On their first morning back after administrative leave, Jack Stacy and Catherine Hayek arrived at the 21st District half an hour earlier than usual.
They crossed the familiar lobby together and headed toward the Intelligence Unit upstairs, giving Sergeant Trudy Platt a nod as they passed her desk.
“Well, this should be interesting.” Platt lowered her newspaper and gave the two of them an amused look.
“Voight isn’t exactly a fan of partners getting too close.
Keep this up and one of you might get kicked out of Intelligence.”
Catherine casually gave her the middle finger.
She and Platt had developed the kind of relationship where neither woman took the other’s attitude seriously.
Jack wasn’t nearly brave enough to try that.
He had been with the district for less than a month, and Platt was still a sergeant who could make a rookie’s life miserable whenever she felt like it.
Instead, he handed her the coffee he had specifically bought on the way in and smiled.
“Before Sergeant Voight gets the chance to throw me out, I’m pretty sure Catherine will put me in the hospital herself.”
Platt opened the lid and immediately recognized her favorite extra-strong coffee.
Her expression became noticeably more approving.
“Stacy, you might actually survive around here.”
Jack and Catherine continued upstairs, passed through the secured entrance, and entered the Intelligence Unit.
Almost everyone was already present, although the detectives kept glancing toward Hank’s private office.
Jules Willhite was still recovering from her gunshot wound, and an unfamiliar blond man stood near one of the desks.
The stranger immediately walked over and offered his hand.
“Adam Ruzek.
First day with the unit.”
“Jack Stacy.
Jack is fine.” Jack shook his hand before gesturing toward Catherine.
“This is Catherine Hayek.
Any idea why everyone keeps staring at Hank’s office?”
After greeting Catherine, Ruzek shrugged.
“Not really.
Commander Perry went in there a few minutes before you got here.”
Jack didn’t press the issue.
He and Catherine headed toward their desks in the back corner, greeting Antonio, Erin, Jay, and Al as they passed.
After settling in, Jack killed a little time playing Command & Conquer: Red Alert on the old computer until Hank Voight and Commander Perry finally walked out of the private office.
Hank moved directly to the whiteboard and slapped a stack of reports against it to get everyone’s attention.
Commander Perry remained nearby instead of leaving, which was enough to tell Jack and Catherine that whatever case had come in was serious.
“Seven shootings in one day,” Hank began, pinning crime-scene photographs to the board.
“Four dead and three critically wounded.
Ballistics recovered the same type of ammunition at every scene—M995 armor-piercing 5.56 rounds.
The kind of ammunition that can punch through protection most street crews normally count on.”
Hank pointed toward the bloody photographs.
“This isn’t ordinary gang ammunition.
Somebody put military-grade armor-piercing rifle rounds onto Chicago streets, and now crews are using them against each other.”
Jack frowned.
Armor-piercing rifle ammunition was far removed from the cheap handgun rounds usually recovered after street shootings.
Commander Perry stepped forward.
“Ballistics also indicate at least three C7-pattern rifles were involved.
Those are military-style rifles, not something we should be seeing passed around between neighborhood crews.”
The room immediately became more serious.
“So we’re looking at gunrunning,” Al Olinsky said from his chair.
“Someone brought a military-grade shipment into Chicago.”
“Exactly.” Hank pinned another document onto the board.
“We have a reliable tip that the leaders of three major gangs are meeting at three this afternoon at a house in West Garfield Park.
Property is registered to a man named Carpenter, except Carpenter died last year.
Nobody legally living there now.”
Antonio raised a hand slightly.
“How good is the source?”
“Good enough.”
Jay leaned forward.
“We hitting the meeting?”
“No.” Hank immediately rejected the idea.
“We watch.
We find out who shows up, what they’re buying, and most importantly, who’s selling it.
Taking three gang bosses off the street means nothing if whoever supplied them still has a warehouse full of rifles.”
He looked around the room and started assigning positions.
“Al, take Ruzek and work undercover nearby.
Antonio and Erin handle audio.
Jay, you’re with me on the back.
Stacy and Hayek, front surveillance.”
Everyone stood.
“We move in five.”
At 2:45 that afternoon, Jack and Catherine sat inside a black Dodge van parked across from the target house in West Garfield Park.
Jack remained behind the wheel while Catherine adjusted a long-lens camera and directional microphone aimed toward the property.
They waited for nearly twenty minutes before Catherine straightened slightly.
“We’ve got movement.”
A black Lincoln Navigator stopped in front of the house.
Three men climbed out.
Catherine raised the camera and began taking photographs.
“First target is here.
Latino male, about forty, scar on the left cheek.
Rafael Mendoza, leader of the Red Scorpions.”
A second vehicle arrived barely a minute later.
“Target two.
African American male, gold-rimmed glasses.
Derek Johnson, Street Kings.”
The final vehicle showed up almost ten minutes late.
Catherine focused the lens.
“Third target confirmed.
White male, bald, spider tattoo on the neck.
Peter Thomas Banfield, Nordic Brotherhood.
All three leaders are inside.”
Hank’s voice came through their earpieces.
“Hell of a guest list.
Those three normally hate each other.
Antonio, get us audio.”
The directional microphone captured pieces of the conversation inside, while Antonio and Erin worked to isolate the voices.
Mendoza spoke first.
