"What else do you want from me?" Superintendent Gray's voice was like gravel, his patience long gone. "Didn't I tell you—you're no longer useful? No one gives a damn about that wanted warrant anymore."
Across from him, [King Midas] raised his head. His eyes were bloodshot, but his tone was calm, deliberate. "Then let's make a deal."
Gray froze for half a beat. His instincts screamed trap, yet curiosity won. With a grunt, he stepped fully into the cell and swung the heavy door shut behind him.
"Half an hour ago," Gray said, voice low, "the Chief Inspector appointed me Acting Chief of the Wilshire Precinct. What could you possibly offer me now?"
Midas smirked, his ruined teeth catching the fluorescent light. "Acting Chief. That's not power—it's a borrowed title. Some politician with sharper elbows could take it from you tomorrow. You'll taste the sweetness for a few months, then be pushed aside. Then what? A pension? A quiet retirement? Maybe your family will thank you for finally being around to barbecue on Sundays."
"Fuck you, you piece of shit!" Gray lunged, grabbing the front of his prison jumpsuit and slamming him against the cinderblock wall. The impact rattled through the cell.
"If you called me back here just to piss me off, congratulations."
But Midas's laugh was low, rasping. "No, old friend. I said deal. You save my son, and I'll give you something in return. Enough dirt, enough proof, enough names. Enough to make the feds and the brass owe you. That's leverage no one can take away."
Gray's lip curled, his thick hand tightening around Midas's collar. "I've never been your friend. Don't delude yourself. You want to negotiate? Then hand over evidence. Hand over the names. Tell me where Cole is hiding. If luck's on his side, maybe I'll arrest him before the FBI does. Maybe."
The silence stretched. Then, slowly, Midas nodded.
The Aftermath
Twenty minutes later, Superintendent Gray emerged from the prison. His stride was heavy, shoulders sagging as though the weight of two decades pressed down on him. He climbed into his police car, shut the door, and sat there for a long moment. His hands rubbed hard against his face, dragging down the dark, weary lines. Finally, he pulled out his phone.
"We succeeded," he said after the call connected. "King Midas coughed up incriminating evidence—partial account books, names of three core leaders. It's enough. The Southern Front is finished."
In the Chief's Office
At the Wilshire Precinct, Zoe Anderson ended the call and set her phone aside. A small smile crept across her lips.
Her cramped office was crammed with half the precinct—Tim, John, Angela, Lucy, even Jack. The air was thick with tension, anticipation, and the faint smell of burned coffee. When Zoe spoke, her words hit like a hammer.
"In thirty minutes, we move. The FBI will handle the three leaders Midas betrayed. Captain Hondo's SWAT team will hit the Southern Front's stronghold. Our job is to lock down the perimeter and make sure Cole doesn't slip away."
Faces lit up around the room. The air shifted from fatigue to resolve.
Then Zoe's eyes flicked toward one corner, where someone sat uncomfortably, practically squirming. She let her smile turn sly. "Captain Ginny, you can let Angela take off your makeup now."
The room erupted in laughter as Jack Tavola ripped the blond wig off his head and exhaled like a man drowning finally surfacing.
"About time," he groaned.
"Wait!" Angela darted forward, snatching the wig from his hands. "Not until I get proof." She shoved it back onto his head, pulled out her phone, and pouted dramatically before snapping a selfie with him.
"Together, together!" Tim and John piled in, pinning Jack down with big grins. Lucy and Angela flanked them, and before Jack could wriggle free, half the precinct was crowding around for a group shot. Even Zoe and Hondo weren't spared—they were dragged into the frame, everyone laughing while Jack wore the eternal expression of a condemned man.
The Trap
The laughter didn't erase the truth. Every officer in that room knew it had all hinged on a trap Jack had devised the night before.
The Southern Front looked invincible from the outside, but inside it was fractured—an empire rotting at the core. Its founder, King Midas, was locked behind bars. Day-to-day operations were left to his incompetent son, Cole.
Cole's arrogance had already drawn blood. A kill order against a cop wasn't just reckless—it was suicidal. Jack had recognized it immediately. There had to be lieutenants within the gang who despised him for it, lieutenants who valued profit over pride.
That assumption had been confirmed by the Anti-Gang and Narcotics Division. Their undercover informants painted the picture clearly: fractures, discontent, and plenty of rivals waiting for Cole to fall.
Jack's plan exploited that. Strike hard at Southern Front operations—drug houses, brothels, cash rackets—but leave the factions disgruntled with Cole untouched. Show Midas the empire cracking, then corner him with fear for his son's survival.
Gray had played his part to perfection, embodying the weary commander at a breaking point. His performance had rattled Midas just enough to force the old king into making an offer. And Jack, cross-dressing as "Captain Ginny Anderson," had been the final lever.
With staged gunfire, an undercover agent posing as the assassin, and the "death" of Zoe Anderson whispered through the gang's ranks, Midas had believed he was out of time. The deal came quickly.
But the real dagger was yet to come. The DA was waiting, ready to cut deals with the three betrayed leaders. In exchange for leniency, they'd hand Cole over on a silver platter.
Cole, the idiot son who had tried to turn war on the LAPD into his badge of honor, would become the noose that strangled the Southern Front.
The Release
Back in Zoe's office, John finally relaxed, the weight of the last forty-eight hours slipping from his shoulders. He leaned back in his chair, a crooked grin spreading across his face. "I've always said Jack's a manipulative fiend. Next time, we should drag him to church and try holy water. See if he smokes."
"That's vampires, rookie," Jack muttered, rolling his eyes. "You'll find more of them on Wall Street than in here."
He groaned as he tore off the silicone padding strapped to his chest, each heavy piece landing with a dull thud on the desk. "From today, I'm a feminist. You women lug around twenty pounds of extra flesh every day and still keep up with us on patrol? Respect."
Angela, busy wiping the last of his makeup away, gave his shoulder a playful smack. "You looked pretty good in heels. Don't get too used to it."
Hondo just shook his head, hiding a rare grin. And Zoe, arms crossed, couldn't help but laugh softly.
The trap had worked. But outside that cramped office, the war with the Southern Front was just beginning.
(End of Chapter 50)