"Superintendent Anderson, I'm ready," John said, his head lowered, deeply troubled and seemingly oblivious to the stranger beside the female superintendent.
Zoe's pretty face flushed as she raised her hand to introduce the newcomer, "This is the new Superintendent Ginny Anderson. She will accompany you on patrol and ensure your safety."
John finally lifted his head, only to be shocked, his worldview seemingly upended.
The new Superintendent Ginny, displeased, gave a light humph, her expression icy as she extended her right hand and uttered a single word, "Keys."
It took a moment for John's soul to return to his body. Flustered, he fished out the police car keys and placed them in her hand.
The beautiful superintendent, her ample bosom thrust forward, swayed her slender waist as she walked toward the garage, drawing numerous admiring and astonished glances from the busy officers, who began whispering among themselves.
"7-A-15 police car, please mark my car on duty."
John put down the radio, his gaze restless, as if he couldn't find a place to settle it.
"Uh, Je—"
"Call me Superintendent Anderson from now on," came the low, slightly magnetic voice from the left driver's seat, the tone still as cold as ever.
"Yes, Superintendent Anderson," John replied, still somewhat at a loss, lifting his chin with his hand.
The patrol car aimlessly cruised the streets of Los Angeles for half an hour when a voice came through their earpieces. It was Ben Cicora, superintendent of the Anti-Black and Narcotics Division.
"Be alert, they're coming."
Both looked at the rearview mirror simultaneously. A small van covered in black reflective film turned the corner and followed closely behind the patrol car.
The beautiful superintendent gently pressed the gas pedal, but the speeding police car did not shake off the pursuer.
She exchanged a glance with John. Three minutes later, the patrol car turned into an empty alley, the van still tailing them.
Suddenly, gunfire erupted. A heavily tattooed white man emerged from the alley, clutching his bleeding arm. He zigzagged through the streets and disappeared around the corner.
Soon after, John's panicked voice echoed across all LAPD channels: "Officer down, I repeat, officer down. Damn it, they killed Superintendent Anderson."
Minutes later, numerous police cars surrounded the empty alley. An ambulance arrived shortly after. When the stretcher was wheeled out of the alley, Zoe Anderson lay on it, covered in blood.
Earlier, in the highest security prison in Los Angeles, the door to a solitary cell opened. Inspector Gray, with his usual stern face, walked in.
The prisoner lying on the single bed turned over and sat up. He was the leader of the Southern Front, King Midas.
"Today, someone told me a cop wanted to talk to me. I wondered who it could be. Ten years have passed, and you're still just a small-time inspector?"
Inspector Gray's face twitched, struck by the comment, and he impatiently said, "Cut the crap. I'm here about the hit order."
"I watched my subordinate's bodycam footage. That girl was holding a knife in front of him, and he was just doing his job. Your stupid son overreacted, and it wasn't the first time."
"We've busted seven of your hideouts, arrested over a hundred people, costing you at least a million. Think about what you might lose tomorrow."
King Midas, still sporting a mohawk, grinned, showing his yellow teeth, seemingly amused by the threat.
"We've been friends for nearly 20 years, haven't we? If I remember correctly, it was your capture of me that earned you your current position."
"You should know, the hit order was issued by Cole. He's stupid, and my men don't respect him like they do me."
Inspector Gray interrupted him roughly, "Next, we'll hit your spots in San Diego, San Jose, and Victorville. I can keep this up until your son's stupidity destroys your empire."
King Midas put on a nonchalant face.
"If you can do it, go ahead. I won't cancel the hit order. This is Cole's honor. Without it, all this means nothing to him."
"You don't know anything," Inspector Gray shouted angrily. Then, glancing behind him, he signaled the guard to leave and close the door, trying to lower his voice.
"My arrogant female chief insists on personally protecting that troublemaking rookie. Think about the consequences if your men shoot at that police car. All of LAPD will go berserk. Are you declaring war on every cop in California?"
King Midas's expression wavered, eyeing the inspector warily, trying to gauge if he was bluffing.
The tense atmosphere in the cell felt like an eternity until a sudden phone ring broke the silence.
"It's me. What happened? What? Dead?" Hanging up, Inspector Gray's expression turned kaleidoscopic—shock, anger, tension, sadness, and a faint trace of glee all flashed across his face.
"Now, none of this matters."
With that, Inspector Gray turned to leave.
King Midas grew nervous, confused by the sudden call.
"Hey, Captain, explain what that means before you go."
Without turning, Inspector Gray stood at the cell door, his tone carrying a sense of relief.
"Your two men attacked the rookie's patrol car. One died, the other escaped. The rookie is unharmed, but they killed Superintendent Anderson."
"Cole is as good as dead. Any cop who sees him will empty their magazine without hesitation. Your Southern Front is finished. The FBI will be on you soon. It's already too late."
With that, he closed the cell door and walked away quickly.
King Midas's face turned ashen. He rushed to the small barred window, shouting.
"You're bluffing, right? This can't be true."
Inspector Gray's voice echoed faintly from the corridor, "Confirm with your men. News like this travels fast. You're no longer useful. I have more important matters now."
An hour later, the cell door reopened. An impatient Inspector Gray stood at the entrance, frowning at the anxious King Midas.
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