Seeing Jack give her a thumbs-up, Kono tossed her hair and flashed a proud smile.
"I could still teach you a few things," Cheng Hao said with a slight shake of his head, watching her with a touch of admiration, "but when it comes to how to beat someone up, you're officially graduated." He signaled the officers behind them to cuff the last assassin.
—
It was the first time Jack had ever attended a court session standing the entire time. When Julie appeared on the witness stand, Allen Bryner's face visibly turned ashen.
That last desperate move of his had clearly enraged the entire judicial system. The judge took less than thirty minutes to reject the defense team's bail request.
Judging by the way his legs gave out as he was led out of court, it was clear Bryner knew what fate awaited him.
Hawaii had no death penalty, but that only applied to the murder he'd committed years ago. Now, with three of the four Baja Cartel assassins still alive, there was more than enough for the federal prosecutor to file charges.
In this fused world, the federal government of the U.S. still carried out the death penalty with some force—though the process remained, as always, long and inefficient.
But Jack thought that was for the better. No one believed the chaos in society could be curbed by capital punishment alone. Letting criminals rot in despair as they awaited their eventual execution? That was a different kind of justice—especially for someone like Bryner.
—
"No big deal, just a scratch. I booked a flight back to New York in three days, OK? See you then. Goodnight, babe."
Jack hung up on his video call with JJ, then went into the bathroom to check the bandages around his waist.
After the trial, and under everyone's insistence, he had gone to the hospital. The doctors confirmed it was nothing serious—just cleaned and re-bandaged the wound and gave him some antibiotics.
They also took Julie along to visit the veteran agent Frick Moore, who had just come out of surgery.
The doctor—who had arrived earlier via helicopter—was curious enough to ask Jack again whether he was a military medic.
According to the doctor, Jack's improvised use of coconut water for IV hydration had bought them enough time to save Frick's life.
The old agent was now recovering well. As long as he made it through the next 48 hours without infection, he should be in the clear.
Outside the ICU, they ran into the head of the FBI's local field office—a chubby, balding man about Frick's age. If Danny hadn't reminded him that Jack was injured, the man might've gone in for a bear hug right then and there.
The root cause of the whole incident was a collective lapse in vigilance. After all, Hawaii's population wasn't big enough to support a significant drug market. Aside from a few small-time gangs, there were no serious trafficking organizations.
Not to mention, the real "force" in Hawaii was the military.
Even calling the Baja Cartel a "cartel" was already giving them too much credit. Based mainly in Central America, they didn't grow or distribute drugs themselves but made "pocket change" acting as middlemen for larger cartels.
Hawaii was merely one of their transit ports, and not even one where they held any real power. That was evident from the hitmen's equipment.
Of the four, only the one sent to pick them up had an old Škorpion submachine gun. The others had basic pistols—and ironically, the most expensive weapon had been the Beretta 21A "Bobcat" the assistant attorney had taped to her inner thigh.
That tiny .22 LR caliber pocket pistol, even with a suppressor, was no bigger than a palm. Yet it still had a retail price over $500.
No one had expected the Baja Cartel's assassins to act so recklessly—not only being brazen in Central America, but also going on a killing spree in Hawaii, nearly claiming three lives, all of them law enforcement officers.
The U.S. Marshals Service didn't have the manpower. Neither did the DEA. Even the FBI had only dispatched a soon-to-retire veteran agent. In everyone's mind, Hawaii was a vacation paradise. No one had maintained proper vigilance.
After receiving waves of gratitude and praise, Jack returned to the Hilton with Julie, arranging her room right next to his.
His official protection detail had been canceled. The Marshals would arrive tomorrow, and Julie had officially entered the WPP—and not just her, but her mother and sister as well.
The credit went to a certain nosy FBI agent. With just a few pointed words, he had inspired the also-traumatized prosecutor to make a flurry of impassioned phone calls and get everything neatly arranged.
While Jack was standing in front of the mirror, debating whether to use his healing ability to seal the bullet wounds entirely, there was a knock at the door.
He had a feeling. Sure enough, when he opened it, Julie stood there, holding up her own bandaged arm. "I accidentally got it wet while showering earlier, and it made me think—you're injured too. Is it hard for you to wash up?"
"So?" Jack smiled wryly and stepped aside to let her in, thankful he hadn't used his healing just yet—otherwise, it would've been hard to explain.
"So… I came to help," Julie mumbled, her voice growing softer even as her hand wandered quite boldly toward his most vulnerable spot.
—
What's the best way to sit when your waist is injured? Ideally, on a springy chair.
Which is why Jack ended up spending the night on a cushioned armchair by the window.
No surprise—Julie, the self-proclaimed surfing and hiking lover, had incredible stamina. Or maybe it was the accumulated stress of being hunted all day that made her unleash it all at once.
Whatever the reason, by the time the two finally fell asleep, the once-sturdy armchair was nearly shaken to pieces.
Perhaps because of their injuries, or maybe just plain exhaustion, they didn't wake up until late afternoon the next day—almost missing Julie's flight.
The "Five-O" team had been waiting in the hotel lobby with two federal marshals flown in from New York. When Jack and Julie finally appeared, everyone gave them strange, knowing looks.
After seeing Julie off, Kono—bringing up the rear—asked with suspicion, "You were really injured?"
"Injured people need more rest. What's wrong with that?" Jack replied with a perfectly straight face.
Of course, injured people don't just need rest—they need nourishment.
Jack, unimpressed with the odd Chinese food in Honolulu's Chinatown, went straight to a few old-school Cantonese immigrants and bought two old hens.
Then, he headed to a traditional Chinese restaurant and slapped down a Benjamin Franklin, borrowing their kitchen and pressure cooker to make himself a big pot of chicken soup.
After he handed over a generous tip, two happy kitchen assistants helped him carry the steaming soup pot straight to the "Five-O" headquarters.
______
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