Jack stayed quiet through most of the briefing, but his mind churned. The Southern Front. Five to six thousand members statewide, Zoe had said. Two thousand in Los Angeles alone. Enough bodies to turn a vendetta into a war.
When Zoe's eyes finally met his, he saw the moment she relaxed, confirming for herself that he was still in one piece. He asked evenly, "Captain Anderson, roughly how many members are we dealing with in this Southern Front gang?"
Zoe's answer was calm, but her tone carried weight. "About five to six thousand in California. At least two thousand spread across the greater Los Angeles area."
Superintendent Gray turned his gaze on John. "That's why your safety comes first. I'm pulling you off street patrol until further notice. Rest at home. We'll rotate a team outside your residence around the clock."
John stiffened, caught between pride and practicality. Before he could respond, Zoe offered, "I'll take him home myself."
It was a generous move, maybe even reckless. Her reputation and rank were enough to keep most gangs cautious. But Jack knew better. Caution didn't stop bullets.
His heart sank, but challenging his superiors in public would only backfire. Especially when one of them was Zoe herself. He forced a smile instead. "I'll tag along. Stationed at John's place tonight. I was the one who warned him during the last break-in. Might as well make him owe me again. My kitchen's still a disaster zone."
That earned a tired grin from John. "Took you long enough to ask for help. I knew you couldn't tame that fancy setup of yours alone."
John's pickup was shredded beyond repair, so he slid into the passenger seat of Zoe's cruiser. Jack followed in his old Chevrolet. The ride was mercifully uneventful, Los Angeles traffic finally thinning in the late hours.
At John's modest house, Zoe lingered by the curb, giving the rookie a few quiet words of reassurance. She turned to leave, but Jack shadowed her to the sidewalk.
"Captain Anderson."
She turned, her high ponytail catching the faint breeze, glinting in the streetlight like a silver arc.
Jack wanted to tell her everything—about the déjà vu gnawing at his memory, about the gut-deep fear that the script was setting her up for something grim. But here, under the eyes of fellow officers parked across the street, he bit back the words. She was confident, commanding. At work, she wore authority like armor. Any warning now would sound like weakness.
So he chose another path. "I've got an idea brewing. It's not complete yet. But if you can send me whatever intelligence you've got on the Southern Front, I'll review it and report back tomorrow morning."
Zoe's expression softened, surprise flickering in her eyes. She nodded without hesitation. "I'll send it to your email when I get home." For a second, the professional mask slipped, and warmth flashed in her gaze. "Be safe tonight."
The urge to close the distance, to steal even the briefest embrace, hit Jack hard. But he swallowed it down. Too many eyes. Too much risk. He settled for a whisper. "You too, darling."
Color touched her cheeks, and she shot him a quick glare for his audacity. Then she reminded him briskly, "My parents will take Hannah to the Quantico flight tomorrow. You can report to the station directly."
And then she was gone.
Inside John's house, the rookie had gone all out. A blanket already spread across the couch. A steaming pot of coffee. And a five-pack of Cohiba Longos laid out like a peace offering.
"Didn't know you had good taste," Jack said, genuinely impressed. He plucked one cigar from the pack and held it under his nose, savoring the rich aroma. He wasn't a smoker, but Cuban tobacco had a way of calming storms in the head.
John cut the end cleanly with a practiced snap, lit a long birch match, and handed it over. The fragrant smoke filled the room, curling into the ceiling as the two men sat back. For a few minutes, there was only the quiet crackle of tobacco and the faint hum of the coffee pot.
Finally John spoke. "Thank you for saving my life. Again. I don't even know how to repay you."
Jack waved him off, exhaling smoke. "Didn't I already tell you? Help me with that damn kitchen. I've wasted a hundred bucks in materials and I'm two mistakes away from burning the place down."
John chuckled, but the laugh faded quickly. "I can't go in tomorrow, right? Not like this. I'm endangering anyone within five feet of me."
Jack studied him. The man's doubt was real. Understandable. But dangerous too. "You think street patrol is ever safe? One bullet from a corner, and it's over. You became a rookie cop at forty-five because you thought this was easier than construction work?"
John frowned. "So you're saying I should just go in tomorrow like nothing's happened? Pretend the wanted order doesn't exist?"
Jack leaned forward, voice steady. "Why not? Shouldn't they be afraid of us? We're the ones who make scum like this tremble. If tonight's ambush reached the higher-ups, do you think the brass would let it slide? This is still a police state. Gangs don't get to decide when the badge bows."
But then he softened the edge. "That said, it's your choice. You've got family. If you step back, no one will fault you for it."
John mulled it over, then nodded slowly. "Superintendent Anderson told me the same thing earlier. I've decided. I'll work tomorrow. They'll be short-staffed, and hiding won't change anything."
Jack's phone buzzed twice. He glanced at the screen. Zoe had already delivered—a stack of files, photos, and names, all neatly dumped into his inbox.
As the glow of the phone lit his face, a thought nagged at him again: the script. In the shows he half-remembered, Zoe's arc didn't end well. And now here she was, sending him the very data that might be her death sentence.
Jack crushed the cigar in the ashtray, smoke curling like a warning.
(End of this chapter)