"If you're treating this like a vacation, then I'm coming with you to Detroit. I've still got a few days of leave left." Jack had barely finished speaking before the others at the bar turned to look at him in surprise.
"Really?" John lit up with joy for a second but quickly shook his head. "No, forget it. Don't let my little mess derail your New Year plans in New York."
"Our New Year's plans are canceled," Jack said with a shrug. "Hanna plans to hole up and game for a week. Someone else—Jie Jie—is spending the holiday with her parents, and the rest all have things going on."
"So I've got unexpected freedom. I figured I'd go have some fun somewhere else." He gave a brief summary of the miserable case the fugitive task force had just wrapped up.
"That sounds horrible," said Neela Harper, dabbing at the corners of her eyes. Jack gave her a puzzled look until she held up her glass, filled not with alcohol but fruit juice.
"Pregnancy hormones," she explained with a weak smile. "They've made me super emotional lately."
Jack glanced down and finally noticed the slight bulge under her coat. "Ah—congrats, Mom-to-be."
The moment of sentiment passed, and the group fell back into their usual banter. Under Tim's whispered persuasion, John gave up trying to convince Jack to stay behind.
After all, this was Detroit—a city even RoboCop couldn't tame. Though the area had supposedly begun recovering after decades of decline and eventual municipal bankruptcy, the revival was limited to suburban neighborhoods.
The inner city remained a wasteland. Beyond the small core downtown area near the GM Renaissance Center, urban decay took over. Within just half a mile, it was all weeds and crumbling buildings.
No one had to guess twice—there was no way the union president would've assigned John to one of the safer precincts.
"So, which station is John headed to?" Lucy asked as she pulled up her map app.
"Precinct Thirteen," Grey answered grimly. "It's one of Detroit's oldest stations. They're in the middle of relocating to a new facility. A few veterans are retiring, and some staff already transferred out—so they're short-handed."
Clearly, Grey had done his homework the moment he got the transfer order.
"Precinct Thirteen..." Lucy quickly located it on her map and switched to Google Street View. "It looks like... some kind of industrial zone?"
Angela peeked over her shoulder and frowned. "Damn. That place looks like a post-apocalyptic wasteland."
"They're relocating for a reason," Grey explained. "That factory area's completely dead. It's right near the East Side—one of the most dangerous areas. But ironically, it's so abandoned now that it's almost less dangerous. Supposedly, coyotes have even been spotted nearby."
Everyone went silent. That stretch of land was still within city limits—and yet wild animals had taken up residence. That said more about Detroit's state than any report ever could.
—
"I really think we should've packed more guns," Jack muttered as he presented his FN Five-seven to airport security. After confirming the firearm and ammo were stored separately, he locked it in a secure case.
He'd lost count of how many times he'd wished for the task force to get their own official aircraft. Flying commercial with guns was a bureaucratic nightmare—even for a federal agent like him.
As for John, a regular LAPD officer once he left Los Angeles, the process was even more of a hassle. He had to fill out at least twice as many forms and grumbled, "I still don't get why I need to bring my duty pistol."
"Because someone once told me never to trust a gun you haven't personally fired," Jack replied. "Of course, if your marksmanship matched your driving skills, I'd keep my mouth shut."
Jack had to admit—John was a damn good driver, especially in a chase. Jack himself had barely mastered large vehicle handling.
Jack's backup weapon for the trip was the infamous FN Five-seven, nicknamed "cop killer." It was part of Chris's private collection, and Jack had borrowed it from the Wolf Brothers' secret armory beneath their farm.
Tim had helped sneak the serial number into the federal database just an hour before they reached the airport. Without that trick, even Jack's FBI credentials wouldn't have gotten the weapon onboard.
The FN Five-seven was a Belgian semi-auto that fired 5.7×28mm rounds. It held 20 rounds per mag, had low recoil, and offered surprisingly effective armor penetration.
With standard civilian rounds, its performance was on par with typical 9mm handguns—perhaps slightly weaker due to lighter weight. But the military-grade SS190 rounds—whether fired from the Five-seven or its big brother, the P90—could pierce police-issue soft armor with ease.
That's how the gun earned its "cop killer" reputation.
It's also why Jack constantly pushed his team to stay in peak shape and always wear extra trauma plates when in the field.
While American gun culture meant black-market weapons could be found cheap and dirty, most civilian ammo lacked real stopping power—especially in terms of armor penetration.
Regular LAPD patrol officers like John wore standard-issue soft vests. Nobody in their right mind would sit around in a cruiser all day with rigid plates in front and back—they'd die from heat rash before gunfire.
But the fugitive task force often went toe-to-toe with career criminals armed with military-grade ammo—rifle rounds, steel-core handgun rounds, and worse. Against those, standard vests were about as useful as tissue paper.
Jack's primary sidearm remained the Sig Sauer P320-XTen, chambered in powerful 10mm NATO. But considering he was traveling with John—who had a talent for getting into as much trouble as Jack himself—and going to the war zone known as Detroit, he decided to bring a backup just in case.
—
The flight was uneventful. Four hours later, Jack and John rented a Subaru SUV and drove out of Detroit Metro Airport—into a world of snow and gray skies.
"Your union president is very thorough," Jack said dryly, glancing at the navigation screen. "Not only efficient—but with a good sense of timing."
Tomorrow was New Year's Day. They'd just been kicked out of sunny Los Angeles, only to land in a frozen hellscape of -10°C (14°F). Even eternally optimistic John was grimacing.
He held up his phone. "Forecast says snowstorm tonight."
"Great. I already regret coming with you."
Jack tapped the brakes and made a careful turn at the last junction. What appeared before them looked like a scene from a post-apocalyptic movie.
Snow flurries danced in the air. On the horizon stood a line of towering, rusted power pylons. Closer in were dozens of tall smokestacks—all cold and dead.
Through the swirling snow, Jack's sharp eyes picked out twisted train tracks and factory buildings falling apart at the seams.
At least their destination was finally in sight.
They passed a crumbling chapel missing all its stained-glass windows. The Subaru rolled to a stop beside a leaning flagpole, the tattered Stars and Stripes hanging limp.
"The last time I saw snow this still was in goddamn Wyoming," Jack muttered, staring at the squat, aged brownstone building in front of them. It radiated the tired energy of a bygone era—maybe the 1950s.
"This is... Precinct Thirteen?"
______
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