.
That night, Zoe lay sprawled across him, drawing lazy circles on his chest. "You bailed out the evidence thief?"
Jack chuckled bitterly. "Yeah. Guy stole less than two grand, bail was five. Half my paycheck gone in one shot. Guess I'm living off ramen this month."
He pulled her closer, masking the dread underneath with a smirk. Rookie salary, sixty-five hundred a month, and five grand gone just like that. He could only pray the guy didn't screw up again.
At least Hannah covered his rent. At least his bullets were the only other expense.
And at least Zoe was still here, warm against his chest.
(End of Chapter)