Police in America

"What happened?" Jack asked, unaware of what had transpired earlier.

Hotchner gave a brief summary of their ordeal. Chester Hardwick, a serial killer who was nearing execution, had planned to use the prison riot as an opportunity to lure in and kill two FBI agents. His hope was that by exploiting the country's lengthy legal and investigative processes, he could extend his life by several years.

Following the court's notification of his execution, Hardwick had been placed under 24-hour isolation, a status that would continue until he was taken to the execution chamber. While this prison was as leaky as a sieve, and he hadn't been completely cut off from other inmates—having received intelligence about the riot from Gunnar Cade—his isolation had nonetheless prevented him from harming any other prisoners.

"So, you guys took him down?" Jack glanced at the death row inmate lying motionless on the floor.

"No, I just choked him unconscious. In fact, Dr. Reid probably did more damage than I did," Hotchner said with a rare smile, his nerves finally relaxing after narrowly escaping death. He shrugged and pointed at Reid.

"When I was barely managing to restrain him, Reid screamed like a little girl and then kicked him between the legs."

"That wasn't a girly scream! Bruce Lee used to shout like that before attacking to intimidate his enemies!" Reid protested, trying to defend himself.

"Give him a break, Dr. Reid. Hotchner clearly didn't grow up watching kung fu movies. His childhood hero was probably Washington, chopping down vampires with an axe," Jack said, chuckling as he reassured Reid. Having guided Reid this far, the last thing Jack wanted was to discourage his newfound interest in combat training.

"You must be thinking of *Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter*. I've seen that movie. The vampires in it were a pretty good political metaphor," Reid said.

"Uh, why do I have this mistaken impression that Washington wielded an axe?" Jack mused.

The three of them bantered as they walked out of the prison building, where Rossi, JJ, and Emily were waiting for them outside.

"Wow, Hotchner, you should try this rugged look more often. I swear Haley would love it," Emily teased, reaching out to straighten Hotchner's disheveled shirt, playfully flirting with her boss.

JJ comforted the still-shaken Reid, ruffling his messy curls, before flashing a sweet smile at Jack.

"Jack, here's your gun and gear." Two SWAT officers carried out the injured Sister Carmelita on a stretcher, followed by Hondo and Deputy Leader Deacon, who handed Jack his rifle and the SEAL gear he had changed out of.

"Hotch, I think it's time we followed up on those weapons we requested," Rossi said as he took the HK417, weighing it in his hands.

"We'll get it done as soon as we get back," Hotchner agreed with a nod. Jack had previously complained about the lack of a dedicated sniper rifle, so Hotchner and Rossi had jointly filed a request.

Of course, they didn't just request a single sniper rifle. They went ahead and asked for an entire armory, and planned to add an extra equipment cabinet to the "Gulfstream" jet. This way, the BAU team would no longer have to rely on borrowing gear from local offices or police departments when traveling on missions.

"Thank you, Jack. You know, it's rare to see such a smooth collaboration between us and the FBI," Hondo said as he reached out to shake hands with the BAU team one by one. As a unit under the LAPD, Hondo's SWAT team often found themselves overshadowed by the FBI's SWAT teams.

Though there wasn't much resentment, it was frustrating for an elite unit to constantly be relegated to supporting roles. It was only natural that they harbored some discontent. But this time, Jack had been one of their own, hailing from the LAPD. While he had certainly made a name for himself, the operation was still centered around their two teams and had been a resounding success.

The LAPD had gained both recognition and a strong sense of accomplishment. Hondo and his superior, Jessica Cortez, were both visibly pleased.

However, their good mood didn't last long, as an unwelcome figure soon appeared.

"You've all been a tremendous help, Officer," said the prison contractor, Ash Jones, as he approached Hondo, flanked by a few reporters.

Jones seemed to have regained his composure and was now brimming with energy.

"Actually, I'm a sergeant," Hondo said, ignoring Jones' outstretched hand.

"Ah, my mistake, Sergeant," Jones replied awkwardly, glancing at the cameras the reporters were pointing at him, trying his best to appear sincere and enthusiastic. "Thanks to you and your team's efforts, justice has been served. We're grateful."

Hondo's face darkened, and he looked down his nose at Jones with clear disdain.

"What are you thanking us for? For saving your sweatshop? For helping you suppress the inmates so you can keep cramming four or even six prisoners into a single cell?"

Jones' face flushed with anger at the blunt criticism. "I don't know what you're accusing me of, Sergeant."

The reporters, who had been previously disinterested, suddenly perked up. They had been dragged here to cover what they thought was a dull prison riot. But now, with Hondo's words revealing potential corruption, sweatshops, and prisoner rights violations, they were buzzing with excitement, their minds racing with ideas for explosive headlines.

Jones looked nervously at the now-energized reporters behind him and tried to sound threatening.

"You'd better watch what you say. This country still has libel laws. You should think carefully before making these accusations, unless you want to deal with my lawyers."

Furious, Hondo ignored his superior, Jessica Cortez, who was subtly tugging at his sleeve, trying to intervene on his behalf. He stepped forward, ready to confront Jones head-on.

"Bring it on. I'll be waiting for your lawyer's letter. And let me tell you what I'm going to do."

"I'll go to the prison board, I'll go to the city council, and I'll present the evidence to everyone. The warden's death, the harm done to the nun—it's all because of you, because of your greed. And I'm going to make sure you pay for it."

The sound of sharp footsteps echoed through the air, and a group of stylish women in high heels appeared behind the crowd.

"Assemblywoman Anderson!" The reporters, who had been watching the scene unfold, started whispering among themselves, recognizing the woman as Zoe Anderson, a rising star in California's political scene.

"You don't need to go through all that trouble. You can hand over any relevant evidence directly to me."

Zoe smiled charmingly as she stepped forward, her flawless complexion and shapely figure belying her age—she was a stunning woman in her thirties, a mature and sophisticated lady.

"Harrison, long time no see," she greeted Hondo with a warm smile.

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