Chapter 45: The New Assignment
The fluorescent buzz of the bullpen felt like a persistent headache behind Jennifer’s eyes. Three months since the Vance case had wrapped. Three months of paperwork, court prep, and the hollow, quiet echo of her loft without Sam’s dark humor filling the corners. The photo from her locked drawer was just a memory now, a solved threat, but the feeling of being watched had seeped into her bones and decided to stay.
Captain Ruiz’s door was ajar. She knocked once and entered, the scent of his cheap aftershave and older paper immediately grounding her.
“Wu. Sit.” He didn’t look up from the file in his hands, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He looked tired, more than usual. “You seen the news? The warehouse fires.”
“The ones in the industrial parks near the river? Arson squad’s thing,” she said, sliding into the chair.
“Was their thing.” He finally looked at her, sliding the file across the desk. “Until last night. Security guard at the third site, a McKesson pharmaceutical depot, didn’t make it out. They found him cooked to the concrete. Not an accident. A message.”
Jennifer opened the folder. Crime scene photos glared up at her: twisted, blackened steel, mountains of melted plastic and blister packs, and a horrifying, dark silhouette etched into the floor. The air left her lungs. “Jesus.”
“Yeah.” Ruiz leaned back, the chair protesting. “Arson found traces of a accelerant cocktail—professional grade. This isn’t kids or insurance fraud. This is a systematic dismantling. Three warehouses in six weeks, all pharma distributors, all hit the same way. They’re wiping out inventory.”
“A competitor?” she asked, though it felt thin.
“Too violent. Too personal. The guard’s name was Ray Delgado. Sixty-eight years old. A grandfather. He was a fixture. This was about making a point. ‘Don’t be here when we come.’” Ruiz pinched the bridge of his nose. “Intel from Organized Crime suggests a new crew muscling in on the street pharma trade. They’re not interested in distributing Oxy. They’re pushing synthetic crap—fentanyl analogues, benzodiazepine mixes. Cheaper, deadlier, and they want the existing supply chains gone so theirs is the only product in town.”
Jennifer sifted through the reports. The scale was daunting. “And this lands on my desk because?”
“Two reasons.” Ruiz held up a finger. “One, your work on the Vance prescription pipeline gives you a recent education in how these gray-market drug networks operate. You know the players, the logistics.” He held up a second finger. “Two, we have a… source. An unofficial one. His contacts in the underworld are buzzing about this new crew. He’s already pieced together names we don’t have.”
A cold knot formed in her stomach. “Milo.”
Ruiz’s expression was grim confirmation. “Davidson. He called me this morning. He’s got information on the crew’s leadership, their possible locations. He’ll only share it directly with you. Says it’s a ‘continuation of our productive partnership.’” The Captain practically spat the last word. “I don’t like it. But a man is dead, and this is escalating. I need you to liaise. Take what he gives you, verify it, and use it to bury these bastards. Keep him on a choke-chain. He gets nothing from us in return. Understood?”
The thought of sitting across from Milo again, with his sharp gray eyes and sharper tongue, sent a confusing current through her—a mix of deep irritation and that old, unwelcome fascination. “Understood.”
“Good. Your first briefing with him is in an hour. Some diner on Figueroa. He insisted on neutral ground.” Ruiz waved a dismissive hand. “Go. And Wu? Watch your back. With him, and with this case. These people toasted a retiree to prove a point. They won’t think twice about a detective.”
She left the office, the file heavy under her arm. The bullpen’s noise felt suddenly distant, muffled. As she moved towards her desk, she saw them.
By the coffee machine, John was leaning against the counter, a smile on his face that was young and unguarded. Kelly stood close, her hand on his chest, saying something that made him laugh. She rose up on her toes and kissed him. It wasn’t a peck. It was warm, lingering, full of a simple and certain affection. John’s hand came up to cup the back of her neck, holding her there for a half-second longer.
