—We can trace the kidnapper's location. He's at a bus terminal —said Jin, moving the computer screen aside. The map displayed Chicago's main bus terminal, marked with a red dot. Then he handed them what looked like a portable GPS device.
—This is a tactile signal tracker. It'll help you close in on the target.
Jin typed a few more commands, and everyone's phones buzzed simultaneously.
Ethan checked his and found photos of a dark-haired boy and a Colombian man with dark skin who looked like an overweight Ronaldo.
Biting the end of his pen, Jin said:—Those are Diego and Matteo.
—Good —rasped Hank, grabbing the tracker—. The suspect is likely armed and extremely dangerous. We're dealing with two armed men—Omar Rojas and Matteo Ruiz. Diego's safety is the top priority in this operation. Understood?
They all nodded. Understood.
—Let's move —Hank said, slamming his hand on the table before heading for the door.
Seeing the worried look on his wife's face, Antonio stepped forward and hugged her tightly.—Don't worry. I'll bring Diego home.
At Union Station, they split up.
Ethan shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, hiding his gun and badge. The station was packed; the tracker was useless for now—they'd have to rely on sight.
Station security had already been instructed to cooperate in the search.
Everyone kept their eyes sharp, looking for a man traveling alone with a child, but careful not to make any sudden moves that might alert him.
—Everyone downstairs. The target's there —Hank's deep voice came through the earpiece.
Ethan looked up. On the upper level, between the steel beams and skylights of Union Station, he spotted Voight and Antonio watching from the terrace.
Without hesitation, he blended into the sea of passengers. Families, backpackers, and tourists lined up in front of buses; the air was thick with smoke and gasoline. With every step, Ethan scanned faces—tired eyes, bodies burdened with luggage—but none matched the kidnapper's description.
From the stairs, Hank and his team rushed down, tracker in hand.
—There, by the trash bins —Hank ordered.
Ethan saw them heading toward a metal bin in the center of the lobby. The suspect had tossed his phone.
—The target ditched the phone! —Ethan shouted into his radio.
—Spread out! —Hank's voice roared back—. The phone's gone, but the kidnapper's still nearby.
The Intelligence Unit members scattered behind the stone columns.
Ethan pushed through a heavy wooden door and stepped outside, under the station's main awning.
Dozens of buses stood lined up, engines rumbling. The signs flickered destinations: Indianapolis, St. Louis, Detroit.
Lighting a cigarette, Ethan blended into the crowd, walking slowly, observing. Each exhale of smoke made him invisible.
His eyes locked on a dark-haired boy clutching the hand of a burly man in a dark jacket.Diego.
A few meters behind, Erin stepped through the same door. She scanned the area quickly—then froze on the same sight.
—I've got eyes on the target —she said through the earpiece, her voice steady but tense—. They're boarding a bus to Indianapolis.
—We're on our way —Hank replied instantly.
The roar of engines was drowned out by a sharp crack:Bang!
A gunshot.
Screams.
Panic rippled through the station.
—Chicago PD! —Antonio yelled, sprinting toward the bus, gun drawn.
Ethan pushed through the chaos, weaving past fleeing passengers. Twenty meters ahead, the kidnapper was shoving the boy toward the bus door.
Time slowed.
Ethan dropped his coat, drew his 9mm, and raised his arm.Bang.
The shot thundered through the terminal.
The man collapsed instantly, blood splattering the side of the bus. The crowd screamed. Diego froze beside Matteo Ruiz's lifeless body.
Erin ran forward, scooped the boy into her arms, and shielded him with her body.
From a distance, Ethan stood tall, smoke drifting from his gun. The cigarette still dangled from his lips. He gave Erin a quick wink before raising his badge and shouting:—Chicago PD! Everybody down!
The crowd dropped to the floor at once. Ethan advanced through them, weapon steady, scanning the area. No second shooter.
Antonio burst through the crowd, his face twisted with fear.—Diego!
When he saw his son in Erin's arms, he rushed over.—Thank you… —he whispered, voice breaking.
Erin shook her head, tilting her chin toward Ethan, who was checking the kidnapper's body.
Ethan crouched, using his gun barrel to lift the dead man's jacket.
A Colt M1911 rested at his waist, alongside a knife.
Hank and the rest of the team arrived.
Ethan looked up.—Sorry. I know I said I'd take it easy, but I saw the shot and took it.
—It's fine —Hank said, holstering his Glock—. You did the right thing.
He nudged the suspect's gun away with his boot.—You saw an armed criminal with a hostage. There was no other choice. But when Internal Affairs asks, you had a clean shot at the target.
