On the first morning after their administrative leave ended, Bruce and Katherine arrived at the Chicago South District 21st Precinct half an hour earlier than usual.
They walked together through the familiar lobby toward the Intelligence Unit office on the second floor, nodding to Sergeant Platt behind the reception desk as they passed.
“Now this is interesting,” Trudy looked up from behind her morning newspaper, eyeing the two of them teasingly.
“Hank doesn’t like partner couples.
Looks like one of you is going to get kicked out.”
Katherine shot her the middle finger.
She had a decent relationship with Sergeant Platt, and their personalities meshed well.
Bruce couldn’t do that.
Firstly, he had been there for less than a month, and secondly, his rank wasn’t high enough to joke with a Sergeant—after all, even Hank was only a Sergeant.
Though word was that Hank himself was unwilling to be promoted.
Handing over the coffee he had specifically bought, Bruce said with a smile, “Before Sheriff Hank kicks me out, I’m sure Katherine will have kicked me into the hospital first.”
Taking the coffee and sniffing it after opening the lid, Platt found it was her favorite extra-strong brew.
She immediately felt that Bruce was a sharp young man—and more importantly, he was quite handsome.
“Officer Bruce, I’ve got high hopes for you!”
Saying goodbye to Platt, the two opened the coded door to the stairwell and arrived at the Intelligence Unit office on the second floor, finding that almost everyone was there today.
However, everyone was glancing toward Hank’s private office from time to time.
Jules was still recovering, and there was an unfamiliar blond man in the corner.
Seeing the two come upstairs, the blond man hurried forward and extended his hand, introducing himself, “Adam, Adam Ruzek.
I just reported for duty today.”
“Bruce Stacy, you can call me Bruce,” Bruce stepped forward and shook his hand.
“This is Catherine Hayek.
What’s going on?
Why is everyone looking at Hank’s office?”
After shaking hands with Katherine, Ruzek shrugged.
“I’m not sure.
I just saw Commander Perry go in.”
Hearing this, Bruce didn’t pry further and sat down at his desk.
His desk was in the innermost corner, with Katherine’s right next to it.
They greeted the others as they passed by.
After playing a bit of Red Alert on the old computer, he looked up to see Hank and Commander Perry walking out of the office.
Hank stood in front of the whiteboard and slapped the documents in his hand to get everyone’s attention.
Commander Perry didn’t leave but stood to the side, watching everything.
Bruce and Katherine exchanged a look.
It seemed today’s case wouldn’t be simple.
“Seven incidents in one day!
Four dead, three seriously injured!
All ballistic analysis points to the same bullet: the M995 armor-piercing round!
Cop killer bullets!
These bastards can treat our patrol cars like tin cans!” Hank pinned crime scene photos onto the whiteboard, his voice raspy as usual, his anger barely suppressed.
Pointing at the bloody photos on the whiteboard, Hank suddenly raised his voice.
“M995, NATO-standard armor-piercing rounds.
They can easily penetrate our body armor and the armor of most police vehicles.
These bullets should be sitting in a military base or a firing range, not on the streets of the South Side.”
Bruce frowned.
Armor-piercing rounds were practically unheard of in street gunfights because they were expensive and usually strictly regulated.
Commander Perry added, “What’s worse, ballistics matching shows at least three C7 rifles were involved in these shootings.
The C7 is a Canadian military assault rifle, not something you can just pick up on the black market.”
Everyone gasped.
Assault rifles?
They were only carrying handguns.
It looked like they were in for trouble today.
“So, it’s arms smuggling,” Alvin concluded.
The veteran detective’s voice always carried a hint of exhaustion.
“Someone has shipped military supplies into Chicago.”
“Exactly,” Hank nodded.
“We received a tip that at 3:00 PM today, the leaders of three major gangs will meet at a house in West Garfield Park.
The house is registered to a man named Carpenter, but Carpenter died last year, so the house is currently ‘ownerless’.”
Antonio raised his hand.
“Is the tip reliable?”
“Reliable,” Hank’s answer was brief but firm.
“Are we raiding the meeting?” Jay asked.
“No,” Hank rejected Jay’s suggestion, speaking with calculated wisdom.
“We’re going to conduct surveillance.
See who shows up, hear what they talk about, and most importantly, find out who’s selling these weapons!”
“Now for the deployment,” Hank glanced at everyone present.
“Old Ai, you and the rookie Ruzek will be undercover nearby in plain clothes.
Antonio, you and Erin will handle the listening devices.
Jay, you’re with me on the back door.
Stacey, Hayek, you two are on the front door.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Get ready.
We move out in five minutes.”
…
2:45 PM, West Garfield Park.
Bruce and Katherine were in a black Dodge van parked in front of the target house.
Bruce was driving, while Katherine set up a long-lens camera and a directional microphone, waiting for the targets to appear.
After waiting for about twenty minutes, Katherine suddenly lowered her voice.
“Someone’s here.”
A black Lincoln Navigator pulled up in front of the house, and three men got out.
Katherine snapped photos quickly and reported over the radio, “Target one has arrived.
Latino, around forty, scar on his left cheek.
Confirmed as Rafael Mendoza of the ‘Red Scorpions’.”
A minute later, the second car arrived.
“Target two.
African American, wearing gold-rimmed glasses.
It’s Derek Johnson of the ‘Street Kings’.”
