Hi there. I know I promised an update for Monday, but unfortunately I have some bad news—my external hard drive was stolen, and with it all the updates I had been working on. I didn't have a backup, so I had to start over from scratch.
Here's what I promised, a bit late, but I'll try to release four or five more in the next few days.
Best regards, and see you soon.
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Following the convoy back to the station, Ethan parked his black Cadillac CTS at the rear entrance. The intelligence team members also pulled in, and as they stepped out into the garage, they stopped when they saw Hank waiting for them in the center.
Hank took off his service cap with a firm gesture.
—These last few days have been tough for all of us, but you faced everything with strength. I expected nothing less from you. —he said in a deep voice—. Officially, Julia has decided to step down from the force and take an administrative position. Due to her injuries, she won't be able to continue as a field agent. So we have to move forward.
Hank gave them a moment to absorb the news.
—Now for the good news. Commander Perry has agreed to let the intelligence unit operate independently from now on. No more joint investigations with other departments. —he pointed to the ground—. This means no one will interfere in our cases. We report only to him.
Everyone's faces lit up at his words. Even though the announcement came after the kidnapping incident and Julia's shooting, it was still good news.
—Come on! —Hank clapped—. Go get changed, we've got work to do.
In the locker room, Ethan took out his key and opened his locker.
—Ethan, I still haven't thanked you properly for saving my son's life. —Antonio approached and held out his hand—
—There's nothing to thank. We're partners. We take care of each other. —Ethan said, shaking his hand.
Ethan removed his uniform and hung it inside the locker.
—How's Diego? —he asked as he unbuttoned his light-blue shirt—
—He's still shaken by everything. It's not easy for him. —Antonio pressed his lips together—. But he's young and brave; he'll recover soon.
—If you need anything, just let me know. —Ethan patted his shoulder and slipped on his jacket—.
—By the way… if you're free tonight, my wife Laura wants to invite you and Erin over for dinner as a thank-you. —Antonio opened his locker with a smile—
—There's no need, really —Ethan waved him off—. Besides, I've already got plans tonight. I bought tickets for the Bulls game—mid-court seats.
—I get it, brother —Antonio said with a tired smile—. But you don't know Latina wives; "no" doesn't exist in their vocabulary. Please, don't make me sleep on the couch—it's horrible.
—I don't know…
—I'll make it up to you. I'll get you tickets for the next game. Front-row, mid-court. What do you say?
Antonio finished changing and hung his badge around his neck. Ethan looked at him for a few seconds and sighed.
—I guess I can't abandon a friend in distress. —he said with a resigned smile—. Give me the time and address; I'll be there.
—Thank you… I owe you one. —Antonio replied, relieved.
There was no turning back now that things had gone this far.
That day, the Intelligence team was working on information passed along by an FBI agent. According to the report, the leaders of three local gangs were planning to meet in a house on the South Side. The federal agents didn't know the exact purpose of the meeting, but everything pointed to something big.
A black Cadillac rolled to a stop at the side of the street. Ethan glanced toward the distant white-walled single-family house and pressed the intercom.
He set the radio down and grabbed a digital camera fitted with a powerful telephoto lens, adjusting it quickly.
Alvin and Rusek were disguised as utility workers, placing traffic cones while wearing yellow phone-company vests.
—Erin and I are positioned behind the house. —Halstead added.
—Ethan, I want a clear shot of whoever goes in or out of that house. —Hank ordered.
—Copy that. —Ethan replied, letting go of the intercom.
Rusek pretended to work, placing traffic signs and unloading equipment from the truck.—Surveillance cameras are in place. —Alvin's voice crackled through the earpiece.
He said it while climbing down the ladder, having mounted a camera on top of the telephone pole.
Silence filled the channel.
Ethan, watching Rusek sunbathe while pushing the striping machine, smirked and pulled out a bag of chips, eating idly.
Half an hour later, he noticed movement in his rearview mirror.
