For all his cynicism, Jack had a soft spot for Angela and Wesley. Their constant bickering amused him, but beneath the sharp words was something solid—unshakable loyalty, a rhythm that had survived danger, routine, and the wear of years. They reminded him of something rare in this patchwork world of TV plots and system prompts: a couple that felt real.
He thought about that as he and John walked toward the parking lot, the night air cool against their faces. Hannah had already driven Angela home, the tomboy detective half-conscious from too much whiskey and heartbreak.
Los Angeles nights were deceiving. December in this city wasn't snow and heavy coats—it was a Mediterranean breeze, a faint chill that teased at the edges of shirtsleeves. Jack inhaled deeply, the buzz of alcohol fading, replaced with clarity.
John's battered Ford pickup sat waiting under the orange glow of a streetlamp. Jack raised a hand to wave goodbye—
And froze.
The sound came sharp and sudden: a tire squealing, rubber clawing asphalt.
A chill cut down Jack's spine. His instincts screamed louder than reason. In one motion, he shoved John to the ground beside the truck and dove with him, just as a deafening roar of gunfire split the night.
The parking lot erupted. Bullets struck metal with metallic screams, shattering glass, setting off a chain reaction of blaring alarms. The truck shuddered as rounds tore through it, the gas tank rupturing. The acrid stench of gasoline filled the air, mixing with the smoke of gunpowder.
Jack pressed John's head down behind the front wheel, using the thick engine block as their only shield. The thin steel of the truck's body wouldn't stop high-powered rounds. Only the tires and engine stood a chance.
His heartbeat slowed, even as adrenaline pumped. Years of discipline—and the system's quiet enhancements—stretched each second. He pulled the Python revolver from his armpit holster, thumb brushing the hammer. He counted. Ten seconds of fire. Fifteen. Twenty. The storm refused to end.
By the time silence finally fell, the pickup was a ruin, holes stitched across its body like some grotesque artwork.
Jack risked a glance. Red taillights flashed as a car pulled away into the night. No plates. Professional.
"Fuck!" His voice tore out raw. Not fear, but anger, burning cold and deep.
Beside him, John was pale, sweat streaking his forehead. He'd been through tough cases, yes, but not the Bronson Building. Not that kind of sustained fire. His wide eyes screamed what his mouth didn't: he'd almost died.
Jack grabbed him, hauling him up. "Call it in," he snapped. Then, pulling out his own phone, he hit Hannah's number.
She answered groggily, but his clipped tone sharpened her immediately. "Wake Angela. Get out. Come back here, now. They might come for you too."
As he hung up, a darker thought gnawed at him. That déjà vu. Astrid Hesser. The name had itched at the back of his mind since her arrogant smile in the cell. And now, like a puzzle snapping into place, he remembered.
In the show—one of those messy, interconnected dramas—Zoe had died protecting John.
The memory wasn't clear. Faces blurred, dialogue lost. But the outcome had been seared into the fan forums he'd once read: Zoe dead, John broken.
His hands clenched around the Python. Not here. Not now. Not on his watch.
Five minutes later, Hannah's Mustang screeched into the lot. She leapt out, scanning Jack frantically, hands running over his chest and arms as if confirming he was real. Only after she found no blood did her breath ease.
Angela stumbled behind her, face wet from the ice-cold mineral water Hannah had poured over her. She blinked at the riddled pickup, dazed, like she was still piecing together the nightmare she'd slept through.
Within ten minutes, the cavalry arrived. Sirens painted the night red and blue. Dozens of units poured in, plainclothes and uniforms alike. Tim, Lucy, Nyla, even off-duty officers dragged from their homes by the call.
Tim whistled low when he saw the truck. "Jesus. Who did you piss off?"
Jack didn't hesitate. He pointed at John. "Ask him. They came loaded—assault rifle with a drum mag. Hundreds of rounds. This wasn't random."
John looked like he wanted to melt into the asphalt. He shook his head, still trying to process. "I… I don't know."
Lucy and Nyla approached, fresh from canvassing the area.
"No one saw anything," Lucy reported grimly.
"Or no one's willing to admit they did," Nyla added. "But the shooter's car turned up already—stolen this afternoon. Classic misdirection."
Then Zoe arrived with Superintendent Gray, their presence cutting through the chatter like a blade.
"Intelligence confirms it," Zoe said flatly. "The Southern Front has a wanted order out on you."
Tim's eyebrows shot up. He gave a half-smirk. "Old rookie already has a bounty? Guess I'll have to step up my game."
Typical Tim—half humor, half truth.
Angela wasn't laughing. "This isn't about his badge. It's personal. Otherwise, why would a white supremacist gang care about John?"
John blinked, utterly lost. "Sorry, what? White supremacist gang? Wanted order? What the hell are you talking about?"
Superintendent Gray's voice was steady, grim. "Normally gangs avoid targeting cops. Too much heat. A bounty means someone in leadership was insulted—publicly."
Jack's patience snapped. "Astrid Hesser. The woman you arrested today."
Recognition dawned in John's eyes, followed by dread. "She ripped her dress, claimed I embarrassed her…" His voice trailed off.
Zoe delivered the hammer blow. "She's the girlfriend of the Southern Front's leader. One of the most violent gangs in California."
Gray added, "Her whisper was enough. Now every member in the state has orders: hunt you down."
John gaped, mouth working soundlessly.
Beside them, Nyla Harper bristled with envy. "What about me? I cuffed her too."
Gray shook his head. "She named John. It's his hands she blames. The order's his alone."
Nyla's eyes narrowed, resentment flickering. Tim, meanwhile, looked relieved he'd dodged the bullet—literally.
Jack scanned the faces around him. Fear, bravado, envy. He couldn't shake the sense that the script was writing itself toward something darker. He thought of Zoe, of the scenes he couldn't fully recall. And for the first time in months, he wondered if even his system would be enough.
(End of this chapter)