Colonel Norman Jenkins's smile returned as he addressed Tim, "Are we good now, Inspector Bradford?"
Tim waited until Lucy and John had finished handcuffing Pettigrew before signaling OK towards the crane and speaking into the walkie-talkie.
"It's all clear, Angela."
The red dot on Colonel Norman Jenkins's chest flickered out. He turned to his team, making a gesture to hurry things up.
"Alright, let's wrap this up."
"What will happen to the money?" John asked loudly.
"It will fund our covert operations for the next five years," Colonel Norman Jenkins said with a broad smile, not looking at all like someone who had been under duress just moments ago.
"The federal government spends billions annually on secret missions. Bradford probably knows a bit about it; he must have seen plenty of scrip in Afghanistan," Norman continued.
Tim lowered his head, seemingly recalling some unpleasant memories, and reluctantly admitted, "Yes."
Nearby, Jack had already holstered his gun and even helped the forklift driver, who had been his hostage, cover the stack of counterfeit bills with the tarp again. Hearing the conversation, he snorted internally. Military scrip or not, calling them replacement notes was just euphemistic nonsense.
The conversation continued, and John was still puzzled.
"But these are counterfeit bills!"
Colonel Norman Jenkins's face took on a peculiar glow as he spoke with an almost operatic tone.
"You could think of it this way: we're not printing money; we're printing freedom."
Jack nearly gagged but remembered his own car guzzling cheap gas. Compared to his previous life, where a tank of gas could cost as much as a dinner out, he figured he needed to change his mindset. Now he was living in the land of the free, where freedom and oil were cherished—both as cheap as possible.
As the LAPD prepared to leave, the CIA and DIA agents continued their work. Jack was about to slip away when John Reese stopped him.
"Ever considered joining the CIA?"
This blunt recruitment approach was very much in Reese's style. Jack grinned, "I prefer catching bad guys and solving cases. The life of a 007 isn't really my thing."
Jack wasn't sure if this Reese was the same as the one from "Person of Interest" who would later be betrayed by the CIA. But compared to the CIA, the FBI seemed safer, and the CIA wasn't exactly in the policing business.
As he walked away briskly, he found his LAPD colleagues gathered around Zoe. She was warning them, "I wasn't here tonight, and none of you saw me, got it?"
Everyone nodded in unison. Bringing Zoe in had been Jack's idea. During the planning, Jack had insisted on having as many people as possible tonight and someone with enough authority to keep things under control, but not to escalate unless absolutely necessary.
The larger the operation, the more these agents, who acted recklessly abroad, would be deterred. Killing one or two officers might be something the higher-ups would cover up, but wiping out the main force of the LA division and escaping unscathed was a fantasy. Patrol officers, despite their lower ranks, were state employees.
Jack's plan was intricate: Tim and the others would distract, Jack would confirm the counterfeit money's presence—crucial evidence. If things got out of hand, the uninformed Long Beach police would find the counterfeit bills, and the so-called federal covert mission would be exposed.
It was like a high-wire act. Angela with her sniper rifle was the safety net, and Zoe was the balancing pole. She had only said one line, but it legitimized the entire event. The CIA and DIA agents genuinely believed these LAPD officers were determined to seek justice for a murdered homeless man.
Finally, it was over. Zoe drove home alone, pretending to ignore what had happened. The others took the suspect back to the precinct.
"You just happened to be wandering around the docks, and the murderer of Joe Drakus conveniently appeared in front of you and surrendered?" Sergeant Grey, now in civilian clothes and ready to go off-duty, looked at them with a skeptical expression.
"Yes, sir." The group, who had rehearsed their story on the way back, responded in unison.
"And if the chief calls to chew me out tomorrow morning..."
"He won't."
Tim interrupted firmly before Grey could finish his sentence.
The two men exchanged a glance, and Sergeant Grey seemed exasperated.
"Fine, I don't want to know what really happened tonight. I'm going home to sleep. Just make sure your reports don't have any inconsistencies."
"Yes, sir." They responded again in unison, laughing as they dispersed.
---
An hour later, in the bustling hall of LAX, Hannah, dressed in a sleek black business suit, looked every bit the part of a successful professional woman. She walked out of the terminal pulling her suitcase and removed her sunglasses to scan the area, but she didn't see the familiar tall figure she was hoping for, which left her a bit disappointed.
Just as she reached into her bag to pull out her phone, a strong hand suddenly grabbed her arm from behind. Hannah was about to retaliate with a swift kick when she heard a voice she had longed to hear.
"LAPD, you're under arrest, missy."
"Ah!" Hannah screamed and spun around, throwing herself into the arms of the person behind her.
"Don't I get a kiss?" Jack's sentence was cut off as she kissed him fiercely.
Time seemed to freeze in that moment.
"Ouch, is this a new move you learned at Quantico?" Jack wiped his lips, which had nearly been sucked dry, and reached for Hannah's suitcase.
Hannah just giggled stupidly and finally managed to say, "I missed you."
The simplest words often carry the deepest emotions. Seeing her looking at him with nothing but love, having lost all her high-powered aura from when she got off the plane, Jack felt a pang in his chest, as if this moment touched something deep within him. He instinctively pulled Hannah back into his arms and whispered, "I missed you too, every day."
Noticing something different about the feel of her against his chest, Jack frowned and stepped back to take a closer look at her.
"You've lost weight. Your legs, your waist..."
"Fifteen pounds. The food there was awful. Those nutritionists kept giving us mush every day. I dream about your sweet and sour pork and tangy ribs," Hannah pouted in her southern drawl, both whining and sounding irresistibly cute.
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