The following afternoon, the middleman from the pawn shop had agreed to make the deal with the arms dealer in exchange for immunity for cooperating with the Intelligence unit. He had already arranged a meeting with Michael Ganz, the dead courier.
Ethan walked out of the armory with a duffel bag loaded with gear. Inside, he carried a semi-automatic R15, ready for action.
After packing the rest of his things, he headed down to the garage.
As soon as he came down the stairs, a whistle slipped from his lips.
—Well, damn… —he muttered, approaching the table as the light bounced off the bank seals and security bands.
On the table, there were stacks upon stacks of cash, meticulously arranged. It was part of the unit's operational fund: money reserved exclusively for sting operations.
Ethan set the bag on the ground and ran a hand over the bills.
Olinsky was counting the funds, stuffing bundles of cash into a duffel bag.
—How'd you sleep last night? —Ethan asked, noticing Olinsky was quieter than usual.
—Enough —he replied, pairing his words with a tired smile.
After making sure Olinsky was all right, Ethan turned to Halstead, who was adjusting the straps on a bulletproof vest, while Antonio checked the weapons on the table.
Antonio opened the metal locker, grabbed another vest, and tossed it to Ethan.
—It may not be much, but it's better than nothing —he said, knowing full well that against the rounds those traffickers used, the vest would barely offer a slightly better chance.
Ethan caught the vest midair.
—Then I'd better be the fastest gun in the room —he said with a half-smile.
Ethan took off his coat, put on the vest, and grabbed the extra ballistic plate from the table. He stepped over to Halstead and secured it on the back of his vest. Then he gave it a firm knock with his fist; the sound was dull, metallic, almost reassuring.
This time they weren't taking risks: they'd use an extra layer of armor over the main plate—anything to give them even the slightest margin if things went south.
Halstead nodded silently and, turning around, grabbed another plate and secured it himself on the front of his vest, fastening it with a sharp pull of the straps.
He put on his coat and grabbed an AR-15 with one hand to load it into the trunk of his truck.
The metal stairs vibrated softly under their boots as Erin and Ruzek came down into the Intelligence garage.
Ruzek jumped down the last few steps two at a time.
—Weren't you suspended? —Ethan asked while sliding a magazine into his assault rifle with a clean, solid click.
—Sergeant said he needed all personnel today —Ruzek replied, grabbing a bulletproof vest from the table without looking directly at him.
Ethan watched him for a second, evaluating him. Then he took his weapon and stepped closer.
—You stay on my six today —he stated—. You don't fire unless I say so. Understood?
Halstead looked up, surprised by what he'd just heard. For him, only Hank, Antonio, and Olinsky had the rank —and the real authority— to impose rules like that on someone just reinstated.
Still, he said nothing. His expression stayed neutral as he kept adjusting his gear, but his eyes followed Ethan for a beat longer than usual.
Ruzek, for his part, paused just a moment, as if he'd been about to argue… but something in Ethan's stare shut him down.
—Understood —he finally said with a quick nod. Only then did Ethan release the gun, letting him take it fully.
Then he turned his attention toward Lindsay, who was preparing her gear.
—Don't let yourself get shot, will you… —Ethan muttered before turning to grab one of the plates and helping Erin secure it on her back.
—I can take care of myself —Erin replied, adjusting the vest straps.
—I know —Ethan said quietly— but you know what happened with Julia…
—That wasn't your fault —Erin shot back firmly—. It was that bastard Belden, who never warned anyone… I'll be fine.
She gave him a small smile, trying to reassure him.
—And if I'm not —she added, with a touch of dark humor— you just have to come rescue me.
—Why aren't you wearing one?
—Olinsky and I are making the deal with Ganz. —Antonio tucked a pistol into his belt casually.
—Why am I not included? —Ruzek asked, surprised—. I'm supposed to be partnered with Olinsky…
—Not this time, kid… besides, Commander Perry only let you take part in this operation if you stayed far from the action, so don't get too excited.
Olinsky, standing outside the equipment room, grabbed the rest of the money and handed it to Antonio.
—We'll talk about that after your psych evaluation results come in.
—Today you're only responsible for tech support with Jin, from the surveillance van until I say otherwise.
Ruzek said nothing and just put on his bulletproof vest in silence.
—Listen up, everyone… —Hank said, stepping to the front of the group in the middle of the garage—. This operation is high-risk. We assume they're using cop-killer rounds, so I want each of you extremely alert.
A murmur of agreement ran through the line.
