Police in America

"What do you want?" The rickety door creaked open, revealing a man with a face full of acne, so thin he looked like a skeleton, swaying unsteadily in the doorway.

"We're looking for Chip Hanson. Is he here?" The old chief glared at the emaciated drug addict before him with an unkind expression.

The drug addict's eyes were unfocused, staring blankly at the two of them without even noticing Jack, who was standing a short distance away. It took him a long time to finally focus.

"I don't know, man," he mumbled, making it seem like he hadn't even heard the question clearly until he noticed Jane standing beside the old chief.

"Who the fuck are you?" The drug addict's eyes suddenly lit up, and he began eyeing Jane with a sleazy look.

Jane didn't hesitate to snap back, "I'm FBI, idiot. Are you Sam?"

"No..." The guy stared blankly at Jane, seemingly lost in some kind of fantasy.

"Did you get high again, Sam?" The old chief felt a headache coming on. "How many times have I thrown you in jail?"

"Oh, it's you, Chief. What's up?" The drug addict, Sam, finally recognized who was in front of him.

"Do you remember where your brother is?" the old chief asked.

Sam looked up at the sky, as if trying hard to remember, and after a long pause, he suddenly snapped back to reality.

"He's in jail. You locked him up."

"What? He wasn't paroled?" The old chief turned to Jane with a smile. "Wow, look at that, the local justice system works pretty well."

"Uh, that reminds me, my parole officer asked me to give you something."

As Sam said this, he began searching his pockets while muttering to himself, "Oh, I found it... It's right here."

Before the old chief could react, Jane had already sensed something was wrong. "Wait, let me see your hands—let me see them!"

Meanwhile, Jack had already drawn his Glock, but before he could act, a spray of pepper mist shot out from Sam's waist, hitting the old chief and Jane squarely in the face.

"Ahhh!"

Both of them cried out in pain as they were hit by the pepper spray. On the other hand, Jack saw the man retreat back into the house and, instead of drawing his gun, he grabbed two clean handfuls of snow from the ground. Holding back a laugh, he quickly approached the two.

"Ah, fuck! Cough, cough!"

The two were coughing uncontrollably, bending over and kneeling in the snow, gasping for air.

"Don't open your eyes." Jack held up the old chief and pressed the snow against his face, trying to ease the pain.

"Help me," Jane, her face covered in snot and tears, grabbed Jack's arm, looking like a fish out of water gasping for air.

Jack didn't offer her any sympathy or quick relief; the longer the pain lasted, the more lasting the lesson. He handed her a snowball to rub on her face, then took her service pistol from her hands. "Stay here until I get back."

The tin house was falling apart, reeking of filth. Jack followed the staggering footsteps at a steady pace, passing through a living room and into the hallway leading to the back rooms.

He could clearly hear Sam retreating into the farthest room, frantically rummaging through something, followed by the distinct sound of a shotgun being cocked.

Jack paused at the end of the hallway, surveying his surroundings. He nudged an empty bottle that was lying against the wall with his foot, causing it to roll into the middle of the hallway with a series of clattering noises. 

Sam burst out of the room, firing his shotgun at the noise, only to realize there was nothing there.

Before he could look up toward the end of the hallway,

"Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!"

Without a moment's hesitation, Jack emptied his magazine into Sam, feeling no guilt about taking down a brain-dead junkie whose mind was almost completely eroded by drugs.

As the gunfire continued, Jack advanced down the hallway. By the time he had fired off all 15 rounds, he was standing in front of Sam.

With a click, Jack's Glock 22 locked back, signaling an empty chamber. He pressed the magazine release, letting the empty magazine drop into his left hand, while simultaneously sliding a fresh 15-round magazine into place.

Another click, and with a gentle push of his thumb on the release button, the slide snapped back into place—a master-level technique executed with perfect smoothness.

This was Jack's first time encountering a "creature" with such tenacious vitality. Even after taking 15 rounds of .40 caliber bullets, Sam was still barely alive.

Sam lay at the end of the hallway, his eyes vacant as he stared at Jack, a look of confusion on his face, as if still unable to comprehend where this guy had come from.

Jack kicked away the shotgun that had fallen next to Sam. Safety first—these drug-fueled junkies couldn't be judged by normal standards. He'd heard stories of them charging at cops after being shot a dozen times, like high-level "zombies."

Behind him, he heard the shuffling of footsteps. The old chief and Jane, still supporting each other, stumbled into the hallway. Their eyes were red and swollen, and their noses were still running.

"Cory caught the other two guys at the back door. Let's go," the old chief said.

"This guy... this guy is still alive. We need to call an ambulance," Jane said, looking at the still-breathing Sam, her expression conflicted.

"This is the reservation. An ambulance is an hour away," the old chief said, glancing down at Sam with an expression as though he were looking at a pile of non-recyclable trash.

Jack handed Jane back her Glock 22, offering a mock compliment, "Nice shooting, Agent Banner."

Jane shot him a furious glare, then took her gun, wiped it clean of fingerprints with her glove, and shoved it back into her holster.

This kill had to be credited to Jane—Jack couldn't be mentioned in the police report, or he'd be summoned back to Los Angeles to face inquiries. Although it wouldn't cause major trouble, it would interfere with the ongoing investigation.

The old chief, wise beyond his years, pretended not to have seen anything and headed straight for the back door. Meanwhile, Sam, lying on the ground, let out a few more ragged breaths before finally succumbing to his injuries.

---

"You guys okay?" Cory Lambert leaned lazily against the back door, holding a Smith & Wesson M686 revolver.

In front of him, two young men knelt in the snow, shivering from the cold.

"We're fine," Jane said, waving her hand as she wiped her nose with her sleeve. Her image was already in shambles, so as long as she wasn't embarrassed, the embarrassment would fall on someone else.

"This skinny one here is the Hanson kid," Cory said, pointing to the guy kneeling on the right before holstering his revolver.

Jack looked at the defiant punk in front of him—this kid was already ruined. 

Although he was clearly under 18, his appearance made him look like he was 35, and compared to the drugged-up Sam from before, he barely resembled a human.

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