—Suspect in sight, northwest corner. —Ethan reported firmly, adjusting the focus on the telephoto lens—. Jeans, yellow hoodie… face partially covered. Repeat: face unidentifiable.
Through the mirror, he watched the man cross the street with quick, measured steps, checking both sides nervously. His hands stayed hidden in the front pocket of the hoodie.
Ethan lowered the camera slightly and shifted his posture, leaning toward the dashboard to avoid drawing attention. With a discreet motion, he slipped his phone from the inner pocket of his jacket and began typing without taking his eyes off the suspect.
—Control, this is Morgan. —he whispered into his lapel mic—. I have a possible contact heading toward the meeting point. Requesting visual confirmation.
The man in the yellow hoodie turned toward the target house. Ethan tracked him with the lens, his finger ready on the shutter.
—Target is moving… —he added—. Repeat: suspect approaching the perimeter.
He followed him through the telephoto lens, ready to capture every movement. The hooded man reached the porch, climbed the steps, and knocked hard on the door.
Just then, the man reached for his waistband and pulled out a gun.
—Gun! Gun! —Ethan shouted through the radio.
He drew his 9mm and shoved the car door open.
Bang, bang, bang!
A burst of gunfire exploded from inside. More than a dozen rounds tore through the wooden door from within. The hooded man jerked violently as if electrocuted; blood sprayed out and he collapsed backward onto the porch.
—Surround the house! No one gets out! If they're breathing, I want them cuffed! —Hank and Antonio bellowed as they charged out from a side alley.
Rusek rushed toward the house, pistol in hand, intending to sprint up the walkway to the porch.
—Don't even think about it! —Ethan growled, grabbing Rusek by the collar and yanking him back.
The force of the pull threw him onto the grass.
—What the hell are you doing? —Rusek snapped, disoriented and irritated.
—Are you an idiot? You don't walk into a shootout like that without backup! —Ethan smacked him on the back of the head—. They shredded a guy at the door—what do you think would've happened to you?
—Cover me —Ethan said, raising his gun as he crouched and made his way toward the entrance.
—Chicago Police! You're surrounded! Drop your weapons!
Antonio and Hank took cover behind a tree trunk, their guns aimed at the windows.
Halstead's voice shouted from behind them.
They detected a dim light moving inside the house; contrary to what they expected, only a single silhouette was visible inside, standing several feet away from the doorway.
Ruzek was breathing nervously, staying close behind Ethan as they both approached the front door quietly. They positioned themselves on either side of the frame, covering each angle.
Ethan raised his hand and counted silently: three… two… one…
He took a breath, steadied himself, and with a sharp, precise kick, blasted the lock apart. The crash echoed through the entire house, and they rushed in.
Ruzek went in first with Ethan right behind him. The door thudded shut behind them, muffling the hallway noise. The man standing in the center of the living room turned, his eyes wide with panic when he saw the first intruder. He lifted his rifle, but Ruzek was faster.
Bang!
A single deafening gunshot tore through the enclosed space. The sharp smell of burnt gunpowder filled the air instantly.
The man dropped to the floor with a heavy, dull thud. Ruzek's bullet had struck him in the chest, leaving him motionless on the floorboards. Ethan stepped forward quickly and kicked the fallen AR-15 out of reach.
At that moment, a loud crash came from the back door. Erin and Halstead burst in while Hank and the others stormed through the front, rushing upstairs to clear the house for more suspects.
Ethan holstered his weapon.
He turned his head and saw Ruzek beside him—completely frozen, arm trembling, Glock still aimed at the man on the floor, finger stiff on the trigger.
—Give me the gun —Ethan said calmly, extending his hand and gripping the slide firmly.
Ruzek blinked himself back into reality and finally let go of the pistol.
The grip was soaked in sweat. Ethan crouched, carefully set the weapon aside, and checked the man's neck.
He still had a pulse—weak and fading—but alive.
—Dispatch, this is Detective Morgan, Intelligence Unit, badge number 99527 —Ethan reported steadily—. We have a shooting at Ridchmond and Third. Repeat, suspect has at least one gunshot wound, still showing vital signs. Requesting an ambulance immediately—emergency code.