—Understood —they responded almost in unison.
Once fully geared up, they exited through the side door. Olinsky and Antonio moved ahead to a nondescript vehicle, while the others climbed into a white van.
Since real-time monitoring was required, Jin was traveling with the team this time. After about twenty minutes, the van stopped one street ahead of the "Lucky M" pawn shop. Ethan sat with his back against the door.
Beside him was a computer; Jin was in front of the screen, wearing listening headphones around his neck.
Hank and Ruzek sat across from them, assault rifles in hand and vests marked with large police logos. Noticing Voight's tension, Ethan nudged the seat lightly to get his attention.
—Relax, take a deep breath.
After helping him focus, Ethan didn't say anything else. He hugged his AR-15 and closed his eyes to rest. There were still thirty minutes until the agreed-upon time, so he allowed himself to relax.
A few minutes later, a voice came through the earpiece, catching his attention:
—We have visual confirmation. It's Michael Ganz; he just arrived at the pawn shop.
Olinsky and Antonio waited in the back room of the pawn shop, ready to close the deal, but things started to go sideways. Ganz demanded they change the meeting location and warned he would only allow one person to accompany him to the transaction; otherwise, he'd cancel the deal.
At this point, Olinsky couldn't afford to refuse, so he agreed to follow Ganz —but in his own car. After reaching an agreement, they went out through the alleyway. Olinsky got into his vehicle, and the dealer climbed into the passenger seat.
—Isn't that dangerous? —Ethan asked when he heard Olinsky had to go alone.
—Olinsky knows what he's doing… —Hank clenched his jaw—
—They're on the move.
Jin saw the red dot on the screen advancing and gave Erin directions; she was with Halstead across the street in another car. The van also began to move.
Jin kept watching the screen while updating Antonio, who had joined Erin and Jay. Olinsky's voice came through the earpiece intermittently, calmly reporting his position.
Ganz asked:
—Why do you keep mentioning the streets?
—What do you think? —Olinsky answered frankly—. It's my first time meeting you and you're taking me somewhere completely unfamiliar. It's just my nervous reaction.
—Fine… now give me your phone. —Ganz said impatiently—.
—Why?
—Give it to me… or I'll put a bullet in your head. Choose —he threatened, drawing his gun from his waistband and pressing it directly against Olinsky's temple.
Hank and Ethan exchanged a tense look. At that moment, a burst of static filled their earpieces and the red dot on the tracker vanished from the screen.
—What happened? —Ethan said, frowning, instantly realizing something wasn't right. He leaned over the monitor to check.
From the passenger seat, Ruzek also turned around, alarmed.
—Don't worry —Jin checked his equipment—. They just entered a tunnel; the signal's bad.
Soon, the red dot reappeared on the screen, and Olinsky's voice returned to the comms.
Jin confirmed the direction and continued giving instructions:
—Turn left.
After driving for more than ten minutes, the red dot entered an industrial zone and stopped at an abandoned factory. There were plenty of those throughout the city; the economic downturn in recent years had closed many plants, leaving empty buildings behind.
Ethan, Rusek, check the perimeter. See if there are any lookouts and if there are other entrances or exits. I don't want any surprises.
Ethan nodded, patted Ruzek on the shoulder, and pushed the door open from the inside. They had stopped the vehicle on a corner, just a few dozen meters from the target factory. As soon as he stepped out, he crouched down and began moving swiftly around the perimeter.
In such an open area, the radar wasn't much use; its detection range was too limited—an obvious weakness in this type of operation. So Ethan went back to basics: scanning with his eyes, advancing between scattered obstacles as he silently approached the factory.
Luckily for them, these gun traffickers were amateurs; they hadn't placed anyone around the area to keep watch or inspect the surroundings.
Once he reached the back, the radar showed several signatures inside the factory, including Olinsky: five people in total—four red dots and one white.
Ethan took a few steps forward and came to an abrupt stop, raising his hand. Rusek halted immediately behind him. A few meters away, a pickup truck sat parked with its rear lights on.
—Not bad —Ethan murmured—. At least they planned an escape route.
Olinsky's voice crackled in the earpiece; the deal was about to close. There wasn't much time.
Ethan raised a hand, signaling Ruzek to stay put, and moved ahead alone, slipping quickly through the truck's blind spots. Inside, the driver was absorbed in his phone, swiping through a string of short Snapchat videos, completely oblivious to what was happening outside.
The barrel of a pistol pierced through the window and pressed against the man's neck, ripping a shiver out of him.
