Jacob
The early morning clings to Brainerd like a damp shroud. The streets are mostly quiet, save for the occasional hum of an engine or the sharp cry of a bird overhead. Jacob Boothe shifts uncomfortably in the passenger seat of the patrol car, the black vinyl sticking to his uniform where his body heat's already soaked through the fabric. His fingers tap against his thigh, a steady rhythm betraying his nerves.
"You've got to stop fighting it, Jake," Dean Raymond says, one hand on the steering wheel, the other cradling a cigarette he hasn't lit yet. Smoke lingers in the car anyway, clinging to Dean like a second skin. "You want to climb the ladder? You've got to kiss Chambers' ass. It's just how it works."
Jacob snorts, barely masking his disdain. Ain't no way this motherfucker just told me to kiss Chambers' ass. "Chambers is an asshole. Respect's a two-way street, and he's always parked himself in the middle of mine. I been dealing with racists my entire life, Raymond, and if that mother fucker doesn't hate black people, I will eat my badge."
Dean chuckles dryly, shaking his head. "I'm going to say something that might sound fucked up, but it's the truth. It doesn't matter if he's a racist. This job's not about respect; it's about survival. You've got to blend in, kid. Stop sticking out like a sore thumb and giving Chambers an excuse to shit on you. Like it or not, he's still our sergeant, and you have to follow the chain of command, understand?"
"You're my senior officer, I'll go through you. Fuck him." Jacob says. His jaw tightens, the muscles clenching as his fingers still against his thigh. He stares out the window at the drab cityscape, the cracked sidewalks and flickering neon signs. He's not here to kiss anyone's ass. He's here to prove himself, to make something of the badge pinned to his chest.
The radio crackles, cutting through the silence between them. "Unit 12, we've got a disturbance at Jake's Diner on 8th. Intoxicated individual causing a scene. Handle Code 2."
Dean sighs, tossing the cigarette out the window even though he never lit it. "Guess that's us. Let's go babysit some drunk."
. . .
The diner smells of coffee, pancakes, and bacon. Jacob steps inside, the dim light casting shadows over the grimy floor. A handful of patrons sit hunched over their breakfast, their faces turned away from the commotion near the jukebox. The source of the chaos is easy to spot. A wiry man in a tattered hoodie sways on unsteady feet, arms flailing as he shouts. His words are a jumble, slurred and nonsensical, but the venom in his voice is sharp enough to draw the attention of every pair of eyes in the room. There's a bottle in a paper bag in his clutches, and spots of liquid trail on the floor around him as he tosses and turns, splashing it everywhere.
"They're all gonna die!" the drunk yells, his voice cracking. Spit flies from his mouth, glistening under the neon lights as "Don't fear the Reaper" plays over the jukebox. "Every last one of you!"
Jacob strides toward him, his boots heavy against the floor. "Alright, that's enough," he says, his voice firm. "Time to go home."
The man turns to him, eyes wild and bloodshot, and laughs—a high-pitched, hysterical sound that grates on Jacob's nerves. "Home? You think I've got a home, boy?"
Dean steps up beside Jacob, hands raised in a calming gesture. "Look, buddy, we're not here to argue. Let's take it outside. You're scaring the good folks in here."
Jacob doesn't wait for the drunk to cooperate. He grabs him by the arm, causing the bottle to slip from his grasp and crash within its paper bag on the floor. The man resists, his body jerking like a marionette with tangled strings. The crowd around them gasp as the drunk leans into Jacob and mutters, his voice low and slurred, "You don't get it... You don't see what's coming."
. . .
Outside, the morning air hits Jacob like a slap. He lets go of the man's arm, watching as he stumbles forward and collapses against a lamppost. "Go home," Jacob repeats, his tone colder now.
The man doesn't move. He just sits there, rocking back and forth, muttering to himself. Jacob's patience wears thin.
Dean steps between them, a hand on Jacob's chest. "Ease up, Jake. He's drunk, not a criminal."
Jacob scowls but steps back. He folds his arms as Dean crouches beside the man, speaking in low tones until he finally gets him to his feet and sends him shuffling down the street.
Back in the car, Dean doesn't say anything at first. The silence stretches until it feels like a noose tightening around Jacob's neck. Finally, Dean exhales and says, "You can't talk to people like that, Jake. Especially not in front of a crowd."
Jacob snorts. "The guy was rambling about the end of the world. What was I supposed to do?"
"You're supposed to keep your cool," Dean says, his tone sharp now. "You're not gonna make it far if you don't learn to handle people."
Jacob shakes his head, muttering under his breath. "Oh, I can handle people."
. . .
Dean doesn't answer right away. Instead, he pulls into a gas station, the fluorescent lights humming overhead. "We're stopping for gas. You want anything?"
Jacob doesn't respond. He pulls out his phone, thumbing through missed notifications until he spots one from Brianna. His heart sinks. A missed call from his little sister is never a good sign.
He dials her back, his fingers trembling slightly as the phone rings. When Bri answers, her voice is shaky, tinged with fear.
"Jacob," she whispers. "Dad's yelling at Mom again. Zoe's scared. I've got her up in my room, but…"
"Bri, I-Did you call 911 or just me?"