—Be advised, there are plainclothes officers on the perimeter —he added, glancing at Ruzek, who was still breathing hard—. Notify responding patrol units to use caution as they approach.
—Halstead was the first to arrive. He grabbed a kitchen towel, pulled his gloves on, and pressed his hand over the wound.
—Quick, we need to plug this or he'll bleed out fast. —he said, pushing the towel down hard.
—What are you waiting for? Help him. —Ethan said, looking at Ruzek—.
—Alright.
Ruzek hurried to put on gloves and pressed his hands over Halstead's.
Ignoring the rookie's earlier recklessness, Ethan tucked Ruzek's Glock into his waistband and moved toward the back of the house. Despite his impulsive charge, Ruzek's actual performance was solid. Most rookies froze on their first shooting. This at least proved Ruzek had the guts for the job.
The back kitchen showed no signs of drug production.
Erin began rummaging through drawers and cabinets. Ethan found small cardboard boxes in the trash can, all empty. He pulled on gloves and joined her search.
When he lifted a cardboard box, he noticed it was unusually heavy and something metallic rattled inside. Ethan opened it quickly: it was full of bullets—hollow-point rounds.
—Erin, look at this. Cop killers. —he said, tossing the box to her.
Erin rushed over, catching the box.
—What do you mean?
Ethan picked up another round and examined it closely.
Detective Antonio approached the rifle Ruzek had dropped, scooping up a handful of cartridges scattered across the floor. He frowned darkly.
—These are M995 armor-piercing rounds, tungsten-coated for extra penetration. They cut through Kevlar like butter. —he said, staring at Erin— That's why they call them cop killers.
According to Antonio, most officers' vests were practically useless against them—hence how heavily their distribution was restricted and monitored.
—Guys, look at this. —Erin said, pulling out a black plastic bag and dumping it onto the floor. A pile of opened cardboard boxes spilled out.
She picked up one and examined it.
—Insulin… —she murmured, flipping it over—. What diabetic needs this much insulin?
—Oh, wait… look at this.
Ethan opened another box, picked up a bullet from the floor, and slipped it into the supposed medical container. It fit with a perfect click—as if designed for it.
Ethan let out a low whistle.
—This isn't medicine. It's damn ammunition packaging.
Hank appeared in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, watching the scene.
—No doubt—this is a weapons-trafficking operation. —he nodded—. They just confirmed the guy at the door didn't make it.
Antonio checked other boxes, kicking a few to see if they were empty.
—That idiot probably figured out they had quality merchandise here. —he muttered in disgust—
—I agree, Antonio. —Hank crouched and took a box himself—. This isn't amateur work. Someone built a distribution system disguised as medical supplies.
—So it wasn't just a gang meeting… it was a drop point.
Antonio dragged a hand over his face, exhausted.
—And if these boxes are here, it means they've already pushed some of these rounds onto the streets.
Hank exhaled slowly.
—And now this idiot blew the whole operation. Surveillance can't continue. —Hank said—. Leave it to patrol; they can take it from here.
Hank stepped forward, grabbed one of the insulin boxes, and tossed it to Erin.
—Trace the origin of these insulin cases. Find the distributor. They should have serial numbers.
—On it. —Erin said, nodding as she held the box.
Hank looked away, but before he could speak, Antonio said:—I'll talk to one of my informants. Something this big on the black market means a lot of movement.
The surveillance mission was done. The only good news was that now they knew what they were dealing with.
After a short sweep, Ethan stepped outside. Patrol cars were already parked out front, and the house had been taped off. A few curious neighbors lingered but left quickly when they saw the body.
As he watched the ambulance drive away, Ethan pulled out the Glock and approached Ruzek:
—Feeling calmer now?
Ruzek nodded, his fingers still trembling slightly as he took the pistol. It hadn't been an instant kill; if it had, the emotional impact might have been even worse.
—Detective —Ruzek said, holstering the gun and stepping beside him—, can you tell me how you felt after you fired your gun the other day?