—Don't move —Ethan warned.
With one hand he held his assault rifle; with the other, he snatched the driver's phone and tossed it to the ground without hesitation.
—Hands where I can see them… —He pulled the door handle, his voice cold—. Get out slowly. Don't do anything stupid.
The driver nodded quickly, legs trembling as he stepped out. Rusek appeared behind him, pinning him down and cuffing him in seconds.
—Rear door is clear and in position.
Ethan released the walkie-talkie and told Ruzek:
—Stay here and keep an eye on him.
When Ruzek nodded, Ethan headed toward the half-open iron gate. The interior lights were about twenty meters away. He opened the gate slowly and slipped into the warehouse.
Inside, Olinsky stood with Ganz next to a parked van. Three armed men with assault rifles stood beside the vehicle.
They all stared at him with tense expressions.
—All right, how about we all relax a little?
Olinsky removed the toothpick from his mouth.
—Four against one… you're making me nervous, buddy.
—Where's the money? —Ganz motioned for his men to lower their weapons.
Olinsky spread his hands.
—And the merchandise?
Click.
Ganz snapped his fingers, and one of his men opened the van's rear door. Everything was covered with a waterproof tarp, bulging with a large pile of loose bullets inside a transparent container. Another man lifted a corner of the tarp, revealing a mountain of stacked semi-automatic rifles.
Olinsky shook his head and pulled out the cash.
—Here's twenty-five grand.
—The deal was for fifty —Ganz said, irritated.
—You think I'm stupid? I wouldn't be dumb enough to bring all my money here alone, right? —Olinsky handed him the bundle, sliding the toothpick back into his mouth—. Once we confirm everything's good, I'll give you a number. He'll bring you the rest… deal?
—Fine —Ganz muttered, accepting the half-payment—. You can check it.
With the transaction nearly complete, Ganz's men relaxed. Some yawned, others lit cigarettes, creating a messy, careless scene.
Olinsky picked up a semi-automatic rifle and inspected it.
—These are brand-new, straight from the factory… —Ganz said, still watching him with suspicion—.
—You smell that? Gun oil —Olinsky inhaled deeply, then exhaled with a satisfied sigh—. Smells like Christmas morning.
He winked at Ganz and let out a short laugh.
—Hahaha —Ganz chuckled—. I like your analogy.
But the smile vanished instantly. As soon as he finished speaking, Olinsky bolted like a rabbit, slipping behind a stack of machinery in just a couple quick movements.
—Chicago Police!
A loud shout echoed from the entrance as the small door swung open. Several men in bulletproof vests rushed inside.
—Drop your weapons!
—Cops! —Ganz roared, raising his gun and sprinting toward where Olinsky had disappeared, squeezing the trigger.
—Bang, bang, bang!
His men opened fire immediately on the officers who had stormed in. Hank and his team scattered quickly, raising their weapons to return fire.
Ethan had been waiting quietly behind them for a while, still as a shadow against a steel column. The moment he received the signal through his earpiece, he sprang from cover like a released spring.
As he stepped out, he spotted Michael Ganz running after Olinsky. Ethan raised his rifle, adjusted the sight, and with a slight squeeze of his index finger, fired.
A burst of blood exploded from the trafficker's leg.
—Bang!
A second shot followed instantly. Ganz hadn't even hit the ground when the hand holding his gun burst apart into a mess of flesh and bone, ripping a scream out of him.
—Shit! Shit! Shit! —Ganz howled, rolling on the floor as he clutched his mangled wrist, groaning in agony.
Behind him, one of his accomplices heard the echo of the gunfire and spun around sharply, lifting his weapon in panic.
But he never got the chance to shoot.
Ethan cut him down with a precise burst: both hands, then both feet. The man fell onto his back with a choked cry, unable to hold his weapon or even stand.
—Drop the weapons! —Ethan shouted toward the truck, pulling the trigger again and again.
—Pfft! Pfft! Bang!
More than a dozen rounds punched into the truck instantly; the windows shattered into fragments.
—We surrender! Don't shoot!
Cornered, the two gunsmiths hiding beside the vehicle shrieked in terror; their semi-automatic rifles slid away from their hands.
The situation was contained. Hank's voice rang out from the front, ordering a ceasefire.
The only sound left inside the factory was the agonized screaming of the two wounded suspects.
—Call it in —Hank said as he pressed his comms unit, striding forward—. Shots fired. Two suspects hit. Request EMS.