A physical pang, sharp and stupid, hit Jennifer just below the ribs. She stopped walking. The image burned: his ease, her contentment. A happy, stable, normal thing. Everything her own life resolutely wasn’t.
John pulled back, his gaze catching Jennifer over Kelly’s shoulder. The smile on his face froze, then reshaped into something more professional, edged with a faint, embarrassed panic. Kelly followed his look, turning her head. Her beautiful, perceptive eyes met Jennifer’s, and the warmth in them didn’t vanish, but it did solidify into a kind of quiet, knowing assessment. She gave a small, polite nod.
Jennifer forced her own nod in return, her face a mask of detached courtesy, and walked on, her heels clicking a deliberate rhythm on the linoleum. Idiot, she berated herself. He’s a kid. He’s with someone good for him. Let it go. But the jealousy, hot and acidic, had already been poured. Pushing it down just meant it would eat at something else from the inside.
The diner on Figueroa was a time capsule of cracked vinyl and grease. Milo was already in a back booth, two mugs of black coffee steaming between his hands. He looked up as the bell on the door chimed, and that familiar, wolfish smile appeared.
“Detective. You look like you’ve just eaten a lemon.”
“Davidson.” She slid in opposite him, ignoring the coffee. “You’ve got five minutes. What are the names?”
“Straight to business. I admire that.” He took a slow sip, watching her. “Though, for the record, you do wear bitterness well. It sharpens your features.”
“The names, Milo. Or I walk, and you can explain to your editor why your Pulitzer tip evaporated.”
He chuckled, unfazed. “The crew calls themselves ‘The Clearing.’ Melodramatic, but apt. They’re burning out the old growth to plant their own poisonous weeds. Leadership is a pair of brothers. Rahul and Silas Rook.” He slid a folded piece of notebook paper across the table. “Addresses. Last knowns. Rahul is the strategist. Ex-military, dishonorable discharge. Silas is the muscle. He’s the one who likes fire.”
Jennifer unfolded the paper. Two addresses, one in Boyle Heights, one in a run-down part of Compton. Handwritten notes about vehicles, habits. It was good intel. Damn good. “Sources?”
“Please. You know I don’t reveal recipes.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping, intimate in the crowded diner. “These guys are different, Jennifer. They’re not gangbangers. They’re entrepreneurs with a nihilistic streak. They’re targeting the warehouses not just for market share, but as a performance. A show of force for any other distributors thinking of sticking around. Ray Delgado was part of the show.”
Hearing him use the guard’s name, with a tone approaching respect, unsettled her. “Why give this to me? Why not run the story?”
“The story’s coming. But it’s better if the arrest happens first. Gives it more weight. ‘Vigilant LAPD, aided by tenacious reporting, cracks vicious arson ring.’ Has a nice ring.” He shrugged. “Also, letting these psychotics turn my city into a barbecue pit is bad for business. And I have… a personal distaste for men who burn others alive.”
There was a flicker of something genuine in his eyes then—a cold, deep-seated revulsion that surprised her. For a second, he wasn’t playing a angle. It was gone as quickly as it appeared.
“What’s your real interest?” she pressed, not letting him off the hook. “There’s always something with you.”
He sat back, spreading his hands. “Maybe I just like seeing you in action. It’s a compelling show. The focused intensity, the way you move when you’re on the hunt… it’s more interesting than anything on television.” His gaze traveled over her, deliberate and appreciative. “And now you’re unattached again. The world is full of possibilities.”
The shift was so abrupt, so arrogantly predictable, that she almost laughed. The tension broke, replaced by familiar annoyance. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m persistent. It’s a virtue.” He nodded toward the paper. “That’s your down payment. I’ll have more after you check those addresses. We should coordinate. Regularly. For efficiency.”
She stood up, shoving the paper into her jacket pocket. “I’ll investigate the leads. You’ll get a press release when there’s an arrest. That’s the coordination.”
She turned to leave.