Ethan nodded, holstering his weapon. Ruzek stepped closer, staring at the pool of blood and the ruined face of the attacker.
He swallowed hard.—Damn… I can't tell if that's terrifying or impressive.
Still holding Diego, Erin shot him a glance.—Trust me, sometimes it's both.
To her, that was the true meaning of being a cop.
After the scene was cleared, Antonio took Diego to the hospital for a checkup, while the rest returned to the precinct.
Ethan had barely stepped into the reception when he noticed everyone staring at him —even the desk sergeant, Platt, and the patrol officers.
He stopped, confused.
Clap, clap, clap.
Platt set down her papers, raised her hands, and started clapping. The others joined in, and soon the entire room filled with applause.
Unused to this kind of moment, Ethan froze, unsure what to do, and simply pressed his palms against the desk in awkward acknowledgment.
After a few pats on the back, the applause faded and everyone returned to work.
Upstairs, the team stood by the stairwell, glancing toward Julia's desk with mixed expressions before quietly returning to their seats.
Firing the gun had been satisfying—but staring at the paperwork waiting to be filled made Ethan shiver. This wasn't Banshee; he couldn't ask Alma for help.
—Eat something —Erin said.
Lost in thought, Ethan looked up as she placed a takeout box in front of him. She smiled nervously.
—Okay… thanks.
He hadn't even had dinner. A glance at his watch told him it was past eight.
—You're welcome —Erin replied softly, heading back to her desk with hesitant steps.
Ethan's bullet that night hadn't just hit the kidnapper's head—it had struck her heart, too. The whole ordeal had been too much.
Sitting down, she took several deep breaths, forcing herself to focus on her reports.
Ethan ate quietly, as the others picked at their fast food. Then Hank emerged from his office and walked up to Ethan's desk.
—You're taking a few days off.
—Administrative leave?
—That's right.
Ethan glanced around and whispered:—You serious?
Hank's eye twitched as he sighed, leaning on the desk.
—You're new here. It's standard procedure. You won't get another paid break like this. The department's already set up a session with a psychologist for evaluation.
Seeing Ethan's annoyed look, Hank added quickly:
—Don't worry, I took care of it. It's just paperwork. Won't happen again.
—I guess rules are rules, huh? —Ethan said, tearing a chunk from his pastrami sandwich and stuffing it in his mouth.
—Exactly. Just protocol —Hank nodded, sipping his coffee—. Out of curiosity… how do you usually deal with job stress?
—Like any self-respecting cop —Ethan said flatly, taking a sip of his own coffee—. With plenty of booze and sex.
When the paperwork was finally done, the long, chaotic day came to an end.
While the rest of the team finished closing reports, Ethan slipped into the locker room for a quick shower.
With a few days off ahead of him, he wasn't in a hurry to go home. What he needed was a drink.
He passed by Molly's bar but didn't even consider going in—too cheerful for his taste. He was more of a Sugar's kind of guy.
He kept walking until a faint sign and a red wooden door caught his attention.
—Bingo —he muttered, glancing at the sign before tucking his badge and gun into the compartment.
He pushed the wooden door open; the place wasn't big.
The bar was simple, without much decoration. To the left were several wooden tables, to the right a well-lit counter, and at the back, a pool table where two guys were playing. An old TV on the wall showed a muted soccer match.
The place was fairly crowded: a few lonely drunks, a couple of groups of friends laughing too loudly, and a couple arguing in the corner. Ethan scanned the room and nodded to himself.
Yeah, this was exactly his kind of bar.
—Welcome. What can I get you? —asked the bartender, a tall, light-skinned man with a white towel hanging over his shoulder.
Ethan sat on one of the high stools in front of the bar and tapped his knuckles twice on the counter.
—Two whiskeys. Neat.
—Sure thing.
The bartender grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniel's, poured into two short glasses, and set them down in front of him.
—Here you go.
Ethan took one of the glasses and stared at it for a few seconds.
—Haven't seen you around before —the bartender said, wiping a glass with the towel—. First time here?
Ethan glanced toward a man smoking near the door, took out a cigarette, and lit it.
—That obvious?
—Just a bit. I know most of my customers—regulars, you know. —The bartender chuckled and nudged one of the glasses toward him.—
Ethan lifted his drink, clinked it lightly against the bartender's, and downed it in one shot. Then the second.
—Long day, huh? —the man asked with a half-smile.
—You have no idea, buddy.
—Name's Kevin, but my friends call me Kev. —He extended his hand.
—Ethan —he replied, shaking it—. Beer, please.
—Coming right up.
Kevin grabbed a clean glass, filled it to the brim from the tap, and placed it in front of Ethan along with a small basket of peanuts.