Erin, Halstead, and Antonio emerged nervously from different corners.
Their weapons stayed raised, bracing for any additional shooters.
But when they saw Ethan behind them, all of them—for some reason—let out a breath of relief; even Halstead gave him an admiring look. Moments earlier, their own shots had been heavy but hadn't found any real targets.
Ethan's surprise attack from behind had stopped the aggressors in seconds.
Once the gun traffickers were subdued, Ethan lowered his weapon.
To keep his file from ending up on the desk of Internal Affairs again, he had held back this time. Every shot had been deliberate, aimed only at non-vital areas.
The suspects were hit in their hands and feet: they wouldn't die, but the pain would be indescribable.
A wounded suspect and a dead one were very different things. And because of that difference, Ethan knew he wouldn't spend hours writing reports—besides, he didn't want to be put on leave again. It was far too boring.
—Whack!
A dry whistle cut the air.
Olinsky stepped out from behind the corner, grinning as he strutted toward Ganz.
—Idiot.
He nudged Ganz's belt buckle with his boot.
—Here's the microphone you wanted. Later, in prison, when you're telling your boyfriends stories, make sure you get the details right.
Ganz was drenched in sweat from the pain and could only stare at Olinsky with fury. He saw that look a hundred or two hundred times a year; it didn't affect him at all.
Outside the factory, police sirens grew louder as they bounced between the metal walls of the building.
—Hey, man… I bet you were top of your class at the academy, weren't you? —Olinsky said, still catching his breath.
Ethan stepped forward and bumped fists with him.
—Hahaha. Would you believe me if I told you I was last in my class?
Olinsky laughed and scratched his beard.
—Chicago Police.
A strong voice echoed from the main entrance.
It was to prevent friendly fire—they had to identify themselves out loud.
—Scene is secure —hearing Atwater's voice, Erin called back as she cuffed the suspects who had climbed out of the truck—.
Hearing her, Atwater and Burgess holstered their Glocks.
Seeing the Intelligence team relaxed and lowering their weapons, they holstered theirs too and reported the situation to Sergeant Platt. Empty casings were scattered all over the floor, and two suspects lay handcuffed in pools of blood.
The sight pumped adrenaline into them.
Ethan walked past and headed to the truck. Erin and Halstead had already pulled back the tarp, revealing dozens of automatic rifles piled carelessly inside.
The magazines were stacked separately in a corner, next to a dozen transparent boxes filled to the brim with armor-piercing rounds.
Ethan picked up a bullet and examined it; they had the same coating as the rounds they'd recovered earlier.
—Nice shooting —Halstead said, extending his arm toward him—. Well done.
In most cases, the hardest part was finding the merchandise; tracking down the seller was sometimes the relatively easy part.
—Yeah, it was nothing. It's all teamwork —Ethan said, giving him a quick handshake and adding with a grin—.
The case was officially closed by sunset, once the last units finished securing the scene and collecting the final pieces of evidence.
With the injured suspects in custody—alive, just enough to face federal charges—the prosecutor's office quickly prepared a solid case. The recovered weapons, along with the illegal shipping routes uncovered, provided the missing piece of the puzzle.
Hours later…
Ethan was driving through downtown, wandering without any real destination, when he spotted a building with flickering neon lights in the distance. It was a movie theater. What caught his attention was one of the posters: Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2.
He pulled over immediately; it had been a while since he'd watched a movie, and relaxing for a bit wouldn't hurt. Besides, he'd always liked the soundtracks James Gunn used in Marvel movies… many of those songs were on his playlist.
After buying a ticket, he headed to the concession stand. There weren't many people—just a couple in front of him.
—Hey, sweetheart! Two extra-large popcorns, come on, hurry up! —the man yelled just as they were about to call Ethan—. Seriously, how slow can this place be?
The guy, a white man in a baseball shirt with a smug face, looked her up and down with zero respect.
—Well, would you look at that. Wearing that shirt like she's in some damn commercial —he said with a nasty laugh—. She probably thinks she's too good to work in this dump.
His friend let out a crude laugh and bumped fists with him.
—Look at her face. She's got that "I'm sick of this shitty job" look —he mocked—. Hey, if you hate your job, that's not our problem.
The first guy clicked his tongue and leaned over the counter, invading her space without shame.
—Come on, sweetheart, don't give us attitude. Just do your damn job. You're not performing surgery. It's popcorn, for God's sake.
