Police in America

"Are you planning to approach from the west?" the sheriff asked Harris.

"If he's indeed on the northern ridge, the eastern side will offer a clearer view. There's a cliff there with a gentle slope and a good height, and the visibility is excellent."

Jack chose to trust Harris's judgment, given that the sheriff had mentioned that the militia once used this place as a shooting range.

"Take the walkie-talkie, set the channel to 23. The sheriff and I will draw his attention from the front. Jack, report when you're in position. The rest of you, move through the middle and ascend the northern slope. Stay hidden and get as close as possible," Hotchner instructed while inserting plates into his bulletproof vest, taking on the most dangerous task himself.

"I'll go with you." Rossi smiled as he took a box from the trunk and opened it to reveal a pair of running shoes.

Reid curiously glanced at Jack's HK417 and then tightened the wooden gun box hanging from his waist, which Harris noticed.

"Here's a tip, stick boy: the way you carry your gun is practically an invitation for someone to take it," Harris mocked.

Hotchner wasn't shy about defending Reid. "The last guy who thought that got his head blown off by him, right in front of me."

The others also gave the old militia leader dirty looks. Although they enjoyed teasing Reid themselves, they wouldn't stand by and let an outsider bully him.

Reid remained unfazed, not even responding to Harris. Instead, he joked with Hotchner, "Actually, I meant to shoot his foot that time."

Jack gave him a thumbs-up. Impressive, this kid could now joke with the poker-faced Hotchner.

Emily playfully shoved him and, together with Jie Jie, the three headed along the path towards the northern slope.

Jack drove with Rossi and Harris to the eastern cliff. The slope here was indeed gentle, and he drove halfway up before stopping.

"This is the spot. Perfect angle. I once took out a gray wolf here," Harris said nonchalantly, using a stick to flick away a prairie rattlesnake before lying down in the dry grass.

Just as he had said, the view here was excellent. They could see the top of the opposite cliff clearly.

The distance between the two cliffs was no more than 300 meters. Jack lay down beside Harris and saw the target clearly through the scope.

Henry Foster was pressing a pretty girl to the ground, tying her up with a rope.

"Hotch, we're in position," Rossi said into the walkie-talkie while lying next to Jack.

"He really turned himself into Francis Goring."

Jack noticed that Henry Foster had torn off the bandage on his face, revealing a fresh wound identical to the scar on Francis Goring's face.

Meanwhile, Hotchner was also in position. Holding a megaphone, he directly called out Francis Goring's name instead of Henry Foster's.

"Francis Goring, can you hear me? Channel 2. Let's talk."

Rossi switched his walkie-talkie to channel 2. Sure enough, Henry Foster, with a police walkie-talkie, responded clearly.

"Yes, I can hear you. This is my territory, not yours. Leave, or she dies."

"Fuck, the bastard is too close to the girl. I can't get a clear shot," Harris muttered.

"Jack?" Rossi looked at Jack.

"It's tricky. The wind speed is at least level 5, but it's manageable. No rush, he's not nervous yet. Have Hotchner distract him and get him farther from the girl."

Rossi nodded and switched back to channel 23, whispering to the sheriff beside Hotchner.

Jack looked down the path. Jie Jie, Emily, and two local officers were still struggling through the rugged terrain, at least ten minutes away from a good position.

At the base of the cliff, Hotchner stood in an open area, hands raised, holding only a walkie-talkie.

"I just want to talk."

"You want to talk? Then let's talk! But if you come closer, she gets shot. Understand?" Henry Foster's voice bellowed through the walkie-talkie, growing agitated.

"She'll be the first to die, got it?"

"During the Ruby Ridge incident, was the FBI's policy to shoot to kill?" Harris suddenly asked.

Jack stayed silent, knowing Harris was addressing Rossi, who was about his age.

"It wasn't then, but it is now," Rossi replied bluntly, addressing Harris's ill-intentioned question.

"So, I'm now in your shoes from back then, right?" Harris's tone was self-deprecating, as if he just realized he had become what he despised—a federal stooge.

"Come on, Harris, you know this isn't the same as thirty years ago," Jack tried to defend Rossi. Harris was clearly twisting the facts.

"I was on the scene then, one of the six negotiators sent in," Rossi revealed unexpectedly. "It was a tragedy. The snipers weren't given the order to fire. I'm not shifting blame, just stating facts. Now, I'm ordering you to shoot."

"This madman won't be captured alive. Hotch is risking his life to distract him, so shoot when the time comes."

"I must admit, whether it's this kid, you, the injured pretty girl, or the stern guy, you're all good people. When this is over, you're welcome at my bar," Harris said, then focused on aiming.

On the other side, Hotchner continued talking. "We know you. At 15, your father, a drunkard, kicked you out. He abandoned you."

"Since then, you've been in and out of jail, living a hellish life until Francis took you in. But I'm curious, did he know you were a 'giver,' secretly loving him?"

"Shut up, you bastard!" Henry Foster roared, his voice echoing through the canyon.

"Don't get captured. Be remembered by the world," he muttered into the walkie-talkie.

"Let the girl go. I'll order everyone to leave. Just you and me, let's talk. No need to go that far," Hotchner persisted, standing in the open, less than a hundred meters from an assault rifle.

"Shut up. It has to be this way," Henry Foster yelled, pressing the girl under his knee, raising his AR-15 to fire at Hotchner.

"Bang!"

"Bang!"

Two gunshots rang out almost simultaneously.

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