“Jennifer.” His voice stopped her, softer now. She glanced back. The playful cynicism was absent. “The Rook brothers. They’re not like James Corben. They’re not hired hands. They believe in what they’re doing. That makes them exponentially more dangerous. Watch your six.”
She held his gaze for a moment, gave a single, curt nod, and walked out into the hazy LA afternoon. The paper in her pocket felt like a lit fuse. She pulled out her phone, pulling up the DMV database to run the plates Milo had scribbled down.
As she worked, standing on the smog-scented sidewalk, the image of John and Kelly kissing replayed behind her eyes. The simple warmth of it. The choice they’d made. Then she pictured Milo’s knowing smirk, the dangerous glint of the new case, the silhouette of a man burned into the floor.
Her world wasn’t built for simple warmth. It was built for this: the smell of accelerant and old coffee, the weight of a file in her hands, and the company of men who saw her as either a tool, a target, or a temporary distraction. She put the phone away, the plate coming back registered to a dummy LLC that traced back to a boarded-up storefront in Compton.
Silas Rook’s address.
She started walking toward her car, her steps firm, the chaotic buzz of the city folding around her. The loneliness was there, a constant low hum, but right now it was drowned out by a different, more useful frequency: the pure, clarifying signal of the hunt.
The loneliness was there, a constant low hum, but right now it was drowned out by a different, more useful frequency: the pure, clarifying signal of the hunt. She got into her unmarked sedan, the upholstery holding the day’s heat. The address Milo provided was a cipher, but the plate on the 2008 Dodge Charger registered to it was a thread she could pull.
She called it in to dispatch for a drive-by reconnaissance, no lights, no approach. “Just need a visual on the vehicle and the structure,” she told the bored voice on the line. The dossier on Silas Rook, assembled from Milo’s scribbles and a quick records search, painted a picture of controlled rage: two aggravated assaults, a dropped weapons charge, a fascination with incendiaries traced back to a juvenile stint fighting wildfires. This wasn’t random chaos. This was a vocation.
Her phone buzzed on the passenger seat. A text from John Ruiz.
Heard you caught the warehouse fire. That’s heavy. Be careful out there.
The message was simple, professional, and laced with that quiet concern he’d always had for her. It felt like a pebble dropped into the still pond of her focus, ripples spreading out to touch the image of his kiss with Kelly. She didn’t reply. Putting the car in drive, she pointed it south.
The shift in the city was gradual, then absolute. The sleek glass of downtown gave way to the low-slung sprawl of South LA, the air thickening with concrete dust and the tang of exhaust from older, louder engines. Strip malls flashed by, their signs in Spanish and English, advertising money orders, sneakers, and legal services. The pervasive police helicopter thrum became part of the soundtrack, a mechanical bird of prey circling somewhere unseen.
She turned onto the street, a narrow lane of tired stucco houses and chain-link fences. The address wasn’t a house. It was what Milo had said: a boarded-up storefront squatting between a tire shop and a vacant lot choked with yellowed weeds. The sign was long gone, just a ghost of faded paint suggesting a former market. The Charger was not there.
Jennifer drove past once, twice, her eyes cataloging. The plywood over the windows was newer than the surrounding decay, the nails driven in with forceful, uneven strokes. A single security camera, cheap and obvious, was mounted above the reinforced door, its red LED a solitary winking eye. This wasn’t a home. It was a fort.
She parked a block down, under the shade of a wilting magnolia tree. The stillness here was different. It wasn’t peaceful; it was watchful. A group of young men on a porch stopped talking to track her car. A woman pulling groceries from a trunk gave her a long, assessing look that held no welcome. She was a neon sign here: police.
Her phone buzzed again. This time, it was Milo.
See the welcoming committee? the text read.
Her head snapped up, scanning the street. She couldn’t see him. Of course she couldn’t. He was a ghost with a cell plan. She typed back, her thumbs hitting the screen hard. You’re following me.
