Captain Jensen looked at Detective Roy Harkin's credentials, a Los Angeles Police force 
shield pinned opposite his laminated photo ID. "Imagine Mr. Thornhill's surprise when 
he found out one of his good friends was really a cop," the short, rat-nosed goon with 
the gun said. Behind him stood two taller, bulkier men, each brandishing .45s.
	"Now, Mr. Thornhill's a pretty decent guy," the goon, Willy, continued. "So if 
you hand over all the info Harkin gave you within twenty-four hours, you get your man 
back in one piece. But, if you try anything funny--"
	"I don't make deals with two-bit scumbags like you," Jensen said.
	Willy pointed the muzzle of his gun in Jensen's face. "I'd watch you're mouth if 
I was you, Captain."
	"Get thing out of my face."
	"I'll point this thing wherever I--"
	In a flash, Jensen grabbed the man's wrist and twisted, knocking him across his 
face with his right fist. Then he spun the goon around, holding him like a shield and 
taking his own gun from him. Jensen trained it on the other two. "Drop the guns. Right 
now."
	They hesitated. "Do it," Willy gasped, the captain's arm squeezing against his 
throat. "Do it, you morons."
	They complied, dropped the guns to the carpet. Jensen, keeping the gun on them, 
gave Willy a shove forward into the two leviathans. "Go back to Thornhill. Tell him 
he's got himself a deal."
	"That's Mr. Thornhill to you," Willy said, his voice even more rat-like as he 
held his sore nose in his hand, and the three of them scrambled out of Jensen's 
entrance foyer.



"Harkin's assignment was highly classified," Jensen said sometime later, standing on the 
balcony of Chase's beachfront house. "If he's been sold out, it would have taken someone 
high up in the department, which is why I can't bring the force in on this. As soon as I 
announce what I'm doing, the traitor might make a call. With August out of town for the 
week with Kendra, you're the only one I can trust, Chase."
	Chase McDonald stood beside his captain, and nodded. "Don't worry, Captain. I'll 
find him."
	"No. I will. Either somebody in the department blew his cover or he did it himself. 
Either way, I'm responsible. He was reluctant to do the gig, but I talked him into it. 
If anything goes wrong, I have to know I did everything humanly possible to save him."
	"I understand. What do you want me to do?"
	"Harkin was in deep. I mean deep. He really burned Thornhill. When it comes time to 
do it, Thornhill will pull the trigger himself. I want you to shadow him. That way, if I 
don't make it, at least you'll be able to stop him in time. Those goons came to my house 
at two-thirty"--he checked his watch--"and it's almost four-thirty now. We've got twenty-
two hours."
	They walked back inside and headed for the front door. "Try to get some sleep, 
Captain. I'll get started right away."



Jensen was back at the police station, sitting in his office, pouring over files full 
of text-littered papers. The files Harkin had gotten were excellent police work. One of 
Thornhill's members was Anthony Greene. The photo paperclipped to his profile showed he 
was another two-bit goon, with the appearance of a slick used car dealer. According to 
his profile, Greene mostly handled the numbers-running of Thornhill's organization and 
other low-profile activities, while at the same time running an underground nightclub 
called the Tarantula. The text also revealed that rumors of Greene being "edged out" of 
Thornhills's inner circle in the near future and his "extreme" fear of imprisonment made 
him an ideal candidate for turning state's evidence against his boss.
	Jensen set the file down and leaned back in his chair, massaging his eyes. Not in 
years had he been up this late, in his office, going over paperwork. He thought about 
what he would do if Greene proved to be useless. To be honest, he had no idea. But in 
the back of his mind, he vowed that he would not lose another good cop.