His friend added with a sarcastic smirk:
—Exactly, relax. No one's dying here. Just hand over what we ordered before this line turns into a nightmare. And stop making that "I'm special" face. You're not.
Both burst out laughing, clearly enjoying how uncomfortable she looked.
The vendor pressed her lips together, ignoring them and continuing with her work.
She was a pale, delicate-looking white girl with a beautiful face. Big bright eyes, and a hint of stubbornness in her expression. The two jerks in front of her seemed delighted to mess with her. Ethan recognized her instantly; it was Fiona Gallagher from Shameless—this must have been one of her many jobs.
And if Ethan had one flaw, it was his hero complex. He couldn't ignore a damsel in distress—especially not one this pretty. If the universe had put her in his path, who was he to refuse?
Ethan stepped toward them, not raising his voice, but speaking in a tone that cut through the lobby noise like a knife.
—You two done?
The men looked at him, startled by the interruption.
—Because if you can't order popcorn without acting like a couple of idiots, I can help you find the exit —Ethan continued, staring them down.
One of them frowned.
—And who the hell are you?
Ethan tilted his head slightly.
—Someone who's not gonna let you harass someone just because you don't know how to behave… now shut up and wait your turn.
The first guy opened his mouth to argue, but Ethan stepped forward again, making it clear he wasn't joking.
—I'm not repeating myself.
Silence fell instantly. The two exchanged tense glances and backed off a bit, without admitting it.
The curly-haired man in the maroon baseball shirt turned around. When he noticed the small gap Ethan had created between them, he instantly got angry and rolled up his sleeves.
—What the hell are you talking about? You think I won't smash your face in?
Ethan didn't move.
He could smell the alcohol on both of them from a distance. Calmly, he rolled his shoulders and gave a faint smile with no hint of fear. A security guard began approaching, and his friend noticed.
—Come on, Mike… leave it —he muttered, touching his shoulder—. Let's go.
Seeing that the confrontation was about to escalate, the popcorn vendor slammed two buckets on the counter.
—Hey, you two.
Her gaze was firm as she waved her phone.
—Take your stuff or I'm calling the police. Two options—pick one.
The three digits of 911 were clearly displayed on her screen.
—Fuck you, bitch.
The man in the maroon baseball shirt pulled out some bills, crumpled them, and threw them at her. They fell to the floor.
—Keep the change. The rest of your pay should be enough to buy food for a few days on the South Side.
Humiliated, the pale girl pressed her lips together and said nothing. The two men, feeling victorious, didn't even bother going to the movie. They left the theater eating their popcorn.
She watched them walk away, then put her phone down, crouched, and picked up the money from the floor. She unfolded it expressionlessly, as if this kind of thing was already part of her routine.
Ethan had really wanted to hit them right there, but he knew that if a fight broke out, Fiona would be the one to suffer for it and lose her job.
Not wanting to cause more trouble, he turned around and stepped out of the line.
—Hey, wait… —Fiona noticed and tried to stop him, but Ethan was already heading toward the exit.
More customers arrived, and she had no choice but to serve them.
The two guys in baseball jerseys soon realized Ethan was following them. After a few steps, they sped up, rushing toward an Audi parked on the side of the road. They climbed in quickly, turned on the lights, and sped off.
Ethan shook his head with a grin and pulled out his phone.
The call was answered immediately; the voice sounded surprised.
—Detective Morgan, good evening.
—Atwater, you on duty?
—Yeah, I'm with Burgess right now.
—What area are you covering?
Atwater gave their location at once and asked excitedly:
—Intelligence got something urgent? Need backup?
The area he mentioned wasn't far.
—No, it's personal. Can you give me a hand?
—Of course —Atwater replied without hesitation. He was smart enough to know personal favors built strong relationships.
Ethan recalled the license plate perfectly and dictated it without missing a beat:
—A black Audi heading your way on 65th. Two men wearing baseball jerseys, looks like they've been drinking. They caused some trouble for a friend… Think you can teach them a lesson?
—No problem —Atwater said in a low voice—
—Thanks. I owe you one.
Ethan hung up and walked back into the theater.
Seeing him return without any signs of conflict, the vendor let out a small breath of relief and kept working. The line was much shorter now, and soon it was Ethan's turn.
The girl gave him a charming smile.
—What can I get you?
—A Coke, small butter popcorn, and nachos with extra cheese —Ethan said, glancing at the menu—
She nodded. A moment later she came back with his order, her ponytail bouncing lightly as she walked.
—It's $8.99.