Protecting my investment. The Charger is currently three miles east, at a garage on Alameda. Silas is there. Rahul is likely inside your pretty little fortress. He works nights. He’s probably asleep. You’re welcome.
The information was a live wire. She had a split location. One brother here, potentially vulnerable. The other elsewhere. If she called it in now for a raid, they’d only get one, and the other would vanish, tipped off by the inevitable noise. She needed to see, to know for certain.
She got out of the car, the dry heat pressing down immediately. She left her blazer on the seat, revealing the Glock holstered at her hip, a clear statement. Walking slowly toward the boarded-up storefront, she felt every window she passed as a potential eye. The camera above the door followed her approach with a faint, almost imperceptible whir.
She stopped ten feet from the door, hand resting near her hip. The place was silent. No air conditioner, no music, no sound of movement. Just the distant wail of a siren and the buzzing flies in the lot next door. The door was steel, painted a flaking blue, with a new, heavy-duty deadbolt.
A voice, muffled and gruff, came from a small speaker grille she hadn’t noticed beside the camera. “You lost, lady?”
“Looking for Rahul,” she said, her voice flat and carrying. “We need to talk about Ray Delgado.”
There was a long silence. So long she thought he might not reply. Then the sound of multiple locks disengaging, heavy and metallic. The blue door swung inward just a foot, revealing only darkness and the faint smell of mildew and burnt coffee.
“Talk fast,” the voice said from the shadows. “You’re letting the cool out.”
The voice from the darkness was flat, devoid of curiosity. It was a statement of inconvenience.
Jennifer didn’t move closer to the door. “Ray Delgado didn’t need to be part of your statement. He was a night watchman. He wasn’t competition.”
A low chuckle filtered through the gap. “Everything is competition, detective. The space he occupied, the oxygen he breathed. His presence sanctioned a system we are rendering obsolete. His removal was… rhetorical.”
The clinical detachment in his tone, the intellectualization of murder, chilled her more than shouted threats would have. This was Rahul, the strategist. “I’ve got your rhetorical device burned into my retina. You and your brother are done. You’re going to spend the rest of your life in a concrete box trying to explain your philosophy to people who will never, ever get it.”
The door opened wider, just another foot. The darkness within seemed to pulse. “You came here alone. That was either very brave or very stupid. My brother dislikes police. He expresses his dislike viscerally. I, however, appreciate dialogue. Come in. Let’s discuss obsolete systems.”
It was a trap. It was so obviously a trap that it felt insulting. But the need to see him, to fix the phantom from the file in her mind to a real man, was a magnetic pull. She took one step forward, then another, her hand now resting openly on the grip of her Glock.
She crossed the threshold.
The door slammed shut behind her with a final, booming clang, plunging her into near-total blackness. Her pupils strained. The room was large, a hollowed-out shell of a former store. The only light bled from the edges of the plywood over a high window, creating dusty, diagonal shafts that cut through the gloom.
They illuminated unexpected things: a long folding table stacked with chemistry glassware, beakers, and plastic tubing. Gallon jugs of chemical solvents lined the far wall, their labels stark and warning. The smell was acrid, chemical, undercut by that persistent mildew.
A man sat in a pool of dim light at the table, his back to her, examining a sealed bag of white powder. He was lean, with close-cropped hair. He did not turn around.
“You’re manufacturing here,” she said, her voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space.
“We are refining. The base compounds are acquired. We improve them. Our product is ninety-four percent pure. The market has never seen anything like it.” He finally swiveled in his chair. Rahul Rook’s face was all angles, his eyes dark and patient. He looked like a graduate student, not a pyro-chemist killer. “The fires create demand. Scarcity drives the market toward quality. We are economists.”
“You’re murderers.”
“We are evolution.” He set the bag down carefully. “You cannot stop a force of nature, detective. You can only be swept aside by it. Your department, your laws, they are relics. Ray Delgado was a relic. You are a relic.”
