Jack hammered the last nail into the cabinet above the sink and finally stepped back, stretching his arms with satisfaction. Another piece of the kitchen was finished, the woodwork neat and sturdy.
"Next time," he said seriously, glancing at John, "remember to aim for the head. Criminals won't give you the courtesy of aiming for your thighs. I don't have many friends, and I'd like to still have all of you around by the time I retire."
John chuckled, wiping sawdust from his hands. "Then I'll need to build a solid relationship with my dentist. No point surviving shootouts if I can't chew that delicious stew you make."
"That's fine," Jack replied dryly. "I've got recipes for toothless old men too. Don't worry."
Hiring help meant treating them well, and Jack believed food was the best thank-you. Lunch was simple pasta with his own tomato sauce and a hearty minced meat stew. Dinner, however, was more serious—chestnut roast chicken, sweetened slightly for American taste buds, broccoli with oyster sauce, and fluffy rice fragrant enough to make John groan and burp in satisfaction.
When John finally left, leaning back in his truck with a grin of utter contentment, Jack returned to his room, ready to sweat through his evening exercise. That was when the phone rang. The number flashing across the screen was unfamiliar. His expression darkened instantly.
"Jack Tavola," came the voice, calm and electronic, "patrol officer, LAPD Wilshire Precinct. New recruit, six months in. Internship completed ahead of schedule. Five confirmed kills in less than half a year."
The robotic female tone was cold, but Jack already knew the source. His pulse stayed even.
"Thanks for the résumé," he said lightly. "But it's not polite to dig through someone's background uninvited. Tell me—are you a friend of the man in the suit from the other day?"
There was silence. A long, heavy pause. Clearly, his composure had thrown the caller off. When the voice returned, it was hesitant.
"…What do you know?"
Jack leaned back in his chair. "Nothing at all. But I'm just as curious about you as you are about me."
Another pause. This time the silence carried a note of unease. Then the line went dead.
Jack slipped the phone into his pocket, his jaw tightening. He thought for a moment, then bolted to the bedroom. Five minutes later he emerged, travel bag in hand. Without hesitation, he got into his Chevrolet and drove straight toward Los Angeles International Airport.
A Sudden Journey
Seven hours later, dawn broke over Chicago. Jack stepped out of the terminal, colder air biting his cheeks. He purchased a cheap disposable phone from a convenience store on the way out and made a call.
The rental company sent over the car he'd requested—a blue Ford sedan. Sliding into the driver's seat, Jack immediately dialed Abby Shotto.
"Got it?"
Abby's Goth drawl came through the line, cheerful but smug. "Wabash Road, Plains. Strip mall. Door sign says ZZZ Accounting Firm. Don't get shot, Jack."
By nine in the morning, Jack's Ford rolled into a cracked asphalt lot outside the mall. He scanned the cluttered façade of neon signs and found the one he wanted.
[ZZZ Accounting Firm]
Jack's lips curved into a thin smile. Adjusting his jacket, he approached the door and knocked lightly.
"Come in," a deep voice called.
Jack pushed the door open and stepped into a tidy office. Behind a polished desk sat a white man in a crisp suit and tie, black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. His frame was broad—surprisingly muscular for an accountant. Resting casually on the desk, however, was no calculator but a pistol: a P14 with an Osprey suppressor, muzzle aimed directly at Jack.
"Not very friendly," Jack remarked, letting his travel bag drop to the floor. Slowly, he unzipped his jacket to show empty hands. "I just got off a plane. TSA doesn't exactly let patrol cops carry hardware in the cabin."
The man's eyes narrowed. His voice was low, almost awkward. "Who are you?"
"Jack Tavola. Patrolman, LAPD Wilshire. Didn't your friend already run a check on me?" Jack pulled out a chair and sat, cool gaze locking onto the man's face. "Or should I call you Mr. Christian Wolff?"
The accountant stiffened. Few people knew that name. His grip on the pistol faltered before he finally lowered it. He loosened his tie with a twitch, visibly uncomfortable.
"How did you spot me?" Wolff asked at last. "I calculated the angle of the sunlight. You shouldn't have seen the scope reflection."
Jack smirked faintly. "Everyone's got secrets. You can consider mine a sixth sense."
He reached into his pocket and slowly placed five dimes on the desk. Each coin faced neatly upward with George Washington's portrait aligned… except the last, deliberately crooked.
Wolff's jaw tightened. His eyes twitched. His fists curled under the desk, every nerve screaming to straighten the coin.
Jack adjusted it himself with a fingertip and leaned back. "See? You're not the only one with hacker friends. Now we're even."
Silence hung. Then Wolff's rigid expression softened, almost imperceptibly. His shoulders loosened.
"What do you want?" he asked flatly.
"I was hoping you could tell me," Jack replied. "Your friend called me, but I prefer face-to-face. What's this partnership you're hinting at?"
The accountant considered him for a long moment, then answered calmly. "I've done accounting for several trafficking networks. That means intelligence—where their money moves, who they trust. But I can't move against all of them directly. It would ruin my cover."
Jack raised an eyebrow. "So your idea of partnership is…?"
"Kill the worst of them. Or send them to prison."
Jack chuckled. "Can't do it yourself? You seemed fine with that Barrett the other day."
Wolff's eyes hardened. "Cole tried to have his men photograph me in secret. He's the stupidest gang leader I've ever met. That was personal."
Jack tilted his head. He could hear the truth in the man's tone: beneath the cold arithmetic was a thread of raw irritation.
"So why me?" Jack pressed. "Out of every cop in LA, why come sniffing around a six-month rookie? Just because I felt your eyes on me from eight hundred meters away?"
Wolff's silence said enough—there was something else, something Jack hadn't uncovered yet. But one thing was clear: this wasn't a chance encounter.
(End of Chapter 54)