"You can keep it if you want. You know, there was a time when I really lacked a sense of security," Chris said, his speech now almost indistinguishable from a regular person.
Jack hesitated. Although he probably wouldn't need it, the idea of having something like this just for show was quite appealing.
"Maybe after I finish setting up my basement armory," he replied. In his line of work as an FBI agent who would soon be dealing with countless serial killers, stocking up on weapons for self-defense seemed perfectly reasonable.
After submitting his resignation to the LAPD, Jack contacted David Rossi and received fantastic news: the FBI had decided to establish the new BAU unit headquarters in LA. This meant he didn't have to worry about moving and could continue paying off his mortgage. Why the BAU was being set up in LA? Jack suspected it might be because there were more serial killers on the West Coast (though it was really just the author's convenience).
Given that future cases would involve traveling by FBI jets, he didn't need to overthink the reasons.
Chris had a taste for a high-quality life, evident from the Australian Wagyu steaks stored in his fridge.
Jack melted a pat of butter in a pan and cooked the steaks while watching Chris organize his stockpile of equipment.
Two sets of heavy interceptor body armor, each with a front and back Level IIIA ballistic plate, a scoped HK417, a modified Barrett M82A1 (probably the same one Chris had used before), two MP5A2 submachine guns favored by SWAT teams equipped with laser sights, a variety of handguns, several MK3A2 offensive grenades, and M84 flashbangs.
Jack smirked. To an outsider, it would seem like they were preparing for a full-scale war.
"Better put the Barrett away. The FBI might come sniffing around," Jack suggested, recalling the big stir caused by the last incident with the Southern Front. The Bureau had been investigating that gun ever since.
Chris nodded thoughtfully, repacked the Barrett, and then pulled out an AWM chambered in 7.62mm, explaining seriously, "The ones attacking Dana were professional mercenaries. They had excellent gear."
Jack agreed, flipping the steak onto a plate, then reached for a handgun. "I'll take this one."
He chose the SR1M "Vektor," also known as the "Pit Viper," a powerful pistol second only to the FK7.5 Chris had previously given him. Testing its weight in his hand, Jack loaded the 7N29 armor-piercing rounds into the magazine.
Given his proficiency with handguns, he wasn't worried about missing his target. The real concern was whether the bullets could penetrate the mercenaries' body armor. Since this wasn't a regular police mission, facing professional mercenaries required a lethal approach—two shots to the chest, one to the head, no mercy.
After lunch, Jack retrieved a sleeping bag from Chris's RV and found an empty room to rest and gather his strength, awaiting nightfall.
As night deepened, they set off, driving to the upscale apartment where Rita Boone lived, as per Justin's intel.
Rita Boone was surprised by Chris's late-night visit. Even with a gun pointed at her, the 60-something-year-old woman vehemently denied any involvement in the CFO's death and claimed no knowledge of the attacks on Dana and Chris.
"So, it's clear that the real mastermind is your brother, Blake Boone," Jack asserted.
Rita Boone shook her head furiously, unable to believe her brother was capable of such actions.
Just then, there was another knock on the door. Jack, sensing an opportunity, motioned for Chris to hide with him. It seemed a witness was about to walk right in.
---
"Hello, Braxton," Chris emerged from the bedroom, facing his younger brother but lowering his eyes, unable to meet his gaze.
Braxton Wolf, who had come to silence a witness under his employer's orders, froze in his tracks, his hand halting midway to drawing his gun.
"Chris? Is that really you?" Braxton couldn't believe his eyes.
"I've been looking for you for ten years, and now you just show up, as if we saw each other only yesterday?" His eyes welled up, voice raspy, pacing nervously in front of Chris.
"I'm sorry. I should have found you sooner," Chris said, his voice laden with guilt, staring at his feet.
"What is going on here?" Rita Boone, baffled by the scene unfolding, couldn't grasp what the three men were doing.
"Shh, don't interrupt their touching reunion. I'll explain everything later," Jack pulled her aside, ready to observe the unfolding drama.
"You must be glad to see me, right?" Braxton's stare bore into Chris, filled with mixed emotions.
"I am, really." Chris took a step forward, only to be grabbed by the throat and shoved against the wall by Braxton.
"I have one question for you. Why did you and Dad attend that funeral?" Braxton's voice was filled with pain and anger.
"She abandoned us, don't you remember? Do you not remember?"
The brothers began to grapple, Braxton executing an over-the-shoulder throw, slamming his taller but unresisting brother to the ground.
"Dad's death is your fault, you know that?" Braxton cried as he continued to pummel Chris.
"I'm sorry, truly, I—" Chris tried to speak but was cut off by his brother's wrath.
"Sorry? What good is sorry? You damned freak, it's all your fault!" Braxton hammered at his brother's head, eventually collapsing beside him, exhausted and sobbing.
"You don't care about me. You never cared about your little brother. I've been supporting you all these years, but you had to go see that woman." Braxton lay beside his brother, muttering.
"You should have come to me. You shouldn't have gone to him. You should have come to me. If you felt you had to see her one last time, to attend her funeral, you should have come to me. You know I would always support you."
"I'm sorry, brother. I'm no longer a freak. I'm better now. Someone helped me, and he also helped Justin." Chris pointed to Jack, who was watching nearby.
"Chris is stable now. He's even fallen in love recently. It's true. Uh, you guys continue. Don't mind me." Jack felt awkward, waving sheepishly at the now-upright Braxton.
"Who is he?" Braxton asked, confused, looking at Jack.
"Jack, a cop," Chris replied quickly, sensing his brother's instinct to draw a gun and grabbing his hand to stop him.
"A friend, a very important friend to us. Justin can talk to people normally now. Really, I can take you to see her."
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