She heard a soft scrape of sound behind her, to her left. A shadow detached itself from the deeper darkness near the chemical jugs. It was tall, broad, and moved with a quiet, predatory grace. Silas. He must have been waiting in the absolute dark the whole time.
He was holding a red plastic gasoline jug, swinging it lightly at his side. The cap was off. The sharp, nauseating smell of raw fuel bloomed in the enclosed space, cutting through the chemical air.
“You shouldn’t have come inside,” Rahul said, almost kindly. “Now you’ve seen the operation. Now you’re a witness. My brother doesn’t like witnesses.”
Silas took another step, the gasoline sloshing in the container. His eyes were fixed on her, devoid of his brother’s cold intellect. They held only a simple, eager hunger. The message was clear, horrifyingly simple: she would become part of their next rhetorical statement.
Every instinct, every minute of training, screamed. The enclosed space, the accelerant, the two of them. The calculus was instantaneous and absolute.
Her Glock cleared the holster in a smooth, practiced arc, the sound stark and metallic in the quiet room. The muzzle settled not on Silas with the gas can, but on Rahul, still seated. “Drop the jug. Put it on the floor. Now,” she commanded, her voice razor-wire taut.
Rahul didn’t flinch. His expression remained one of mild academic interest, as if she’d presented a flawed thesis. “Shooting me won’t change the chemical equation, detective. It will only guarantee your own incineration. My brother’s reactions are… elemental.”
Silas took another step. The gasoline smell strengthened, coating the back of her throat. He was a big man, all dense muscle under a stained white tank top. His eyes were fixed on the jerking can, watching the liquid sway. He was grinning.
“You light a match in here, you go up with me,” Jennifer said, her aim unwavering on Rahul’s center mass. “All this refined product, your whole operation, becomes ash. That’s bad economics.”
“A calculated loss,” Rahul replied, his voice still eerily calm. “The eradication of a persistent investigator adds immense value to our brand. It would be, in fact, our most impactful statement yet.”
She was running out of time and options. The room was too dark, too confined. Silas was now only ten feet away, well within splashing range. Her mind raced through the tactical briefings, the manuals on hostile environments. Never let them control the space. But they already did.
A sudden, deafening crash shattered the tense quiet. It wasn’t from inside. It came from the front of the building—the sound of shattering wood and twisting metal. The plywood covering the high window exploded inward, showering the chemical table with splinters.
A blinding white light pierced the dusty gloom, pinning Silas in its beam. He roared, throwing an arm up against the glare, the gasoline jug swinging wildly.
“LAPD! Drop the can! On your knees! Now!” The voice booming from outside was electronically amplified, authoritative, and completely unfamiliar. It wasn’t backup she’d called.
Rahul finally moved, diving sideways from his chair with surprising speed, disappearing into the blackness behind the table. Jennifer used the chaos, shifting her aim and firing two rounds at the gasoline jug in Silas’s hand.
The plastic container exploded.
It didn’t ignite—the bullets punctured it, not sparked. But a torrent of raw fuel erupted, drenching Silas’s legs and the concrete floor around him. The overpowering stench was instantaneous, choking. Silas bellowed in rage, slipping in the sudden slickness.
“You bitch!”
The focused light from outside held him. Jennifer heard the distinct sound of rifles being cocked. “Last warning! On the ground!”
Silas hesitated, gas soaking into his jeans, his eyes wild. He looked at the dark where his brother had vanished, then at the light, then at Jennifer. With a snarl of utter frustration, he slowly knelt, then laid prone on the wet concrete, his hands spreading wide.
Jennifer kept her gun trained on the darkness where Rahul had disappeared. Her heart hammered against her ribs. “Rahul Rook! You’re surrounded. Come out with your hands visible!”
Only silence answered. The beam of light began to sweep the room, revealing the intricate lab, the pools of gasoline, the empty chair. Rahul was gone. A back door, a hidden panel—he’d had an exit planned.
He’d abandoned his brother without a second thought.