Ethan smiled at the massive popcorn bucket and giant Coke. It was enough to last him until the next day.
Her expression said it all: she had obviously upgraded his order on purpose. And, for the record, it cost more than the movie ticket.
Ethan grabbed a handful of popcorn and popped it into his mouth. Then he pulled out a twenty and placed it on the counter.
He took his change, picked up his drink and popcorn, and headed toward the screening room. The ponytailed girl's smile grew even brighter as she watched him leave.
Two hours later, the movie ended. When the lights came on, Ethan was still absorbed in Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2. The story hadn't been as strong as the first, but the soundtrack… that had been amazing.
He still had "The Chain" by Fleetwood Mac stuck in his head—the scene where the team falls apart and comes back together. That guitar opening, that final build… the whole theater had felt like it was vibrating.
He pulled out his phone and checked it. Atwater had messaged him half an hour ago: the two guys who harassed Fiona were now handcuffed, crouched in the cells of the 21st District.
Ethan replied with a laughing emoji and got up.
The theater was almost empty. Outside, the cold air was sharp, so he tightened his jacket as he walked out. He climbed into his Dodge Challenger and started the engine. Once the heat kicked in, he turned the wheel slowly.
As he rounded the corner, he passed the theater again.
A tall woman in a gray coat stepped out through a side door, exhaling a cloud of vapor into the freezing air as she hurried along. It was Fiona. He knew she didn't have a car, so she was likely heading to the subway—which was a kilometer or two away.
He hesitated for a moment, then turned the wheel to follow her.
But she misread the gesture. Fiona quickened her pace nervously, her hand going into her bag.
—Hey, hey, relax. I'm not gonna hurt you. —Ethan said, lowering his window as he pulled up beside her—
He leaned slightly toward the passenger seat.
—We met at the theater earlier, remember?
Her eyes showed confusion and distrust.
—Oh! Yeah, I remember you… but what, do you want a trophy?
Her hand stayed inside the bag.
Ethan got it immediately. This was the South District—not the worst neighborhood, but rough enough that you always watched your back. And between strangers, caution was expected.
—Get in —he said sincerely, opening the door—. It's late. Let me drive you. It's cold, and this area's dangerous at night. If you want, you can pull out your pepper spray and point it at me; I'm fine with that.
Remembering how he'd defended her earlier, Fiona relaxed a little, but not entirely. She hesitated, then pulled out a small pepper spray can.
—Are you serious?
—Of course. Look, I'm a police detective—I'm not going to hurt you, I promise. —Ethan nodded softly, showing her his badge.
She looked down the street, then at the badge in his hand, took a deep breath, and finally made up her mind. She opened the door.
—Thanks.
—You're welcome.
Ethan glanced at the pepper spray in her hand, smiled, and shook his head.
—My name's Ethan. And you?
The car's interior was spotless and warm; the heated air was wrapping around her. The dashboard glowed softly, and the faint smell of clean leather filled the space.
Seeing Ethan's face lit by passing headlights—steadfast but calm—made her shoulders loosen a bit more.
—Call me Fiona —she said, settling in while still holding the pepper spray cautiously.
Then she gave him the address, along with a shy little smile.
—Thanks for the ride. Not everyone in this city has good intentions.
—Like I said, it's my pleasure —Ethan answered naturally.
He pressed the accelerator gently, and the car moved forward at an easy pace. Streetlights reflected off the windshield as he took the route. He knew this part of town well; he'd been around here just two weeks ago, and the streets felt instantly familiar.
Fiona looked out the window for a moment before turning her gaze back to him.
—What you did back there… thank you —she said softly—. You didn't have to step in.
Ethan kept his eyes on the road.
—I don't like seeing two idiots harassing someone who's just doing their job.
She let out a small, incredulous laugh.
—Most people just ignore it.
—Well, I'm not "most people."
Fiona lowered her eyes to her hands, rolling the pepper spray between her fingers.
—Still… thank you.
She glanced at him sideways, as if assessing him.
—Are you always like this?
Ethan let out a half-smile.
—My friend Job says I've got a "hero complex," that I can't help stepping in to save a damsel in distress… —Ethan smirked—. I'm starting to think he's right.
Fiona shook her head slowly, her smile warmer and more genuine this time.
—Well… thank you. Really. It's been a long time since anyone's done something like that for me.
She held his gaze for a second longer than necessary… then looked forward again, her expression much calmer.
Twenty minutes later, the Dodge Challenger came to a stop. A long line stretched outside the nightclub.