Jensen walked down the dark alley, approaching the unmarked entrance to the Tarantula. 
A black-clad doorman was positioned outside front of it, a guy big enough to give 
Schwarzenegger a run for his money. "Sorry, pops," the guy said. "I think you got the 
wrong place."
	Jensen shoved his credentials in the man's face. "Open the door. Tell Greene I 
wanna talk. Now."
	The guard quickly opened the door and lead Jensen inside and down a flight of 
metal steps. The guard told him to wait while he went into the back office, marked 
"private." A driving techno beat resounded throughout the bar, but the place was less 
than full. A few drunks were seated at the bar, their heads sagging on their shoulders. 
A scantily-clad young waitress moved from table to table with a tray full of empty 
glasses.
	Greene was talking with three suited men when his guard came bustling in, pointing 
back at the door and saying, "There's some police captain here looking for you. He 
showed me his badge."
	"Just calm down," Greene said. He stood and straightened his tie, looking like a 
salesman preparing to lunge on some unsuspecting customer. "I'll go see what he wants."
	A knock fell on the door, and then it slammed opened. Jensen charged in with his 
revolver drawn, shoving the muzzle up against the temple of the man closest to him. 
"Don't move," he ordered the others, and confiscated his captive's sidearm.
	One of the others charged, and Jensen knocked him upside the head with his buddy's 
gun, sending the man crashing to the floor. The third shot his hand inside his coat, but 
Jensen brought the 9mm around and aimed it at him. "Don't even try it," he said. "Slowly. 
Drop it."
	The guy pulled the gun from his shoulder holster with two fingers and dropped it 
onto the ground. A gun in each hand, Jensen angled around the room until all three men 
were between him and the door. "Everybody out. Me and Greene have some things to talk 
about. In private."
	They left quickly. When the door shut, Jensen turned, holstering his revolver and 
tossing the Beretta onto a chair. "You've got ten seconds to tell me where they're 
holding the undercover officer. If you don't, I'll bust you for selling liquor without a 
license."
	Greene was squiggling in his leather chair. "You can't be serious."
	"I am serious, you two-bit piece of scum," Jensen hollered, leaning over the desk. 
"Now where's my officer?"



The warehouse was on the waterfront. A good hideout. Jensen looked down into the room 
from the second-story office window. He spotted Harkin, tied to a chair, his head 
leaning to one side. He'd probably been beaten pretty good. Five men were sitting around 
a table, playing poker. They all wore shoulder holsters, packing .45s and .9mms.
	Seconds later, they all looked up as the door at the top of the stairs slammed 
open. Jensen stepped out onto the landing, gun aimed down at them, and shouted, "On your 
feet! Hands up!"
	He descended the steps slowly as the men did as they were told. They looked right 
out of a 50s movie, dressed in ties and smoking cigarettes, with three of them sporting 
fedoras. "Don't even think about moving," Jensen said as he moved toward Harkin.
	"Or what?" the main guy, Harold, asked. "You can't drop us all."
	"You're right," Jensen replied, letting the man look down the barrel of his .45. 
"This being a revolver and considering my age, I'd bet I can only take out the first 
three of you that move. Who wants to see if I'm right?"
	As he looked at them, he realized something. There were five men, but he counted 
six chairs with coats hanging over the backsides. The attack came from behind, something 
hitting him hard, and the gun flew from his hand. He slumped over the back of his beaten 
officer, and the man who had just come out of the restroom behind him dropped the wood 
pole onto the ground.
	He and the young kid with a red baseball cap lifted Jensen and held him by the arms. 
Two of the fedora-wearing goons came forward, but taking them by surprise, Jensen kicked 
his foot back in the pole-wielding man's right knee, and his grip loosened. Jensen turned 
and planted his right fist into the young kid's face.
	But as he turned to face the others, Harold got a swing in, and an intense pain 
shot through the captain's jaw as he fell to the floor.



Vincent Thornhill sat behind the desk in his den. "Should have let me known sooner, 
Mr. Malone," he said to the man he had no idea was really a police detective named 
Chase McDonald. "I'm always interested in doing business with my friends in Detroit."
	Chase was dressed in a dark suit with matching tie, passing himself off as a gun 
runner named Tony Malone. "My . . . 'associates,' as we'll call them, recommended you 
very highly, Mr. Thornhill, but they're concerned. They say you can't handle the 
police."
	Thornhill gave a hearty laugh. "Lies started by my enemies," he said. "In reality, 
the situation is well under control, and I--" His phone began ringing. "Excuse me, Mr. 
Malone." He lifted the receiver. "This had better be good."
	"The captain tried for the cop," the voice on the other end said. "We got him."
	"Excellent. Bring them here." He hung up and turned back to Chase. "Perhaps you'd 
like to stay for awhile, Mr. Malone? I'll show you something that will put you and your 
friends' fears to rest."