Heavy boots pounded at the reinforced front door. A battering ram hit it with a colossal thwump, once, twice, and on the third impact, the blue steel frame buckled inward. SWAT poured in, armored shadows in the chaotic light, securing Silas, who was cursing in a continuous, filthy stream.
Jennifer slowly lowered her weapon, her arms trembling with adrenaline. The amplified voice outside cut off. In the sudden relative quiet, she heard a new sound: a familiar, lazy clapping.
She turned. Milo Davidson stood just outside the shattered doorway, silhouetted by the afternoon sun, carefully stepping over splintered wood. He held a large, military-grade flashlight in one hand. A smug satisfaction was etched into his weathered face.
“Bravo, detective. Truly. Although, I’ll admit, I was hoping for more fire.” He glanced at the drenched, handcuffed Silas being hauled to his feet. “The metaphor is a bit… wet.”
The pieces clicked together with infuriating clarity. The voice, the light, the perfectly timed distraction. “You,” she breathed, holstering her gun and storming toward him. “You called in the raid. You impersonated the police.”
“I provided a public service. I observed a clear and present danger to a law enforcement officer and facilitated a swift resolution.” He shrugged, his eyes gleaming. “My audio equipment is quite good. And I know a captain who might owe me a favor. He expedited the response once I described the scene. Well, my edited version of it.”
He’d been watching the whole time. He’d seen her walk in, seen the trap close. He’d played hero, or puppeteer, or both. The violation was profound, and yet he’d undoubtedly saved her life. The conflicting truths warred in her gut, leaving her nauseous.
A SWAT sergeant approached, his face shield up. “Detective Wu? You alright? We’ve got the one. The brother?”
“Gone. There has to be another way out of here. Find it.” Her voice was raw. She looked back at Milo, who was now casually taking pictures of the chemical setup with his phone. “You. Outside. Now.”
She didn’t wait for him, pushing past into the jarring normalcy of the sun-baked street. Neighbors had gathered, held back by a newly established perimeter. The police helicopter was directly overhead now, its beat throbbing in the air.
Milo followed, tucking his phone away. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
She wheeled on him. “You interfered in a live investigation. You could have gotten me killed. He had a back door, Milo! He’s in the wind because of your theatrical rescue!”
“He was in the wind the moment you stepped inside,” Milo countered, his tone losing its playful edge. “He was never going to let you leave that room. Your choices were becoming a martyr or a message. I simply offered a third option.” He stepped closer, the smell of him—expensive cologne and ozone from the electronics—cutting through the gasoline haze on her clothes. “I told you they were different. I told you to watch your six. You didn’t. So I did.”
The intensity in his gray eyes was unsettling. It wasn’t just about a story anymore. There was a possessive edge to it, a furious investment. He’d been scared for her.
She took a step back, breaking the stare. “Where’s Rahul going?”
“Somewhere with a pre-packed bag and a new identity. He’s been ready for this. But he’s angry now. You spoiled his elegant plan, took his brother. He won’t see it as a setback. He’ll see it as a personal provocation.” Milo pulled a cigar from his inside pocket, rolling it between his fingers. “He’ll want to finish the statement. And you’re the new subject.”
The weight of it settled over her. She had one brother in custody, a warehouse of evidence, and a smarter, angrier brother now specifically targeting her. The victory tasted like gasoline and ash.
Her phone buzzed. Captain Ruiz. She answered, her eyes still locked on Milo. “Sir.”
“I just got a call from a SWAT commander at a scene I didn’t authorize. Care to explain?” Ruiz’s voice was a low rumble of contained fury.
“It’s a long story. We have Silas Rook. The lab is here. Rahul escaped.” She watched Milo light his cigar, the smoke curling into the hazy sky. “Davidson was here. He… facilitated.”
A long, heavy silence on the line. “Get your ass back here. Now. And bring your ‘facilitator.’ I want to look him in the eye.”
The call ended. Milo exhaled a plume of smoke, raising an eyebrow. “Summoned to the principal’s office?”
