The weeks that followed were rough for the Wilshire Division.
Tim Bradford's estranged wife, Isabella—a former DEA agent turned junkie—overdosed and landed in the hospital. Cops found a full kilo of uncut powder in the apartment she shared with her new boyfriend. Facing certain death if her cover was blown in prison, she cut a deal with the DEA: go undercover again.
Tim, in his tragic loyalty, still dreamed of "fixing" her. He talked about rehab, about mending their broken family. Jack wanted to shake him by the collar. Wake up! Lucy's right there.
Meanwhile, John's luck had curdled. He and Talia Bishop stumbled on a grocery store robbery. Bishop took down one suspect; John chased the other into a residential block and shot him dead in a second-floor bedroom.
The body cam cleared him, but the suspect's brother filed a complaint. Internal Affairs swooped in. John was benched, grilled for hours. He cracked under the weight of his first kill, second-guessing himself. Jack, seeing where this was headed, dragged him to Maureen's office for a session.
Later that night, Jack called Lucy. The three of them met at a tavern, drinks in hand, fries between them.
John's voice was heavy. "How did you recover so fast after your shootings? Am I just… too soft?"
Jack flicked a guilty glance at Lucy. No way I can tell him the cure is sleeping with someone. Instead he leaned forward. "Maybe it's not guilt—it's fear. Fear that you've wasted years, restarted your life, only to have it collapse the first time you follow procedure."
John shook his head. "No. I just… don't think he deserved to die. He was young. Maybe he only fought because he panicked. Maybe I pulled the trigger too fast."
Lucy smacked his shoulder, hard. "Cut it out. You want me attending your funeral? That kind of thinking will get you killed."
Jack smirked, defusing. "Sounds like you'd be better off a cop in China. Over there, people whine if you don't shoot the legs first."
John frowned. "Why do you sound like a political science professor instead of a psychology major?"
Jack shrugged. "Don't worry about it." If only you knew, my last life's 'civics lessons' were straight dragon-slaying manuals.
A barmaid swayed up in a practiced catwalk, dropped three beers, and left her number on John's napkin.
Lucy's eyes narrowed. "First time I've seen a girl chasing a badge. Careful."
Jack coughed to hide a grin. "Not just the badge. She's into older guys."
"Shut up." Lucy whipped a French fry at his face. For a moment, the tension broke, laughter echoing.
But as they talked about Tim and Isabella's undercover mess, the air turned heavy again. Jack knew too well: undercover cops were chewed up and spit out. Most ended up addicts themselves. He dropped hints—don't go down that path, Lucy—but whether she caught them, he couldn't tell.
When the night ended, Jack drove. He dropped Lucy home first, then John at his new place in the suburbs.
That's when Jack's instincts flared.
A black Mazda sat idling down the street. Curtains drawn, house lights out, neighbors far away. At 10 p.m. in this quiet sprawl, the car was out of place. Too out of place.
He kept driving, calm on the outside, heart thudding inside. Three hundred meters ahead, he flicked off his headlights, looped back. His hand tightened around his phone.
He called John. No answer. His gut sank. He dialed again—this time 911. Off-duty, no uniform, half a beer still in his blood. He couldn't risk making a move alone. He requested backup under his badge ID, buying himself cover.
John finally picked up. "Sorry, was in the shower. What's wrong? Did I leave something in your car?"
Jack's voice was low, urgent. "Grab your gun. You might have company."
His Chevy crept closer. Twenty meters. He flicked on the high beams—empty. The Mazda's cabin was dark, no driver, no passengers.
His blood went cold.
"They're not in the car," he warned into the phone. "They're inside. Take cover. I'm coming to your door. And John—be careful. Don't shoot the wrong person."
The line went silent except for John's breathing. Then the faint click of a safety being released.
Jack floored the gas.