—Why do you ask? —Ethan noticed Ruzek was still rattled and frowned—. How do you feel now?
—Excited. —Ruzek answered, looking around and swallowing hard—. I'm not scared, not nauseous… just a little hyped.
This kid had something. Coming to him about this meant he trusted him.
—It's normal for things to go sideways the first time you fire your weapon. —Ethan said, giving him a firm pat on the shoulder—. Just remember you're on the right side. You did what you were trained to do… don't worry, I've got your back.
—Alright… I get it. —Ruzek nodded; he'd opened up to Ethan, and his nerves were finally settling.
But rookie or not, protocol was protocol. Back at the station, Ruzek got the same treatment Ethan had: Hank forced him onto mandatory leave and sent him to a psychologist.
This shooting wasn't as serious as the Union Station one; he'd probably only need a couple days to recover.
—Ethan, come with me. —Hank called after he'd barely sat down—. Remember the Octopus case? That kid D'Antony?
—Of course. —Ethan nodded.
—The kid wants out of the gang life, and I want to help him. —Hank said quietly—. But they won't let him walk away that easily. I want to talk to his cousin, see if we can work something out.
—You sure you want to do this? —Ethan asked, looking out the window.
—I am. And the kid's been staying at my place these last few days. —Hank admitted—. Last time he went home, the gang beat the hell out of him. Rafe's dead, and they took it out on him.
—Idiots. He's fourteen. What was he supposed to do? —Ethan muttered—. Die with Rafe?
—Yeah, well… to them, hiding made him look like a coward, which in their logic makes him a traitor. —Hank said with a nod—.
—I'm going to talk to their boss. Normally it'd just be a conversation, and we'd reach an understanding. —Hank said, grabbing his keys—. But I still want someone watching my back. You in?
—Always. You know you can count on me. —Ethan said, patting him on the hip—.
Later, Hank's truck pulled into a rundown neighborhood and stopped by the curb.
On the porch across the street, several Black men and women held red plastic cups while music played.
—Remember, we're here to talk. Don't let them provoke you… trust me, they'll try. —Hank told Ethan as he shut off the engine.
—No problem, —Ethan replied, looking around as he unbuttoned his jacket to show his badge.
Both men opened their car doors and walked toward the house. The moment they approached, the guys on the porch stopped talking and stared at them with suspicion, and the music was cut off.
—I'm here to see Trayzell, —Hank said, lifting his shirt just enough to show his badge— Tell him Sergeant Voight wants a word.
One of the men, a Black guy almost six-foot-three with dreadlocks, set his cup down, gave them a sideways look, and without saying a word went inside the house. Moments later he opened the door again and motioned for them to follow.
Ethan, radar on, had been watching the room carefully; the lights hadn't shifted at all since the man walked in.If everyone crowded the doorway, he'd stop Voight. But these guys weren't stupid enough to jump a Sergeant and a detective unless they wanted to end up dead.
They stepped onto the porch; the dreadlocked guy still had his arm across the doorway, blocking their path.
He stared at Ethan and Hank with a blank expression, his lips barely moving.
—Leave your guns here.
—Here's mine. Why don't you take it… but I'm warning you, you'll end up with a bullet in your head, —Ethan replied, lifting his shirt and revealing a Python in its holster.
Voight had told him not to be overly aggressive, but he couldn't show weakness either. If he acted like a coward, they'd treat him like one. He needed to make a name for himself in this city if he planned on staying.
Their eyes locked, and the man with the dreads felt the detective's stare sharpen, almost pierce him—something in him knew Ethan wasn't bluffing.
He held the stare for a few seconds, then quickly looked away. He loosened the hand braced against the doorframe, letting them in.
Inside, the air was thick with the stench of weed and tobacco. In the living room, several men drank and smoked while playing video games, completely unbothered.
When they reached the dining room, four guys were playing poker around a small round table, each with a thick stack of cash in front of them. The dreadlocked man leaned toward one of them and whispered.
