"Haha, I just can't imagine you pulling that tiny pistol when it counts," Jack joked, his nerves eased by familiarity with Angela.
The Beretta 950 was cute—almost toy-like. A pocket pistol, more fashion accessory than service weapon. It didn't match her tough, take-no-prisoners persona at all.
Angela smirked. "If you like it, trade me that Python. I'll show you how to draw it." She puffed her chest with zero self-consciousness.
Jack grinned. "Maybe I'll borrow it when I'm in a skirt."
Neither realized how much that promise would cost them later.
Three black-and-whites rolled into the Bronson Building's lot. Six officers climbed out, checking gear. Tim tossed Lucy an armor plate.
"Slide it in. Don't argue."
Lucy fumbled with the vest, muttering. "Is this really necessary? Feels like overkill."
Tim's face was stone. "You know why they call this place the Bronson Building?"
Lucy blinked. "Uh… some guy named Bronson built it?"
Angela, slipping her own plate in, sighed and glanced at Jack, who was calmly tucking speedloaders into his belt. Then she looked at Lucy—green, unready.
"No. It's from Death Wish. Charles Bronson. They shot part of it here. Whole department's been calling it the Bronson Building ever since. Cops who work this beat? People say they're like action heroes."
Tim added, "Bruce Willis did the remake this year. You should watch it. Might give you perspective."
Inside, Tim set the plan. "Chen and I take the third floor. Bishop and Stephens cover the second. Tavola, Lopez—you sweep the first. Radios up. Eyes open."
Jack knocked on doors. Five, six in a row. Blank stares, doors slammed. No warrant meant no cooperation. The place was a low-income fortress.
Angela read his frustration, but only shrugged. "Keep moving. We just need one break."
It came fast. Lucy's voice crackled in their earpieces. "We found her. Room 365. Thessia Olivo confirmed."
Jack's hand shot to his Glock. His instincts screamed. This was too easy.
Before Angela even touched the elevator, the building shook with gunfire. Automatic. Controlled bursts. The crack of Glocks firing back.
Not from the third floor.
The second.
Hannah and Bishop.
"Bishop! Hannah! What's your status?" Angela barked into her mic. Nothing but static. Jack checked his phone—no signal.
"Signal's jammed," he muttered.
Angela swore. "Stairs. Move!"
They rounded the corner—and froze.
Two shadows shifted in the hallway ahead. A burst of fire chewed into the wall, spraying plaster into their faces. Jack yanked Angela back, adrenaline sharpening his vision to a razor's edge.
Light. Shadows. Wrong. Two men lay in wait, ambush positions clear as day.
He leaned, squeezed. Five shots cracked out, precise.
"Shit—they're armored!" he hissed. The impacts staggered one, but his vest held.
The thug scrambled, reloading his Uzi. Angela rose in a flash, cool as ever, and dropped him with a single round between the eyes.
His partner panicked, spraying blind, then bolted for cover.
Bad choice. The Uzi's mag ran dry in seconds. Jack and Angela fired together, cutting him down mid-turn.
Jack slammed a fresh mag into his Glock. Angela stayed on cover. He was about to peek when she yanked him back.
The wall behind them shredded in an instant—buckshot tearing a jagged semicircle. Shotguns. Multiple.
Jack's stomach dropped. No vest would save him from that.
Angela returned fire blind, emptying a mag to stall their advance. She yanked him by the vest. "We can't hold this hall. We move, or we die."
They bolted, weaving through the maze-like corridors.
"Cover me," Angela hissed, crouching at the last door. From her pocket, she drew slim metal tools.
Jack blinked. "You can pick locks?"
Angela's eyes never left the lock. "You want lessons, rookie? Survive first."
Click. The knob turned. They slipped inside just as boots thundered past the hall outside.
Jack eased the door shut. For the moment, the chaos of Bronson Tower swallowed them whole.
(End of this chapter)