American Detective: From TV Rookie to Seasoned Cop

"Drop your weapons!"

The LAPD finally arrived, clearly shaken by the scene. It had been a long time since Los Angeles had seen a shootout of this scale. In less than ten minutes, two FBI agents and six unknown gunmen had exchanged nearly a thousand rounds.

As a group of LAPD officers approached, they raised their guns, pointing them at Jack, who was crouched in front of Emily, still holding his Noveske N4.

"Drop the gun! Drop it! We're on the same side!" Tim, even after becoming a commissioner, still took the lead. He recognized Jack's back instantly.

John, who had just arrived as backup, was stunned by the sight before him.

The street was littered with shell casings, and four bodies lay scattered—two in the middle of the road and two on the sidewalk. Blood mixed with brain matter and rainwater, streaming down the street, filling the air with a sickening stench.

Seeing Jack's "Mammoth," a truck John had once envied, now riddled with bullet holes, left him struggling to breathe.

"I'm fine."

On the other side, Emily gently pushed Jack away, trying to stand but finding her legs weak and shaky.

Jack draped a thermal blanket over Emily and handed her off to the paramedics for a checkup. Measuring her blood pressure and checking for shock was necessary, as the physical symptoms—trembling and muscle weakness—were common after an adrenaline rush.

The BAU team had been alerted and were on their way. After exchanging quick greetings with Tim and John, Jack entered the house. As expected, he found a body on the living room sofa, still warm.

"Do you know who he is?" Tim asked, following him inside.

Jack nodded. "He should be the homeowner, Byron Delaney. He's the one we were planning to visit."

"No gunshot wounds, no signs of strangulation. It looks more like a heart attack. How do you think the killers pulled it off?" John, now wearing rubber gloves, made a rough examination of the body.

"Poison," Jack pointed to the right foot of the corpse. Though Delaney was still wearing his shoes, the laces hadn't been tied, likely because Jack and Emily's arrival interrupted the final step of the killers' plan.

John knelt by the sofa, removed the shoe, and peeled off the sock. Between the big toe and the second toe, he found a small injection mark.

"They probably used something like succinylcholine, a drug that mimics the symptoms of a heart attack," Jack explained.

Hearing this, John's face lit up with interest, and even Tim raised his eyebrows.

"So, you're involved in another spy or covert ops case?" The two officers were immediately intrigued by the Cold War-style plotline.

Jack mimed zipping his lips. "This one's too dangerous. For now, it's classified. You've seen what happened to my car, right?"

"Terrorists?" John guessed correctly in one shot. Jack clenched his fists but said nothing.

"Ha! I got it right!" John exclaimed, overjoyed.

"Keep guessing," Jack replied with a smile, pulling out a pair of handcuffs. "Ever heard of Guantanamo?"

John jumped back, shaking his head frantically, a comical display of mock fear.

As the two officers bantered, Tim shook his head in exasperation. "I'll leave this to the FBI then. I'll keep a few officers around. Let me know when it's all wrapped up—I've got a bottle of ten-year-old whiskey waiting."

After Tim and John left, Jack was soon joined by the BAU team.

"It's been a while since I've seen something this intense. Looks like giving Emily to you for protection was the right call," Rossi commented as he casually strolled into the house.

Hotch, as usual, was more direct. He had been more anxious than anyone upon hearing about the attack on Jack and Emily, but seeing that they were unharmed, he quickly shifted focus to the case at hand.

"Twenty thousand dollars in cash, a handgun for protection, and a passport. Looks like the victim was trying to flee in a hurry," Hotch said, opening a briefcase on the coffee table that contained the mentioned items.

"The house is set up similarly to the Fagan and Cosenza residences: multiple door locks and a high-end security system," Jack added, picking up the dead man's phone and unlocking it with his fingerprint.

"No surprises here. The most recent two outgoing calls were to Kelly Fagan, at 10:30 a.m., and then to the Cosenza residence at 10:31 a.m. The second call rang twice before it was hung up, never answered."

"So what does this mean? Someone warned him, but didn't tell him about what happened to Fagan and Cosenza? He then followed some prearranged plan to warn them?" Rossi asked, his tone uncertain.

"I think Emily might know something," Hotch said with concern, glancing toward the front door. Outside, Emily, wrapped in a silver thermal blanket, was crouched on the steps with Reid, examining the bodies of the attackers.

"Emily definitely didn't know the victims' identities, otherwise she would have told us as soon as we took on the case," Rossi quickly explained, worried that there might be some misunderstanding.

Jack, recalling the gunman's shouted threat before fleeing, shrugged. "She may not have known the victims, but she certainly recognized those attackers."

The three of them stepped outside and approached Emily. Before they could say anything, she spoke up. "One of the two who got away was Ian Doyle. The other was probably his most loyal follower—Liam."

"Are you sure?" Jack was surprised. All six gunmen had been wearing white masks, like something out of V for Vendetta. Emily didn't have the heightened senses that Jack did, so how was she so sure, especially in the dark and rain?

"Absolutely," Emily said, pulling up the right sleeve of one of the dead gunmen, revealing a tattoo on his wrist.

It was a tattoo Jack had never seen before—a four-leaf clover, with the stem morphing into something resembling the Nike logo.

What the hell? A clover with an extra leaf, and a swoosh-like stem? Was this some sports-brand-obsessed terrorist group?

"This is the symbol of 'Valhalla.' 'Valhalla' is not only Doyle's alias, but also the name of the organization he used to lead," Emily explained. "The four gunmen Jack took down were all young, likely in their early twenties, but well-trained. They must have been newly recruited by Doyle."

"So, the guy who yelled 'Lauren Reynolds' was Doyle? He recognized you, since that was your alias?" Jack sighed, feigning hurt. "No wonder most of the bullets were aimed at me."

"Maybe he sees you as a rival," Rossi teased with a smile.

Emily, blushing slightly, raised her hands in protest. "Please, don't. I'm really not in the mood for jokes right now."

Reid, usually awkward in these situations, unexpectedly chimed in with a lengthy comment. "Rationally speaking, this could actually be a good thing. It's like that story about waiting for the second shoe to drop. Now that the enemy has shown himself, it's like the second shoe has finally fallen. Emily, you don't have to be on edge all the time anymore."

"Reid is right," Hotch agreed. "From here on, it's in our wheelhouse. We'll profile Doyle like any other case and track him down."

Jack, pondering the fact that Western culture also had a "waiting for the other shoe to drop" metaphor, glanced at his beloved, bullet-riddled truck, and his mood instantly soured.

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