Under the astonished gazes of everyone in the room, Jack stepped forward and slid his Glock 22 back into his waist holster.
Caleb Yost's eyes widened. "One more step and she dies!" His voice cracked, but his hand still jerked the rope tighter, the shotgun barrel quivering against the old woman's temple.
Jack ignored the threat. He reached under his arm and drew a different weapon. The gleaming six-inch barrel of the Colt Python caught the dim light, black steel heavy as judgment. The banker's face drained of color.
Jack cocked the hammer with a click that echoed through the room. His tone turned sharp, cold, edged with irritation.
"I'll tell you three things," he said, leveling the revolver at Yost's head. "First—none of us here has eaten since noon. It's past dinner, and we're pissed."
"Second—this country doesn't negotiate with hostage takers. If Aunt Sally dies, you'll be shredded by a dozen guns before you hit the floor."
"And third…" Jack tilted the revolver, letting the cylinder catch the light. "I've been a cop for only four months. Haven't had many chances to pull the trigger. Killed maybe four or five scumbags so far. But this? A .357 round at less than five meters? I could blow through your face and sever that rope before you ever twitch."
Sweat rolled down Yost's temple, carving pale lines through the soot. His voice wavered. "You're bluffing. If she dies, you'll be ruined. And you said two things—"
"Three." Jack cut him off, eyes narrowing. He jerked his chin at John. "Tell him what happens if the hostage dies."
John tapped his temple theatrically. "Couple extra reports." He glanced at Nyla Harper. "Am I right?"
Nyla snorted. "Yeah. Paperwork."
Hannah smirked. "Don't worry. I already write most of Jack's reports."
The old woman whimpered, terrified by their casual tone.
Jack planted his feet, sighting down the barrel. "I'm counting to three. Surrender, or die."
The other officers raised their weapons in unison.
"One."
The fight went out of Caleb Yost in an instant. His hand released the rope. "Don't shoot! I surrender!" He stumbled forward, arms raised.
John rushed him, snapping cuffs on his wrists, while Nyla slashed the tape binding the shotgun to the old woman's shoulder. Hannah steadied her, easing the weapon away.
Jack lowered the Python, exhaling as he holstered it. "John, he's all yours. Hannah and I have somewhere else to be. Tim needs us."
John glanced up from cuffing the ex-banker. "Wait—were you serious? You really would've shot?"
Jack gestured at the bundles of cash stacked by the fireplace. "How much do you think that is?"
John frowned. "Fifty, maybe eighty grand."
"FBI says he stashed over a million. You think he'd risk blowing himself up for pocket change?" Jack shrugged. "Bankers kill themselves after losing fortunes, not while sitting on them."
With that, he and Hannah turned for the door.
She hesitated. "And if he hadn't broken?"
Jack started the cruiser, flashing her a wry look. "Five meters, .357 Magnum. Rope and a few fingers—gone. Aunt Sally walks away."
The radio crackled—Zoe's voice, urgent. "Tim and Lucy are trapped at the informant's house. Dozens of armed gang members outside. Situation could blow any second."
Jack's hand tightened on the wheel. He slammed the sirens on, the cruiser leaping forward, tires screaming.
Other units were converging too—sirens wailing, armored SWAT trucks growling behind them, the convoy snaking through the streets like a steel beast.
Beside him, Hannah's face was grim. The bigger the response, the deadlier the fight waiting ahead.
Jack stayed silent. He'd watched enough American dramas to know that major arcs always spiraled into bloodbaths. And now, his presence had warped the storylines. No script, no safety net—just chaos.
They screeched to a halt near the barricaded neighborhood. Armed men milled in the street, rifles glinting in the glow of headlights.
Tim stood at the front line, gun drawn, jaw tight. When Jack's cruiser nearly clipped him on a reckless drift, he staggered back, swearing.
"You trying to kill me?" Tim barked.
Jack grinned from behind the wheel. "Relax. I saw you had your gun out. Just making sure you didn't need rescuing."
The system chimed in Jack's head—Driving Skill: Mastery Unlocked.
Tim glared, robbed of his dramatic lone-wolf moment, then turned back to the crowd of gangsters. His voice boomed, steady and commanding.
"You're surrounded. Drop your weapons. You're under arrest."
Behind him, Lucy emerged from the informant's house, hauling Max Gibson in cuffs. The notorious gang soldier looked nothing like the swaggering legend Jack remembered—sweaty, pale, utterly broken.
Jack shook his head. This is the guy who bedded the boss's woman? Maybe charm really was its own kind of weapon.
The cordon tightened. Dozens of cops and SWAT troopers poured into the street. The night air thickened with tension, the standoff teetering on the edge.
(End of this chapter)