“Lost two more guys last night.
Their rounds went straight through the car doors.
We can’t fight that.”
Banfield answered, “That’s why we’re sitting together.
Seller wants to unload the whole shipment at once.
None of us can afford the entire thing alone.”
Johnson asked, “How much?”
“Two million,” Banfield replied.
“Fifty C7s, fifty thousand rounds of M995, plus grenades and explosives.”
The room inside went quiet for a moment.
Mendoza finally asked, “Who’s selling?”
“Anonymous.
Everything goes through a middleman, but the shipment is already in Chicago.
I saw samples myself.
Deal can happen tonight.”
Johnson didn’t hesitate long.
“Then we pool the money.
Better we split it than let one crew buy everything and wipe the rest of us out.”
Jack and Catherine exchanged a glance.
The shipment was far larger than anyone had expected.
Before they could hear more, hurried footsteps came from farther down the street.
A tall, thin man was moving quickly toward the house.
“Unidentified male approaching the front entrance,” Jack reported.
Then he saw the man reach into his jacket.
“Gun.”
Jack recognized him a second later from departmental files.
His name was Carlos, a small-time dealer who owed the Red Scorpions a considerable amount of money.
Carlos reached the front door and started pounding against it.
“Mendoza!” he screamed in Spanish.
“I know you’re in there!
Where did you take my son?”
Gunfire suddenly exploded from inside.
Carlos didn’t even have time to react.
Multiple rounds tore through the doorway and struck him, dropping him onto the steps.
“Damn it!” Catherine snapped.
“They killed him.”
Hank’s voice immediately came through the radio.
“All units move!
Shots fired.
We’re going in.”
Jack and Catherine were out of the van first, drawing their pistols as they crossed the street.
Al and Ruzek followed close behind from their undercover position, while Hank and Jay moved toward the rear entrance.
Antonio and Erin were already closing in from farther down the block.
“Chicago Police!” Catherine shouted.
“Drop your weapons and come out with your hands up!”
Al reached Carlos first and checked for a pulse.
After a few seconds, he shook his head.
Carlos was dead.
Noise erupted inside the house—shouting, furniture being knocked over, and hurried footsteps.
Jack motioned for Catherine to cover him while he moved toward the damaged doorway and glanced inside.
Banfield was trying to reach a rear window.
Johnson and Mendoza were struggling over a briefcase, while loose cash and ammunition samples were scattered across the floor.
From the rear of the house, Hank shouted, “Final warning!
Drop your weapons and come out with your hands visible!”
Mendoza suddenly grabbed a compact automatic weapon and turned toward Hank’s voice.
“Automatic weapon!” Jack warned.
His pistol came up almost instinctively.
Gun Duel Lv.3 activated through the movement.
Jack fired.
The round struck Mendoza directly in the gun-wielding wrist.
His hand snapped backward and the weapon fell onto the floor before he could fire.
Catherine immediately pulled a flashbang and sent it through the doorway.
The detonation filled the room with a violent blast of sound and white light.
Jack, Catherine, Al, and Ruzek moved inside.
Mendoza had fallen and was clutching his injured wrist, but Johnson reacted blindly.
His eyes were squeezed shut as he raised his handgun and began firing wildly, sending bullets into walls and furniture while wood chips and plaster filled the air.
Jack’s pistol rose again.
Two rapid shots.
Both rounds struck Johnson’s weapon hand and wrist, knocking the gun away.
Johnson screamed and dropped onto his knees.
At the other end of the room, Banfield had already gotten halfway through the window.
Jack lunged forward and caught both of his legs.
With one hard pull, he dragged Banfield back inside.
The gang leader twisted around and threw a punch, but Jack reacted automatically.
Tactical Grappling Lv.2 took over as he caught Banfield’s wrist, redirected the strike, twisted the arm, controlled the elbow, and drove him face-first toward the floor in one smooth sequence.
Banfield groaned as Jack pinned him.
“Don’t move.”
Jack pulled out his handcuffs and secured him.
The entire exchange had lasted barely ten seconds.
For a moment, several members of Intelligence simply looked at Jack.
They had already known the rookie was unusually capable, but watching him disarm two armed gang leaders with precise gunfire and then physically overpower a third made the nickname Super Rookie seem considerably less ridiculous.
The rest of the house was quickly secured.
Mendoza and Johnson were restrained, and all three gang leaders were separated for transport.
Hank entered through the rear and looked around the damaged room.
He gave Jack a brief pat on the shoulder.
“Good work.
Nobody on our side got hurt.”
His gaze shifted toward the front entrance.
“Can’t say the same for Carlos.”
“Hank!” Erin called from the kitchen.
“You need to see this.”
Everyone moved toward the back of the house.
More than a dozen white cardboard boxes covered the dining table.
Medical markings were printed across each package.
Catherine picked one up and examined the label.
“Insulin.
Markham Medical.”
Jay frowned.
“Why would three gang crews need a table full of insulin?”
Jack took one of the boxes from Catherine and turned it over in his hands.
Its dimensions looked familiar.
Almost exactly like ammunition packaging.
Jack opened the empty medical box, picked up one of the recovered sample rounds, and placed it inside.
Six cartridges fit neatly into the package.
Everyone stared at the box.
Then the same realization hit them at once.
[Chapter Rewards]