Superintendent Gray was the first to climb out of his cruiser, his boots crunching on gravel. He strode toward the bleeding county officer, face hard as stone.
"How did the accident happen?"
The man's khaki uniform was torn, his badge smeared with blood. His voice stammered, shock fraying every word.
"Uh… a coyote. It jumped right in front of us. Graham jerked the wheel. We rolled…"
Gray's eyes narrowed. He turned toward the slope where smoke curled from the transport van lying crumpled against the embankment.
"How many inside?"
The officer swallowed hard. Seeing LAPD units surrounding him steadied him just enough to croak: "Twenty prisoners. Two guards."
His knees buckled. Gray caught him by the arm, lowering him carefully.
"Did any escape?"
The man's lips parted. "Proba—" Then his eyes rolled back and he slumped unconscious.
Gray raised his voice, sharp as a whip. "Go down and count heads!"
Zoe was already on the radio, her voice clipped, commanding. "Command, this is 7L10 at the accident site. Declaring a citywide tactical alert. We need ambulances, multiple. Requesting helicopter units for aerial search. Dispatch all available units from Rampart through North Hollywood. Search radius, ten minutes on foot from crash site."
The order crackled across the frequency. LAPD was in motion.
Jack pulled his Glock, sliding down the slope behind Tim, John, and Angela. The van still smoked, metal screeching as it shifted against stone.
This wasn't some cheap county bus—it was a prison transport, reinforced with barred windows. Even rolling downhill hadn't thrown the prisoners free.
But just beyond the wreckage lay a man in orange. Blood soaked the dirt under him. Tim checked for a pulse, then shook his head. One down.
Angela and Hannah, smaller and quicker, crawled through the shattered windshield. The interior was chaos. Dozens of men in jumpsuits sprawled across the aisle, groaning, bleeding, or motionless. A county deputy sheriff tried to lift himself, blood matting his hair, but Angela pressed him back with a firm hand.
"The ambulance is coming. Don't move. Give me numbers."
His voice rasped. "Seven prisoners… escaped. They took my keys. My sidearm."
Angela's voice went sharp over the intercom. "Attention all units. Seven escapees. At least one armed."
That snapped every officer's head up.
Movement rustled the bushes above. John pointed, breath tight. "Ten o'clock!"
Tim gestured sharply. "Check it. Careful."
John started forward, rifle raised. Jack weighed the scene—injured bodies everywhere, groans of pain filling the air. He could stand here, useless, or chase the armed escapees. He gave Tim a look.
"I'll go with him. Too risky to send John alone."
Tim nodded once. Jack fell in step with John, cutting into the brush.
The path wound deeper into the trees. Branches clawed at their uniforms. Blood smeared across leaves and dirt, a thick drag trail leading them on.
Somewhere ahead, a groan.
John inhaled, ready to call out, but Jack's hand clamped his arm, warning him silent. Jack's senses sharpened—the system feeding him every tremor, every sound. He slipped forward.
They found him thirty yards in: a deputy sheriff, uniform shredded, one leg gone below the knee. He clawed through dirt, fingers bloody, teeth bared in agony.
"Hey, easy." Jack knelt, steadying him with a hand. The man's nameplate read Graham. His breath came ragged, his body sliding toward shock. Jack pressed his palm to his shoulder, channeling the last of his mental reserves into healing. Warmth sparked faintly, buying time, but not enough.
John was already on the radio, voice taut. "7A15 requesting immediate ambulance! East of accident site, sixty yards. Male officer, critical. Missing leg."
Jack yanked his belt free, looping it above the stump. "Graham, listen to me. Stay with us. What's your name?"
The man's pale lips trembled. "Graham."
"Good. I'm Jack. This is John. You're not alone. Your people are safe. Hold still."
He cinched the belt down, hard. Blood welled, then slowed. Graham convulsed, nearly blacking out. Jack slapped his cheek, forcing his eyes open.
"You're not dying here. Not today."
John crouched, sweat streaking his brow despite the cool air. He hated this kind of scene—his face said it all.
"You'll be fine, Graham, just hang on. Ambulance is coming."
"Am I… going to die?" The words cracked, barely audible.
Jack's teeth clenched. He pulled the belt tighter, ignoring Graham's gasp. "Not if I can help it."
Somewhere beyond the trees, sirens wailed closer. Jack's head spun from mental drain, vision blurring. He shoved through it.
"John, ambulance is here. Flag them in."
John bolted through the brush. Within minutes, medics scrambled down with a stretcher. They loaded Graham carefully. His eyelids fluttered, consciousness flickering. Suddenly he latched onto John's sleeve.
"Tell her…" His voice was a whisper. "Tell her I love her."
John leaned down quickly, urgent. "Who, Graham? Who should I tell?"
The dying man's lips shaped one word. "Beth."
Then he sagged back as they lifted him away.
The ambulance doors slammed, lights flashing as it roared off the slope. Dust settled. John stood frozen, staring after it.
Jack rubbed at his temple, exhaustion pounding behind his eyes.
"You think he'll make it?"
Jack exhaled. "Maybe. We'll know when we hit Central tonight." A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. "Besides… you'll get to see your old flame. Didn't you promise her dinner?"
John almost tripped over his own feet, scowling. "I… apologized, but I haven't had time. Things have been insane."
Jack clapped his shoulder. "Don't drag your feet. Last time I saw her, that wedding ring on her right hand was gone."
John blinked, caught between hope and dread. "She… Grace did say she was filing divorce papers. That's why she came back to L.A. But… after all these years, you really think this is the right time?"
Jack's smile was thin. "In our line of work? There's never a right time. Only the time you take."
(End of this chapter)