"You're a cop! Do something!"
"I'll be there soon," Jacob says, his voice low and steady. He hangs up before she can respond.
Dean is watching him when he gets back in the car. "What's going on?"
Jacob meets his partner's gaze, his eyes hard. "We're going to my parents' place. Now."
Dean frowns. "That bad?"
Jacob nods, jaw tight. "It's bad."
But before they can pull out, the radio crackles again. "All units, shots fired at 14th and Main outside of Lowe's. Officers need backup immediately."
Dean looks at Jacob, his expression grim. "You know the rules. We've got to respond."
Jacob's knuckles whiten around the wheel as he grips it, his mind a storm of fury and indecision. For a long moment, he doesn't move. Then, with a growl of frustration, he slams the car into gear and speeds toward 14th and Main.
The flashing red and blue lights paint his dark face in harsh streaks, but his thoughts are miles away, back at the house where his sisters are waiting for a hero who may never come.
. . .
The hardware store looms ahead, a hulking brick box with jagged windows that spill faint light into the street. Gunshots crackle in bursts, sharp and urgent, reverberating through the humid air. The strobe of red and blue lights bathes the scene in shifting shadows, making the officers and their cruisers look like figures in a fever dream.
Jacob grips his pistol tight, the sweat on his palms slick against the cold metal. Two cops lie in the street ahead, one slumped against the curb, blood gushing from his side. Another writhes in agony, his leg twisted unnaturally. Their groans cut through the chaos, low and guttural.
Sergeant Chambers is a monolith in the chaos, barking orders into the radio like a general rallying his troops. His face is a mask of fury, every line etched deep with years of battles fought on streets just like this one. He doesn't look at Jacob as he growls, "Boothe, Raymond, take the back. Make sure these bastards don't slip out."
"Got it," Jacob says, his voice clipped.
Dean throws him a glance, one part wary, one part resigned, and mutters, "Let's move."
They weave through the chaos, ducking behind patrol cars and skirting the glass-strewn pavement. The gunfire grows distant as they turn into a narrow alley behind the store. The air here is damp and rank, thick with the smell of rotting garbage and motor oil. The back door comes into view. Jacob crouches low, scanning the shadows as they approach the closest door. He tests the handle, and is surprised to find it unlocked.
"One of the employees must've left it unlocked," Dean says, pressing his back against the brick wall. "We wait here. If they come out, we take 'em down. Simple."
"Simple?" Jacob hisses, his voice tight with frustration. "They're trapped in there, desperate. If they take down the breach team, it's on us."
Dean doesn't look at him, keeping his eyes on the door. "Jacob, now's not the time! Follow orders, stay alive."
Jacob's jaw tightens, his pulse hammering in his ears. He stares at the door, every fiber of his being screaming to act. "You stay here, then," he says, rising.
"Don't you—"
But Jacob's already moving, slipping through the door before Dean can grab him.
. . .
Inside, the air feels heavier, dense with the stench of sweat, blood, and sawdust. The dim fluorescent lighting flickers sporadically, casting the cavernous warehouse in eerie half-light. The shadows seem to shift and twist, mocking him as he creeps forward, pistol raised. Dean is on the radio informing Chambers of what Jacob just did. Jacob tunes it Chamber's voice yelling at him and focuses on what's around the corner... Somewhere ahead, faint voices drift through the rows of shelves stacked high with lumber, paint cans, and tools. He moves closer, stepping between pallets stacked with boxes. The voices grow clearer, strained and tense.
"—can't leave us, man!"
"They're closing in," another voice says, trembling. "We've got to move now!"
Then, a deeper voice cuts through the others, calm and sharp as a razor. "Shut the hell up."
Jacob rounds a corner and sees them. There's six men, all huddled near the loading dock. Three of them are slumped against the wall, blood soaking through their shirts. Their faces are pale, their breaths labored. Two of the others have guns out and are looking into the store for any sign of the cops breaching. The sixth man is pacing in circles, and Jacob recognizes him. Tyson Taylor.
Tyson Taylor is as gaunt as a scarecrow, his wiry frame stretched out beneath a battered hoody. His black goatee twitches as he speaks, his gun hanging loose at his side like it's an extension of his arm, weighing it down.
"We leave them," Tyson says, gesturing to the wounded men with the muzzle of his pistol. "Cops'll waste time on these fools while we slip the fuck outta here."
"You can't—" one of the wounded starts to say, his voice shaking.
"They'll talk, man!" one of the uninjured thugs says with wide eyes, his voice rising into a panicked wail. "They talk and it's over for me, man, I don't got a fucking record like you."
Jacob watches as Tyson's expression darkens. Tyson has a laundry list of crimes under his belt. Jacob's seen his warrant. Tyson's lip curls into a sneer, and without a moment's hesitation, he raises his gun.
Three loud POPs ring through the warehouse as all three of the injured men slump to the floor with fresh, bleeding holes in their heads...
Jacob's stomach churns, rage and adrenaline surging through his veins. Fuck it! "Police! Drop the gun!" he yells, stepping out of the shadows with his pistol aimed squarely at Tyson.
