Danny grabbed Bruce Hoffman's outstretched right hand, yanked him up from his seat, and with a tight grip on the back of his neck, shoved him straight into the restaurant kitchen—sending startled diners gasping and scrambling to get out of the way.
"Police business," Jack said as he flashed his wallet just enough to show a badge before quickly tucking it away again. He didn't say FBI, which was enough to calm a few patrons who had already whipped out their phones to call 911.
Inside the kitchen, Danny showed his badge and politely asked the kitchen staff and workers to step outside for a few minutes. Then he turned to a very shaken Bruce Hoffman and "politely" introduced himself.
"I'm Detective Danny Williams. I'm also the father of a little girl. That little girl was in a Mercedes this morning—one that was hijacked at gunpoint."
He stepped forward, eyes burning. "I now have the recording in my possession. And I'm going to expose it. So what I want to know is—what are you planning to do about that?"
Bruce Hoffman's shiny, balding forehead instantly broke out in a sheen of cold sweat. "L-Listen, I have no idea what you're talking about, Detective Williams. I—"
Before he could finish, Danny grabbed him by the collar, pulled out his badge, and slammed it against Hoffman's forehead.
The rotund commissioner stumbled back under Danny's strength, crashing into a rack of flour sacks and sending metal bowls and pans clattering to the floor with a resounding clang. From behind the glass kitchen door, Jack stood on lookout, giving awkward but polite smiles to the curious onlookers peeking in from the dining area.
Slamming the badge against his forehead again for good measure, Danny growled, "Take your time and copy my badge number from your forehead. File a complaint if you like."
"I came here for one reason—to let you know I've got the recording. And I will use it to expose every filthy, backroom deal you've ever made. You can try to stop me however you like."
He leaned in close, voice low and venomous. "But if I ever see another gun pointed anywhere near my daughter again, I swear to God—I will kill you myself. Do you understand me?"
——
By the time Jack returned with a few of the restaurant's most expensive takeout dishes and a generous tip to smooth things over with the manager, he saw a black Buick screeching out of the parking lot—tires squealing, handbrake barely off, as it fled like the last train to hell.
"This how you Five-O guys usually handle cases? Having the governor's backing really does come with perks."
Danny, hands on hips, shot him a glare. "We usually care a lot about optics, thank you very much."
Then he sighed, shoulders sagging, and waved toward the car. "Whatever. Come on, I'll take you to the best garlic shrimp on the island."
——
Kahuku, a small town on Oahu's North Shore, was once a bustling sugarcane plantation town. After the last sugar mill shut down in the 1970s, it faded into obscurity.
But in the '80s, someone converted the cane fields into freshwater prawn farms, breathing new life into the place. Today, Kahuku is lined with food trucks serving shrimp plates—each one colorfully graffitied and covered in tourist signatures. The more signatures, the better the food—or so the legend goes.
Unfortunately, Jack wasn't a fan of the local semi-cooked rice. Something that could be fixed with any basic rice cooker still somehow managed to go wrong here. Even the shrimp plate from the food truck Danny swore by came with undercooked rice and disappointing texture.
It was the same problem the Fugitive Task Force had complained about before leaving—they'd blackmailed Jack into buying one last seafood feast.
Commercial fishing was banned in Hawaii's surrounding waters, and with Oahu's population density and lack of agriculture, almost all food had to be imported from the mainland. As a result, local cuisine didn't differ much from standard American fare—rough, simple, and often underwhelming.
Jack also couldn't help but be fascinated by Hawaiians' taste buds. How could a state with under 1.5 million people consume 7 million cans of Spam a year? It defied logic.
Still, Hawaii remained the most intense collision of Asian and Western food culture in the U.S.
There were half-raw steaks meant to "highlight flavor," weird fusion Chinese food, semi-authentic Thai dishes, and—of course—sushi, which as long as it was raw, didn't really need to be "authentic."
Luckily, shrimp was hard to mess up. As long as it was fresh, its natural sweetness and springy texture would shine through, even when drenched in strange sauces.
Jack's takeout Thai dishes from earlier were surprisingly decent—sweet, spicy, and easy on the oil.
They returned to the Five-O office to eat. Jack said his goodbyes afterward, while Kono and Chin offered to stay behind and help Danny sort evidence.
This wasn't a big case. Five-O wouldn't take the lead. Most of the legwork would fall to the DA and the courts.
But Danny didn't care. Whether or not Bruce Hoffman went to prison, Danny was determined to get him kicked off the island—for good. No way was he letting that sleazebag stay in Hawaii, anywhere near his daughter.
For the first time in a while, Jack got a good night's sleep. Life had gotten easier lately. Justin wasn't pestering him about deadlines as much anymore. As Shangri-La's entertainment division hit its stride, Hollywood's countless struggling screenwriters were now lining up to sell stories.
So when he woke up that morning in a good mood, yesterday's mess felt like a blip. He'd been a bystander, a glorified driver—proof that Jack Tavoller wasn't cursed with the "Conan Effect," where murder followed wherever he went.
Unfortunately, that good mood didn't last long.
He was eating breakfast at the Hilton buffet with Rachel and Grace when his phone rang.
"Jack," Danny's voice came through, tense, "the witness you're protecting—her name wouldn't happen to be Julie Master, would it?"
Jack's heart dropped. "Yes. What happened?"
He hadn't mentioned the witness's name or anything about the case yesterday. If Danny had learned this from Five-O channels, then there was only one explanation—something had gone wrong.
Wind howled through the background—Danny was clearly driving. "Not sure yet. HPD just reported they lost contact with two officers who were supposed to escort the witness from the safe house to court. It's not looking good."
"We're heading to the safe house now. I suddenly remembered you mentioning a protection detail yesterday—figured I'd check."
Jack forced a tight smile toward the two women watching him curiously. "You guessed right. Mind swinging by to pick me up?"
"I'll be at the hotel in five. Bring your gun—and spare mags." Danny's rapid-fire delivery told Jack everything he needed to know.
This wasn't just a missing witness.
This was a race against time.
______
(≧◡≦) ♡ Support me and read 20 chapters ahead – patreon.com/Mutter
Every 100 Power Stones = 1 extra chapter on Saturday.
Every 5 reviews = 1 extra chapter on Saturday.