The third car arrived nearly ten minutes late.
“Target three.
White male, bald, spider tattoo on his neck.
It’s Peter Thomas Banfield of the ‘Nordic Brotherhood’.
All three major gang leaders are here.”
“Interesting combination,” Hank’s voice came through the earpiece.
“They’re usually at each other’s throats, but now they’re sitting down together.
Antonio, listen in on what they’re saying.”
The directional microphone captured muffled fragments of conversation.
Antonio and Erin focused, deciphering every word and recording the content on paper.
Mendoza: “I lost two more of my men last night.
Their bullets can punch through car doors.
It’s not a fair fight.”
Banfield: “It’s a slaughter.
We’re sitting here negotiating precisely to partner up.
The seller wants to move the entire inventory at once.
No single gang can swallow it all.”
Johnson: “The price?”
Banfield: “Two million dollars.
That includes fifty C7s, fifty thousand rounds of M995, plus grenades and explosives.”
The room fell silent for a moment.
Mendoza: “Who’s the seller?”
Banfield: “Anonymous.
Contacted through a middleman, but the goods are already in Chicago.
I’ve seen the samples myself.
We can trade tonight.”
Johnson: “Then let’s pool the money.
Better to take this shipment than to let someone else swallow us whole.”
…
Suddenly, the sound of hurried footsteps came from the street as a tall, thin man rushed toward the house.
“Situation,” Bruce reported quickly.
“Unidentified individual approaching the target’s front door.”
“Gun!!!” Just as he finished reporting, the tall, thin man pulled a handgun from his jacket.
Bruce immediately recognized him as a small-time dealer from the police files named Carlos, who owed the Red Scorpions a lot of money.
Carlos pounded on the door frantically, shouting in Spanish, “Mendoza!
Damn it!
Where did you take my son?!”
Suddenly, deafening gunfire tore through the afternoon silence.
Before Carlos could even react, his body was shredded by bullets, and he collapsed in front of the door.
“Damn it!” Katherine cried out.
“They killed him!”
“All units, move in!” Hank ordered immediately.
“Shots fired!
We have probable cause for entry!”
Bruce and Katherine were the first out of the van.
They had their service weapons drawn as they crossed the street, rushing to the front door.
Old Ai and Ruzek, who had changed into homeless disguises, followed closely behind.
In the back alley, Jay and Hank blocked the escape route, preparing to enter through the back door.
Antonio and Erin were also rushing over from a bit further away.
“CPD!
Drop your weapons and come out with your hands up!” they shouted in warning, guns at the ready.
Old Ai checked Carlos’s pulse and shook his head at the others.
He was gone.
Inside the house, everything was in chaos.
Bruce heard things being knocked over and hurried Spanish curses.
He signaled for Katherine to cover him, then leaned close to the doorway and glanced inside through the shattered door.
In the hall, Banfield was trying to escape through a back window, while Johnson and Mendoza were fighting over a briefcase.
Bullet samples and cash were scattered on the floor.
“Final warning!” Hank’s voice came from the backyard.
“Drop your weapons and come out with your hands behind your heads!”
Perhaps agitated, Mendoza suddenly raised a submachine gun, preparing to spray bullets toward the source of Hank’s voice.
“They have automatic weapons!” Bruce shouted a warning, firing his gun at the same time.
With the help of [Gun Duel], Bruce accurately hit Mendoza’s wrist, causing the submachine gun to fall to the ground.
Katherine also threw a flashbang from the side.
After the blast and intense light, Bruce and the others rushed directly into the house.
Mendoza was knocked to the ground, clutching his wrist and wailing in pain.
Johnson kept his eyes squeezed shut and fired wildly.
For a moment, wood chips and plaster fragments flew everywhere.
Bruce’s [Gun Duel] proved its worth again.
His arm rose with mechanical stability as he aimed and fired.
Two bullets once again precisely hit Johnson’s gun-wielding wrist, causing the weapon to fall to the floor.
Johnson also screamed and fell to his knees.
On the other side, Banfield was halfway out the window.
Bruce lunged forward, grabbed his legs, and yanked him back inside.
Banfield turned and threw a punch out of habit, but Bruce instinctively used [Subduing the Dragon and Tiger], grabbing the man’s wrist, twisting it, and pinning his elbow.
The entire sequence was executed in one smooth motion.
Banfield’s face was pressed into the glass shards on the floor, and he let out a painful groan.
“Don’t move!” Bruce secured him with handcuffs.
It all happened so fast—maybe ten seconds?
The members of the Intelligence Unit looked at each other in disbelief.
Bruce was incredibly fierce.
The house was quickly brought under control.
Mendoza and Johnson were also subdued, and the three of them were escorted away separately.
Hank walked in, scanning the messy scene.
He patted Bruce on the shoulder.
“Good work.
No casualties, except for that poor soul at the door.”
“Hank!” Erin called from the kitchen.
“Found something here.”
Everyone went to the kitchen and saw over a dozen white cardboard boxes on the dining table, printed with medical symbols.
Katherine picked up a box.
“Insulin?
Goods from Markham Medical.”
“Why would drug dealers have so much insulin?” Jay asked, puzzled.
Bruce examined the boxes closely.
They were almost the same size as bullet boxes.
He opened one of the insulin boxes and placed a bullet inside; it could hold exactly six rounds.
Watching this, everyone immediately understood what was going on.