Tyson spins, his gun coming up. There's no hesitation, no moment of surrender. Jacob fires.
The shot hits Tyson's arm, sending his pistol clattering to the floor. Tyson yells out "Mother fucker!" as the other gangsters scatter, hazardously returning fire. The warehouse erupts in chaos! Jacob ducks behind a stack of crates, bullets tearing through the wood as he reloads. Shit! Shit! Shit! He peeks out and fires, taking down one of the gangsters as he tries to flank him. Another rushes toward the back door, but Jacob's next shot drops him before he can make it.
In the frenzy, Tyson grabs his weapon with his good hand and bolts for the far exit. Jacob lines up his sights, but then one of the gangsters he already shot and downed gets back up again and charges at him, forcing him to pivot and fire. The man crumples to the floor as the bullet rocks his skull back, his blood pooling beneath him.
When Jacob looks up, Tyson is gone. The door swings shut with a metallic clang, leaving only silence and the acrid tang of gunpowder hanging in the air.
. . .
"Jacob!?" Dean's voice echoes through the warehouse as he rushes in, his gun raised. His wide eyes dart around the carnage before landing on Jacob. "Jesus. You alright?"
Jacob nods, his chest heaving, the adrenaline still coursing through him. His hands tremble as he holsters his pistol, his gaze fixed on the bodies sprawled across the floor. "I got two of them. Tyson Taylor, it was Tyson Taylor's gang. He ran out that way." He nods toward the door that Tyson escaped out of, but Dean is more focused on Jacob.
More officers flood in moments later, their boots pounding against the concrete. Sergeant Chambers storms in, his face red and his expression roiling with rage. "What the hell were you thinking, Boothe?" Chambers growls, his voice cutting through the haze. "I told you to wait outside!"
Jacob doesn't answer, his focus still on the blood-streaked floor. On the door Taylor escaped through. Why is no one going after him?! This isn't over!
"Go give your statement to Bell," Chambers snaps, his tone biting. "I can't deal with you right now."
Dean gives Jacob a wary look but says nothing. Jacob turns, his footsteps heavy as he heads toward the waiting officers, the echoes of Tyson's cold gaze burned into his mind.
. . .
Outside the hardware store, the chaos feels distant. The chatter of radios, the wail of sirens, and the murmurs of officers fade into a dull hum as Jacob steps into the brisk morning air. His breathing slows, but his pulse remains a hammer in his chest. The adrenaline of the shootout still courses through him, making his hands tremble as he pulls a cigarette from his pocket. He doesn't light it, just rolls it between his fingers as he spots Officer Bell approaching.
Bell is small but sturdy, her blonde hair tied back in a severe bun. Her sharp blue eyes miss nothing as she steps into his path, clipboard in hand. "Officer Boothe," she says, her tone curt but professional. "I need your statement about what went down in there."
Jacob exhales hard, as if trying to expel the weight pressing on his chest. He gives her the rundown—his voice steady, detached. It's a retelling devoid of the raw panic and rage he'd felt inside. He paints himself as a cop doing his job, though he knows Bell's sharp gaze picks up the rough edges of his account.
As he finishes, the faint buzz of his phone cuts through the air. He glances at the screen. Bri.
Jacob's stomach tightens. His finger hovers over the "answer" button for a moment, but instead, he pockets the phone, muttering, "Excuse me."
Bell arches an eyebrow. "We're not done here, Boothe."
"Just give me a second," he says, already walking away.
He dials Bri back as he moves toward his cruiser, shielding his eyes from the flashing lights. The phone barely rings before she picks up.
"Jake!" Bri's voice is frantic, raw with fear. She's crying—Jacob can hear it in the way her words stumble over each other.
"Calm down, Bri. What's going on?" His voice is low, firm.
"It's Dad," she sobs. "Something's wrong with him. He—he just started screaming out of nowhere. He's not making sense, Jake. I think he did something really bad this time to Mom!"
Jacob freezes. "What?"
"He's outside my door now. I've got Zoe with me, but he's trying to break it down!" Her voice cracks, and in the background, Jacob hears the pounding thud of fists against wood, relentless and terrifying.
"Bri, listen to me," Jacob says, his voice sharpening. "Take Zoe and barricade yourselves in. Push the bed, anything heavy, against the door. I'm coming, okay?"
"Jake, please! I don't know how long—"
"I'm on my way!" Jacob growls. He ends the call, his fingers tightening around his phone like it's a lifeline.
He turns back toward Officer Bell, who watches him from a few feet away, her expression shifting from irritation to concern as she sees his face.
"Boothe?" she asks.
Jacob shakes his head, already moving past her. "I gotta go."
"Wait a second!" Bell's voice follows him, sharp and commanding. "You can't just leave the scene—"
"My family needs me! It's my fucking dad again." Jacob snaps over his shoulder, not slowing.
"Then call it in!" Bell shouts after him. "This isn't—"
But Jacob's already sliding into his cruiser, his hands shaking as he fumbles with the keys. The engine roars to life, and he tears out of the lot, sirens wailing.
The phone sits in the passenger seat, Bri's voice echoing in his head.
"Hold on, Bri," he mutters. "I'm coming."