It's Friday night, it's almost 5:30, and the last thing he wants is to take a call from a CI, and start a fresh case moments before the weekend. But this is the second call in less than two minutes, and he doesn't really have a choice at this point.

"Halstead," he answers, pulling down his mask and rubbing a hand down his face.

"Yo, Halstead, yeah, hey. Listen I've been trying to get a hold of you man, you gotta help me." It's Christopher Hunt, one of his CIs he's known the longest. "Uh, so, I'm gettin' tailed man. They've been following me for a week now. And they're gonna get me, listen you gotta bring me in, okay?" Nervous doesn't even touch what Christopher is right now, this is panic.

"Woah woah woah." Jay stands, immediately alarmed. "Hunt, slow down. What are you talking about?"

"Just come pick me up man. Bring me into the district or they are going to pop me." He sounds out of breath, and Jay can hear the swish of the wind whipping past him. It almost seems like he's literally running.

"Okay. Okay. Where are you?" He grabs his keys from the corner of his desk, "I can come right now."

"Uh," more heavy breathing, more swishing, "Like almost at 6000 S King Drive. By Washington Park. Just hurry up, man."

"I'm on my way." He hangs up, and slides his mask back up over his nose, as he heads down the stairs and out of the bullpen.

Ignoring a "Goodnight, Detective," from his desk sergeant, he just about runs out the front of the precinct on the way to his truck. Lights on, sirens off, he leaves the 21st district and heads towards Washington Park.

He knows Christopher; he's known him for a long time. He pinched him for just 5 grams of speed almost five years ago, and he knows he's a good guy. As CIs go, he's easy to track down, easy to talk to, and generally trustworthy enough. It's not like he'd go running for just any CI, but this one, he knows him.

It doesn't take him more than 20 minutes to get to the edge of Washington Park, rolling northbound he hits 5958 S King Drive first. He whips the truck to the side of the road, lights still on, dialing Christopher again.

It rings four times before clicking over to a generic voicemail.

He unbuckles and immediately calls him again.

Again, four rings and right to voicemail.

Just as he's about to put the truck back into drive, a woman runs out of a building a couple of doors down, waving her arms. "Hey! Hey!"

He jumps out of the truck, running the 200 feet down the block. "Ma'am, Chicago PD." He reaches for his badge on his belt, as she cuts him off.

"Yeah, I know, I just called y'all." She's got her t-shirt covering her nose and mouth, and they're a good seven or eight feet apart. "Someone is out here shooting up this neighborhood in broad-damn-daylight!"

Jay scans the immediate surroundings. There are people standing on the stoops all around them, and a couple of faces even poking out of windows. In the distance he can hear the patrol cars rolling closer to them, the ones that will actually be responding to her call.

The basketball courts to his right are deserted, just a solo basketball rolls across the court.

He looks back towards the woman, "Okay, ma'am, where did you hear them come from? Did you see anything?"

She throws her arm towards the edge basketball courts, pointing. "A whole bunch of guys came up from that corner there, out of an SUV. I saw them as I was letting my cat in, and I turned around to close the front door, and pop-pop." She snaps her fingers twice. "Two shots."

Jay looks from the edge of the park, and back to her, placing a hand out towards her, "Stay here!" Jay doesn't wait for the rest of her story, he sprints to the edge of the basketball courts, there are five or six trees demarking the corner of the park. Running right for them, he spots the white soles of a pair of sneakers. "Hunt!"

Laying in the grass, barely obstructed at the base of an oak tree, Christopher Hunt is gasping for air, blood running out of his mouth and pouring from the two bullet holes in his chest.

"Fuck," Jay hisses. "Chris." He pulls his radio from his hip, "10-52, this is Detective Halstead. 10-52. Roll an ambu to the southwest side of Washington Park. I'm at the corner of E 60th and S King." He tosses his radio to the side. "Christopher!" His hands fly the wounds, trying to press hard enough on each one to slow the flow of blood leaving his chest. "Stay with me, buddy."

The sirens of the patrol cars come back to him, he looks wildly around, they're coming up the same street he did now. Jay presses harder, knowing there is too much blood on his hands to keep Chris alive for much longer.

"Christopher. Hey, Christopher!" His eyes struggle to flutter open. "C'mon man, tell me who did this? Who's after you?" The first set of patrol cars park behind him at the edge of the park, four uniformed officers run out of their cars towards him. "C'mon!" Christopher's mouth moves slightly, fighting to form words.

One of the four officers stands closely behind Jay, clearly unsure what to do. Jay turns, "Help me!"

Christopher's lips continue to shake towards a word. The patrolman quickly replaces the pressure as Jay moves his left hand. "Stay with me," Jay grits out, leaning closer to Christopher.

The ambulance can't be far behind, I can hear them.

Jay's left hand takes a hold of Christopher's cheek, "Who did this?" he pleads. But his eyes are closed again, his lips have stopped moving. Jay taps his cheek, "Come on, man." His voice starting to sound desperate, "Who did this?"

The patrolman to his left says something, but all that Jay can focus on is the man dying in front of him. The man that had called him no more than 30 minutes ago wanting help, dying just under his right hand.

Two EMTs run up next to them, one of them crouching next to Jay, gently moving his hand away. Dazed, Jay sits back on his heels, scanning the park, watching the faces that are taking in the gruesome scene.

It's not even two minutes that the two EMTs attempt to save the man in front of him, who's blood now covers his hands. "I'm sorry, Detective." one of them says to him.

That's it.

It's over.

If he had driven a little faster. If he had answered on the first call. If he had given Christopher just two minutes of his time yesterday, would he be sitting here next to his dead body right now?

Grabbing his radio, he stands, taking one last look at Christopher. He turns, leaving the mess of patrolmen, the looky-loos, and the EMTs at the edge of the park. Slowly, he starts back to his truck, and to the woman he left standing in the middle of the street.

Get your head on straight, Halstead.

She's standing right where he left her, she's let her t-shirt drop from her face, but her eyebrows are just as furrowed, her eyes lock on to his blood-stained hands. "Ma'am," she looks up to his face, "I'm going to need you to give a statement."