Ethan took a handful, chewed absently, and sipped his drink. He didn't need to talk or think—just let the bar noise fill his head.
Just then, someone sat beside him.
Kevin looked up, frowning. He slapped the towel on the counter.
—Frank, I told you—if you don't pay your tab, you don't drink.
Ethan glanced sideways and saw an older white man in a denim jacket, hair a mess, with a bulbous nose that stood out. He recognized the type instantly—the kind of guy who lived off half-promises and bar credit.
—Come on, Kevin, we're neighbors. We should look out for each other. I'll pay you as soon as my disability check clears.
—Not a chance, Frank. —Kevin leaned across the bar, glaring—. No money, no beer.
—God, where have all the good Samaritans gone? —Frank groaned, scratching his messy hair—. No compassion for a veteran?
—Veteran? —Kevin crossed his arms—. The only war you ever fought was over half a burger in the dumpster behind O'Malley's. Pay up or get out.
Ethan drained his beer with a low "glug."
—Hey, you're new around here, huh? —the old man turned to him with a crooked grin—. Name's Frank. You visiting Chicago?
He wasn't really old—maybe in his late forties—but years of booze and bad choices had carved deep lines in his face.
—Here's a tip —Kevin said, sliding another beer toward Ethan—. Ignore Frank. He's just trying to drink for free.
—What? —Frank shot him a dirty look, then smiled at Ethan—. Sorry, didn't mean to scare you off.
—Why'd you think I'm a tourist? —Ethan asked, taking a long sip and raising an eyebrow.
Frank squinted, studying him.
—Let's see. Nice clothes. Tense face. You don't look like someone from around here. Either you're new in town or you're lost. South Side's not a great spot for sightseeing, pal.
Ethan's lips curved slightly. He tapped the bar with his fingers, amused.
—Tell you what. Guess where I'm from, and I'll buy you a drink.
—Deal. —Frank's eyes lit up—. Pennsylvania?
—You saw my car parked outside, didn't you? —Ethan called to the bartender—. Kev, give him a beer.
—Told you —Kevin sighed, filling a glass.
—Yes! —Frank cheered, grabbing the beer like it was gold. He took a long gulp and let out a satisfied burp. —Thanks, pal. Life as a single father isn't easy, you know. Kevin never understands how hard it is raising six kids on my own.
—Single father, huh? —Ethan humored him.
—That's right. —Frank knocked his knuckles on the bar proudly—. A self-made man, doing whatever it takes for his family. They're my kids, after all.
—Sounds like a good dad to me. —Ethan sipped his beer.
—Finally, someone who gets it! —Frank threw up his hands with a grin.
Kevin coughed behind the bar and gave Ethan a look that said, don't believe a word of it. Ethan just smirked.
Half of what Frank said was probably a lie, but he didn't care. Tonight, he just wanted to drink in peace—and maybe be entertained.
Then, the door slammed open.
—Frank Gallagher! —a deep voice thundered. A huge man in a leather jacket stomped inside—. You owe me five hundred bucks, you son of a bitch!
Frank froze for a moment, then gave Ethan a nervous smile.
—Did I mention I might have a small debt?
—You forgot that part. —Ethan sighed, finishing his beer.
Kevin raised his hands. —Not in here, Frank. No fights in the bar.
—Of course, of course —Frank said quickly, raising his palms—. Just a misunderstanding.
A glass shattered. Frank had hurled it at the man's face and bolted for the door.
—Frank! —Kevin shouted.
The big guy charged after him, knocking over a chair.
Ethan watched, amused.
—Let me guess —he said to Kevin—. Happens every week?
—Sometimes twice.
Ethan nodded, lifting the last bourbon glass.
The bar grew louder with every song, laughter mixing with the clinking of glasses. Ethan turned slightly when he heard a burst of giggles from a nearby table.
A group of women sat together—six or seven of them, all dressed up. A bachelorette party, judging by the veils and Bride sashes.
Ethan smirked and glanced at Kevin.
—Got any champagne back there, Kev?
Kevin raised an eyebrow, amused. —Yeah, a few bottles.
—Send them to the ladies, with my compliments.
Kevin chuckled, pulled two bottles from the cooler, and carried them over himself. The corks popped amid music and laughter.
—From the gentleman at the bar, —he said, pointing toward Ethan.
All the women turned. Ethan leaned casually on the counter, jacket half open, a faint smile on his lips. He raised his glass slightly in greeting.
A blonde bit her lip.
Then a redhead in a tight strapless dress whispered something to her friend and walked toward him, confident smile in place.
