As the Dodge Hellcat rounded the final corner, Jack heard two gunshots almost simultaneously. One was loud and familiar—the unmistakable sound of Danny's old Smith & Wesson M39.
The other shot was much quieter, almost lost in the ambient noise of the busy street. Without Jack's superhuman senses, it would have been impossible to discern.
Two more gunshots followed, these ones from a Glock 22, the standard-issued sidearm for FBI agents.
Rossi, still gripping the car door handle to steady himself from Jack's erratic lane changes, pointed ahead to a narrow alley. "Jack! Over there!"
At the same time, Emily's voice came over the radio, tense and urgent: "Officer down! Officer down! West side of the corner park!"
The Hellcat screeched to a halt as Jack slammed on the brakes. Rossi barely had time to unbuckle his seatbelt before throwing open the door and drawing his weapon.
"Hey! Don't rush in!" Jack quickly followed, worried the older man might end up in danger.
At the alley entrance, Danny lay on the ground, motionless. Emily, in a panic, was struggling to unfasten his bulletproof vest to locate the source of the bleeding.
Jack sprinted past Rossi like a whirlwind and slid to his knees beside them. With a practiced motion, he grabbed Danny's arm, activating a healing spell.
A moment later, Jack frowned and released him. Danny was unscathed, except for looking slightly drained, as though he had overexerted himself.
With a sharp tug, Jack opened Danny's vest, revealing a deformed .22 caliber bullet that clattered to the ground.
"He's fine. The bullet didn't penetrate the vest," Jack assured them. Seeing the bullet with her own eyes, Emily exhaled deeply and sat back on the ground, completely spent.
Danny, who had been unconscious, coughed violently as Jack poked him lightly under the ribs. Regaining consciousness, he blinked up to see Jack's unimpressed expression.
"You need to cut back on late nights and caffeine. If a .22 caliber round—something that wouldn't kill a rabbit—knocks you out from the impact, it's no wonder you're nervous about a 'wild night' with Linda."
Danny instinctively touched his chest, his face still pale with lingering fear. After a moment, he retorted, "Nonsense! Linda is always satisfied with me!"
"Where's the suspect's gun?" Rossi asked, returning from the alley's center where a body lay.
Emily pulled a small Ruger LCP pistol from her pocket. "Here. After he went down, I secured his weapon."
Jack took the tiny firearm, weighing it in his hand before sighing. It was no wonder the killers had succeeded so many times in public. The pistol, fully loaded, weighed less than 300 grams and was smaller than an adult's palm. It was nearly undetectable when concealed.
He helped Emily to her feet before assisting Danny. Together, they walked to the suspect's body.
The victim was a young Black man who looked barely 20, if that. A thin mustache lined his jaw. He lay on his back, eyes wide and lifeless, staring at the sky.
His chest bore three gunshot wounds—one in the left shoulder and two in the chest.
"What happened here?" Rossi asked, surveying the scene. He noted Danny's position near the alley entrance and the suspect's location in the middle of the alley, just a few meters from a large dumpster.
It puzzled him. Whether in desperation or a planned counterattack, most people would instinctively seek cover—like the nearby dumpster.
"I don't know. It was like he wanted to die," Danny muttered, furrowing his brow as he tried to piece things together. "We approached after hearing the radio call. He saw us and ran into the alley. By the time I caught up, he was just standing there, pointing a gun at me."
"He ran fast," Danny continued. "He could've easily escaped the alley before we got there. But he stopped and waited—like he was expecting me."
"How did he seem? Panicked, out of breath, or maybe on drugs?" Jack prompted.
Danny looked incredulous. "How would I notice that? I saw him pointing a gun at me and fired immediately. Honestly, we shot almost at the same time. Then I blacked out."
Emily's response contradicted Danny's claim. "He was calm, steady. After Detective Reagan shot his shoulder, he barely flinched before pointing the gun at me. I fired twice before he finally went down.
"If I had to describe his expression, I'd call it... martyr-like."
Danny stared at Emily, his mouth agape. "How did you even see all that?"
Though Emily's hands still trembled from adrenaline, she had observed and processed the details in an instant—a skill honed by years as a behavioral analyst.
"It's just what we do," Jack said, casually dismissing it as he began searching the body. He found nothing—no ID, no notes, just plain clothes that could have come from any secondhand shop.
"Great. He's dead, and he's not going to tell us anything. I bet we'll spend days identifying him and still come up empty," Rossi remarked dryly.
The sound of approaching sirens grew louder, and Garcia's worried voice crackled over the radio. Jack realized he had forgotten to check in with her.
Ten minutes later, the alley was cordoned off. An ambulance sat idly at the entrance, its flashing lights futile in a situation where no one could be saved.
Hotchner and the others arrived shortly after. Seeing everyone unharmed, he finally relaxed.
"Good shooting—one to the lung and one to the heart. Looks like you've been keeping up with your training while I was away," Jack teased, smiling at Emily, whose pale face was a stark contrast to her usual composure.
Then, he shot a pointed look at Danny, whose poor aim and flushed face betrayed his embarrassment.
"I also just killed our only lead," Emily said, her voice filled with regret.
Jack's smile vanished. He scowled at her. "Don't be stupid. Remember what I always say: don't stop pulling the trigger until the target is down, even if it means emptying your magazine."
"I didn't mean..." Emily hesitated, then tried to explain. "It's just... like I said, it felt like he wanted us to kill him. His expression—"
Rossi cut her off. "We'll talk about it back at the office, Emily."
(End of Chapter)
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