“You’re coming with me.” Her tone brooked no argument.
“Wouldn’t miss it.” He fell into step beside her as she walked toward her car. They moved in silence for a moment, the chaos of the scene fading behind them. “For what it’s worth,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost lost under the helicopter’s roar. “You looked good in there. Cornered, but never conceding. It was something to see.”
It wasn’t a pick-up line. It was an observation, stripped of manipulation. That made it more dangerous than any of his smirking compliments. She didn’t acknowledge it, just clicked the locks open on her sedan.
“Get in,” she said, sliding behind the wheel. He got in the passenger side, the unfamiliar presence of him in her space feeling strangely inevitable. As she pulled away from the curb, she saw John Ruiz’s unmarked car double-parked at the edge of the perimeter. He was standing by the open door, having clearly just arrived. His gaze tracked her car, his eyes widening slightly as he recognized Milo in the passenger seat.
His face tightened. He didn’t wave. He just watched them drive away, his expression a storm of professional concern and something far more personal, his earlier text message now feeling like a premonition he’d failed to prevent. Kelly was not with him.
Jennifer focused on the road ahead, the ghost of gasoline in her nose, the taste of someone else’s victory sour in her mouth, and the two very different men now orbiting her case, and her life, with a gravity that was starting to feel inescapable. The city streamed past her windows, indifferent to the small, human fires raging within it.
“Meet me at the diner tomorrow morning,” Jennifer said, her voice clipped, the words sharp as broken glass. “Eight o’clock. We’ll go over the next steps.”
Milo opened his mouth, that infuriating half-smile already forming at the corners, but one hard look from her had him closing it again. She cut him off before another syllable could escape. “And don’t. Say. Another. Word.
A mechanical voice crackled over her radio. “Jennifer, you there? We’ve got movement on the Rook brothers. Silas is secured but unconscious. Rahul’s been spotted on surveillance near the old textile plant on Alameda. SWAT’s en route but they’re asking for eyes on the ground. Over.”
Jennifer slammed her palm against the steering wheel, the sharp report echoing in the enclosed car. Milo, beside her, snatched her radio from the dash before she could protest. “This is Milo Davidson, Herald. I’ve got eyes on the detective. We’re twelve minutes out. Send coordinates and backup—a civilian journalist shouldn’t have to navigate active perimeter alone. Over.”
Captain Ruiz’s voice cracked again, this time with something raw and unfiltered beneath the command tone. “Goddammit, Milo. You are not authorized on this scene. Jennifer, acknowledge. Over.”
She wrenched the radio from his grip, her knuckles white.
“This is Detective Wu. I’ve got this. Over.” She stabbed the off button, glaring at Milo. The cigar smoke in the car was thick enough to gag on—she cracked the window, sucking in fresh, smog-laden air.
“You’re not authorized on scene,” she repeated, voice low and razor sharp. “You’re a liability. A civilian.”
Milo blew a perfect smoke ring through the gap, watching it dissipate. “I'm on the public dime now. My last byline covered a charity walk. I’m ‘Pulitzer-winning journalist embedded in community service.’ Works in a pinch.”
“You’re not embedded. You’re a vulture.”
“Fair.” He shrugged.
“Just doing my part.”
She pulled up in front of the sleek, minimalist glass façade of the silent green Tesla building that doubled as Milo's temporary rental. The early evening sun cast long, sharp shadows across the pavement, turning the graphic on the side into a cryptic puzzle. She left the engine idling, the radio still spitting occasional static from the interrupted transmission.
As she dropped him back at his rental, she very reluctantly thanks him for saving her life but tells him to shut it before he can come up with a witty remark. “Don’t ever do that again,” Jennifer said, her voice tight, the words clipped like gunfire. “Next time, you’ll get yourself killed. Or me.” She didn’t look at him. Her fingers drummed against the steering wheel, betraying the adrenaline still humming through her system.
Milo didn’t move immediately.