After Zoe drove off, Jack didn't start the car right away. Instead, he called Lucy to explain what had happened with John. She wanted to rush to the hospital, but Jack reassured her repeatedly—John wasn't in danger. He promised to go with her after work the next day, then finally hung up.
Driving home through the quiet streets of Los Angeles, Jack shook his head. What a mess. He was twenty-one, but his life was already tangled like a soap opera—playing mediator between rookies, worrying about mentors, juggling Zoe, Hannah, and Maureen. It was dramatic, sure, but nowhere near as satisfying as Zoe's kisses or Hannah's clumsy devotion. And Maureen… well, the girl with glasses was another storm waiting to happen.
By the time he walked through the door, it was almost midnight. Hannah froze at the sight of the blood on his shirt. He brushed it off with a quick explanation, showered, and then wandered back down to boil a pot of wontons. The two of them ate in the living room, chili oil stinging their tongues.
"Why do you always handle situations like this so calmly?" Hannah asked, eyes lingering on him. "You don't act like a rookie at all. Honestly, even I couldn't guarantee I'd keep it together like you."
Jack chuckled, stacking the dishes in the sink. "Get some sleep. There's a good chance we'll have a big op tomorrow."
But when he turned back, her lips were pink and swollen from the spice, her eyes glistening. Something stirred in him. He leaned down and kissed her.
Her lashes trembled. Her breath caught. Jack froze. Damn it. The aftereffects are back. I didn't even pull the trigger today, and still… He pulled back abruptly, fumbling an excuse.
"If you can't handle spicy food, eat less next time."
He practically fled upstairs. Hannah sat frozen, arms wrapped around herself, before collapsing onto the sofa with a muffled laugh, face buried in a pillow, blushing like a schoolgirl.
The next morning, Jack walked into the station. Through the glass briefing room window, he saw Zoe and Superintendent Gray—his eyes red, voice hard—calling roll.
Lucy intercepted him at the door. "Tim's wife—Isabella—they found her two hours ago in an alley. Gunshot to the head. She's still in surgery."
Jack exhaled slowly.
Inside, Gray laid it out. "The suspect is Vance Marcus. He's likely holed up at a Southgate storage facility. DEA Detectives Wolfe and Westerly will take point, supported by local patrol."
He scanned the rookies. "Your unit will move on the Bronson Building. Marcus's girlfriend, Thessia Olivo, is said to live there. We don't have the exact unit, which means a door-to-door search."
Zoe's tone hardened. "This is high-risk. Marcus runs a major trafficking operation. His people are heavily armed, and they will not come quietly. Watch your backs."
She added one softer note: "John's surgery was successful. He'll be out for two weeks, but he'll recover fully. Until then, Hannah will partner with Bishop. Lucy and Jack remain with your instructors. Rifles are not recommended inside the building. Carry extra mags and your spare guns."
After kitting up at the armory, Jack stepped outside and found Hannah waiting. She pressed something into his hands: an armpit holster.
"I made it from calfskin off my family farm," she said, almost shy. "Perfect fit for your Python. Try it."
Jack's throat tightened. He'd been short with her the night before, but here she was, offering him something she'd spent hours crafting. He swallowed his words, murmured a quiet "be careful," and hurried to catch up with Angela.
Angela drove. Jack rode shotgun, sliding plates into his vest, strapping the holster in place. Hannah's work was flawless. The Colt Python rested snugly under his arm, easy to draw, perfectly balanced.
Angela noticed it instantly. Her eyes widened. "Holy shit. Where did you get that monster?"
Jack smirked. "Rick Hunter was an old friend of my parents. Said I needed a backup, so he passed it down."
Angela whistled. "You know Hunter? That thing's priceless. Custom, top-line. They don't even make them anymore."
She all but drooled over the weapon while Jack calmly loaded .357 Magnum rounds, tucking speedloaders into his belt.
Angela shook her head with a laugh. "You look like you're going to war. How much firepower are you carrying?"
Jack snapped his Glock's mag into place. "Enough. Against cartel guys, there's no such thing as too many bullets."
Angela patted her chest with a grin. "My backup's a Beretta 950. Got it for myself when I turned sixteen."
Jack gave her a look, half impressed, half amused. Angela just laughed. "Hey, don't underestimate it. Perfect fit, easy to hide. Sometimes small things do the job best."
The car rolled on toward Southgate, toward the storm waiting ahead.
(End of this chapter)