She stopped beside him, resting an elbow on the bar.
—Hi, I just wanted to thank you. That was really sweet. —Her voice was smooth, almost playful.
—Ethan, —he said, shaking her hand with a faint smile.
—I'm Sabrina, —she replied, smiling back. —My friend over there thinks you're cute. Want to join us for a drink?
Ethan followed her gaze. Her friend, a tall woman in a short skirt, watched him with a shy grin.
—Why not? —he said, handing Sabrina a glass of whiskey. The amber light flickered in the glass between them.
—But first, a question —he added, leaning slightly closer.
—Go ahead. —She took the whiskey and downed it in one smooth motion, smiling.
Kev watched from behind the counter, shaking his head with a grin.
Ethan turned back to Sabrina, amusement flickering in his eyes.
—Do you like threesomes?— he asked in a low voice, almost a whisper laden with mischief.
The redhead raised an eyebrow, smiling wickedly. Her fingers slowly traced Ethan's forearm, leaving a faint trail of sweet, provocative perfume.
—If you can handle both of us, that's fine with me. I don't like feeling left out...— she replied, staring at him with a defiant gleam in her eyes.
Ethan put his arm around her waist and whispered in her ear.
His warm, moist breath brushed against her skin, sending a slight shiver down her neck. Sabrina winked at him before walking away with a confident stride, the sway of her hips setting the pace as she returned to her table to fetch her friend.
—Kev,— Ethan said, standing up and leaving a couple of hundred-dollar bills on the table. —I think this is my lucky bar... so we'll be seeing each other a lot, buddy.—
Kevin laughed, but before he could respond, the two women returned. They carried their purses and flirty smiles; one settled next to Ethan, the other clung to his arm confidently.
—Damn!— Kevin exclaimed, putting his hand to his forehead as he watched them surround him.
Ethan smiled at the two women, put his arm around them, and walked out of the bar. A moment later, the roar of his Challenger filled the air. The headlights flashed twice, and he quickly disappeared down the street.
The next morning, Ethan felt the roundness in his hand and slapped the blonde on the buttocks.
—Don't you have to go to work?—
The redhead looked up, stretching her sore lips.
—There's still an hour and a half left, there's still time,— she said before lowering her head again.
—It's my turn,— said the blonde irritably. —What's the rush?—
Ethan picked up a cigarette case from the nightstand, took out a cigarette, and lit it.
—I have to go. How about some teamwork?—
—Ah, you're lucky you're so cute.— The blonde pouted and leaned over.
Ethan lit the cigarette, staring at the ceiling. The two women gave him a double blowjob under the sheets.
After a quick shower, Ethan drove to the police department's partnered psychological clinic, following the address sent to his phone.
The session was long and monotonous—more procedure than therapy. When it was over, his administrative leave was officially approved.
The following days passed slowly. He filled time with small routines—grocery shopping, long drives through the gray streets of Chicago, a few hours by Lake Michigan staring at the skyline.
When Internal Affairs finally concluded their investigation, no wrongdoing was found in the Union Station shooting.
Ethan's suspension was lifted, and he returned to duty.
That first day back wasn't easy.
Dressed in his formal uniform and classic Ray-Bans, Ethan stood at the edge of the cemetery. The wind tugged at his dark jacket as rows of officers stood in silence. The soft wail of bagpipes carried through the air.
It was the funeral of one of their own—a fellow officer killed during Diego's rescue.
When the ceremony ended, Ethan and the rest of Intelligence lined up to offer condolences to the widow. As they walked away, he exhaled slowly.
If he could help it, he'd never want to live through that again. But in his line of work, that was wishful thinking.
Jingling his car keys, he left the cemetery with the others.
In recent days, Hank had finally gotten his new ride—a black Cadillac CTS, identical to Erin's.
—Hey, mind giving me a lift? —Erin called, walking up to him. Her navy uniform and aviator shades gave her a sharp, confident look.
—Sure. Hop in. —He unlocked the car with a click.
Erin smiled faintly and slid into the passenger seat.
As they followed the convoy back to the precinct, Ethan couldn't help but enjoy the smooth hum of the engine. He loved his car, but the comfort of something new was undeniable.
After a quiet stretch, he asked:
—How's Julia?
—She's doing better. They'll discharge her in a few days so she can recover at home. —Erin's voice was calm.
—That's good.
She bit her nails absently, staring out the window. The tension within the team still lingered—Julia had nearly died because of Belden's arrogance.
Sensing her unease, Ethan took a quick turn off the boulevard.
—Hungry? —he asked softly, breaking the silence.
—Not really, —she said, still looking out the window as the city passed by.