"And then you keep agonizing over whether the second line is clear or not, whether there's a mistake?"
Jack, the self titled friend of won, wouldn't allow this silly girl to hesitate any longer, and directly dragged her to the central hospital to find Carrie.
Half an hour later, Carrie stood in front of the two with a smile, holding a lab report.
"Although I'm not an obstetrician, I can confirm from the hormone levels that Angela, you are indeed pregnant. Congratulations to you both."
"Ah!" Angela scread, excitedly hugging Jack, almost kissing him.
"Hehehe!"
Jack clumsily pulled her arms away. Congratulations my foot! Carrie was joking, and you, the person involved, are joining in the fun?
While calling the real culprit, Wesley, to co to the hospital, Jack's phone suddenly rang.
"Hey kid, found him. He's at a motel. But are you sure this guy nad Sacel is just a heartbreaker? Did he sleep with so mob boss's woman? I heard so professionals are looking for him. You'd better hurry, or you might only find his corpse."
The call was from Smitty. Surprisingly, the old man was reliable; he found the guy in less than a day.
Jack quickly jotted down the address, said goodbye to Carrie and the still-kissing couple, and drove to the motel.
After checking the magazines of his sidearm and spare, Jack got out and went to the front desk of the motel called "Santa Monica."
"Soone said they saw this guy here. Can you tell his room number?"
Jack showed the disheveled, overweight middle-aged owner a photo.
"Wow, uh… Officer Tavelor, that's not how it works. Either you have a search warrant, or…"
The hotel owner's chubby cheeks jiggled as he grinned and held up three fingers of his right hand, gesturing to Jack, who was in uniform, as if counting money.
Jack wasn't in the mood to waste words with this bastard. More importantly, he needed to give the five $20 bills he had on him to Smitty later.
He patted his holster: "If you don't want the police coming to your door every week, you'd better just tell . You know, Officer Smitty is waiting for my apple pie. If I get back late, he'll be eating cold pizza while watching tonight's baseball ga."
The hotel owner shrugged and pointed to the ground floor next to the parking lot outside.
"Room 1108 across the street, just ten minutes ago, two guys ca over asking about him. They were much nicer to you; they even gave $20."
"Damn!"
Jack sensed sothing was wrong and quickly turned to leave the front desk. Before he could even cross the parking lot, a man was suddenly thrown out of the window of the room the hotel owner had pointed out. Then ca a series of banging and fighting sounds, followed by the door being violently pulled open, and a man with curly black hair running out.
It was the IRS undercover agent in the photo, using the alias Sacel Ojeda.
"Hey, LAPD, stop!"
The warning was useless. The IRS undercover agent turned and ran. The man thrown out of the window was a skinny Latino, struggling to get up, his face covered in blood from broken glass.
Seeing that the guy's exposed skin was covered in tattoos, he was clearly a gangster. There was even a teardrop tattoo near his eye, indicating that he had at least one life on his hands. Jack's hand was already reaching for his Glock.
Just then, another burly black man rushed out of the room, also with a large tattoo on his arm, and chased after the undercover agent without looking back.
"Hey, drop your weapon!"
Seeing the skinny Latino man's fierce eyes staring at the undercover agent's back and about to reach for his bulging waist, Jack decisively shot him down and turned to yell at the hotel owner who was trying to stuff his huge body into the front desk.
"Call 911! Now!"
Jack sprinted forward, kicking the still-resisting, skinny Latino man unconscious. He pulled out handcuffs, cuffed him, and let him bleed. He picked up the broken gun on the ground, pulled the magazine, tucked it into his waistband, and gave chase.
Although dealing with one gangster had delayed him a little, Jack wasn't too worried. The two guys ahead had run less than 150 ters.
He wasn't too confident he could catch up in a 2-3 kiloters, but if they ran eight hundred or a thousand ters, with his current 23-point stamina, even Olympic sprinters might not stand a chance.
"7-A-26, 'Santa Monica' Hotel, shooting, requesting backup, suspect injured, call an ambulance."
Jack called into the walkie-talkie as he ran, keeping his attention focused on the burly black man behind the undercover agent. If the man made a move to draw his gun, he was ready to shoot him dead.
The undercover agent in front was practically a walking $300,000; anyone who threatened him was jeopardizing his bonus.
The IRS undercover agent, in a panic, ran onto a pedestrian bridge. Seemingly convinced he couldn't outrun a police officer, he stopped a quarter of the way across, climbed over the railing, and appeared ready to jump.
Jack, terrified, leaped up and kicked the burly black man who was still trying to approach, knocking him unconscious. He put away his Glock, pulled a plastic cable tie from his pocket, and tied the man's hands behind his back while frantically trying to stop the sowhat panicked undercover agent.
"Hey! Alejandro sia, right?"
Hearing his real na, the undercover agent paused, looked at Jack in his police uniform.
"King sent , Ray King, your boss. He said he trusts you and sent to find you and be responsible for your safety."
Jack stepped on the back of the gangster's hand, trying to stop the undercover agent's reckless actions.
"I don't know you."
Alejandro sia looked suspicious but stopped moving.
"He gave a phone number and told to contact him directly after I find you. Why don't you call him yourself?"
Jack pulled out his phone, pretending to toss it.
Just as sia reached out to catch it, the rusty overpass railing beneath him suddenly creaked.
"Holy crap, no way!"
Jack lunged forward, but failed to grab the terrified sia. Like a classic scene from countless movies, their fingers crossed, and they watched helplessly as the other fell off the overpass.
'no, my $300,000!'
Jack quickly peered down; sia had crashed onto the roof of a car, coughing up blood.
"Get out of the way!"
Jack waved to the crowd gathering below, signaling them to move away. He took a running start and jumped down.
...
"You said you jumped from here? Are you crazy?" Nolan, who had arrived as backup, pointed at the overpass, which was at least 5 ters high, and shouted.
Jack, on the verge of tears, carefully put away his phone and the mangled remains, and nodded.
User Comments
0 comments from readers