—Detective Voight. What brings you here? —asked the man in the blue cap, wearing a shining diamond Cuban-link chain. He didn't seem fazed by the tension.
He covered his cards and leaned back in his chair. This had to be Trayzell.
Ethan glanced at the guns on the round table and positioned himself against the wall.
—Actually, —Hank smiled— I'm a Sergeant now. I think you've heard of me, haven't you?
—My uncle Casper mentioned you a couple times, —the man in the blue cap—Trayzell—replied with disdain— Of course I know you. You've got quite the reputation.
Hank had never dealt with Trayzell directly; he only knew the name.
—He's with the Vice Lords. Heard he's in Marion now, right?
—Listen, I know who you are, —Trayzell lit a blunt, speaking with total indifference— I also know what you've done. So let's cut the bullshit… what do you want, Sergeant?
—Can we talk alone? —Hank narrowed his eyes.
—No need, —Trayzell gestured to both sides— They can hear whatever. It'd be disrespectful otherwise, don't you think?
—D'Anthony, —Hank said, pulling a business card from his pocket and placing it on the gun in front of Trayzell— I want you to let him go. In return, here's a parole card. If you get into trouble or get arrested, call me and I'll handle it. What do you say?
Everyone stared at the card with a mix of suspicion.
The gesture didn't seem to affect Trayzell. He was too proud, too used to being in charge. Showing weakness in front of his men wasn't an option; falling for an offer he considered empty would make him look like a clown.
Still, he smirked with contempt and picked up the card between his fingers.
—Well, Sergeant… didn't know you liked screwing young Black boys, —he said with a mocking tilt of his head— Does their tight little ass turn you on?
The table erupted into laughter. The men playing cards slapped their chips, enjoying the joke like hyenas around a carcass.
Ethan pressed his lips together, staring with a mix of coldness and warning.
Hank stepped forward, casting his shadow across the table.
—Tell me… did I disrespect you? —he corrected him, voice deep and quiet but razor-sharp— I came here, face to face, man to man, and you disrespect me? That's not something someone does twice… do we understand each other?
He leaned in slightly.
The laughter died instantly.
Trayzell stopped smiling.
—I've invested a lot of time and money in D'Anthony. If you're interested, bring cash and we'll talk, —he said, throwing his own business card toward Hank— I'll give you a cops-and-friends discount… give me ten grand and his ass is yours. I don't care about some worthless card.
Hank nodded, crouched to pick up the card, and tapped it lightly in his hand, forcing a smile.
—I understand. We'll be in touch.
—Hold up… —Trayzell stopped him, pointing at Ethan— Next time you come here, I don't want to see this motherfucker in my house. I don't like the way he looks at me, you hear?
Ethan smiled smugly.
—Good. Now get out. —Trayzell waved them off like shooing a fly and grabbed a deck of cards.
Back in the car, Hank cast one last look at the house they'd just left. His eyes were glowing—not with doubt, but with cold determination. Ten thousand dollars meant nothing to them… but letting something like that slide did have a price.
If they allowed that kind of precedent, word would spread like wildfire among all the gangs, and Hank's reputation would be gone.
—If you want, I can take care of him. He won't see daylight tomorrow. —Ethan said, fastening his seat belt— Just say the word.
—No need… I'll find a way to make him take my deal, —Hank replied calmly— Even if we make Trayzell disappear, it won't fix the D'Anthony problem. After this visit, they'd suspect him and hunt him down. —he said, starting the car— But tonight I'll need to have a private talk with him. Interested?
—Of course, —Ethan nodded. He hadn't seen someone that arrogant in a long time.
The radio installed in the truck beeped.
—Go ahead, —Hank said, pressing the button.
—I found the source of the insulin. A company near Toronto called "Markham Medical Supply." Their sales rep stops by every other Thursday, —Erin continued— The rep arrived in Chicago today. Burgess and Atwater just found his vehicle.
—Unfortunately, we're too late… he took a bullet to the head, —Erin murmured.
—Send me the address.
He hung up and slammed the accelerator.