Captain Jensen and Roy Harkin were both tied in chairs when Thornhill returned to his 
office with Chase. The detective avoided eye contact with either men, and they did the 
same. Though judging from Harkin's apparent weakened condition, he couldn't make eye 
contact with Chase even if he wanted to.
	"Well, well, well," Thornhill said. "The detective and his boss." He walked 
between the two chairs and sat on the edge of his desk, picking up a fancy letter-opener 
that resembled a sword. Chase stood beside the desk silently, acting like a visitor 
merely observing the events before him.
	"You might as well tell me, Thornhill," Jensen said. "How did you find out Harkin 
was a cop?"
	"It was my fault, sir," Harkin said weakly, lifting his head. "I'd been told to 
rough up one of the number-runners, but . . . I couldn't do it. He was just a kid, so 
I let him go."
	"And he turned you in," Thornhill said, chuckling. "Typical cop." He stood and 
walked around his desk past Chase to look out the window at the early morning sky.
	"Don't look so smug, Thornhill," Jensen said. "Harkin was already above suspicion. 
You got lucky."
	"You want to call it that? Fine." He tossed the letter-opener onto the desk, 
putting his left hand into his pocket. "Lady luck smiled at him"--he turned quickly, his 
left hand pulling the gun from his pocket--"but she just ran out on you."
	But instead of squeezing the trigger, Thornhill felt his head snap back as 
something hit him, and he slammed onto the floor. Chase stood behind him, shaking his 
hand. In a flash, Chase exploded across the room, taking on the two guards who had 
remained in the room. He jumped up and kicked the first in the chest, knocking him back 
into the file cabinet. He ducked to avoid the fist of the second, then grabbed him by 
the collar and seat of his pants, lifted him into the air, and slammed him onto the desk, 
which collapsed under the impact.
	Jensen rocked his chair side to side and fell over, the back of the chair breaking 
to pieces. The rope was tied in typical knots, and he shook out of them in no time. By 
now the guards outside had heard the commotion and opened the door, and Chase charged at 
them as they went for their guns.
	Jensen spotted Thornhill's gun just as the crime boss saw one that had belonged 
to one of his goons, and both men scrambled to reach their's first. 
	Chase came after the first guard, punching him in the face as the second fired 
his gun, the bullet whizzing over the detective's head.
	Jensen grabbed the gun just as Thornhill grabbed his and stood behind Harkin, 
still tied to the chair, putting the gun to the man's head. "Drop the gun, captain! 
Drop it or I drop him. Your choice."
	"Wrong, Thornhill," Jensen boomed. "The choice is yours."
	The first guard down, Chase planted his foot between the second's leg and shoved 
him aside. He fell over a coffee table, his head shattering a glass flower vase. Chase 
turned as the two remaining guards charged.
	Jensen stood and walked forward, his gun on Thornhill. "If you shoot him, I shoot 
you. If you try to aim at me, I shoot you. Either way, you lose."
	Chase punched the third guard in the face, then turned and slammed his elbow into 
the stomach of the fourth, grabbing his head as he doubled over and flipping him through 
the air. The third guard was still stumbling around when Chase delivered the final blow 
that sent him crashing back into the chair, flipping it over backwards.
	Thornhill was frozen as the barrel of Jensen's gun stared him in the face. "So you 
either give up or pray that I miss," the captain said. "And I won't miss."



Within moments, the driveway of the house was crowded with cop cars, sirens bathing the 
front of the house in flashing reds and blues. The sun was just rising above the horizon. 
"Thank you, Chase," Jensen said, shaking his hand. "You did great."
	"Forget it, Captain. I'll see you later."
	Harkin came up as Chase left. He looked tired, sore. "Captain," he said, "I don't 
know how to--"
	"Forget about it. Here. This can't be mine. The picture's too ugly," he said, 
handing Harkin is credentials, and they both laughed.
	They turned to watch as an officer escorted a handcuffed Thornhill to a squad car, 
putting him into the backseat and shutting the door.
	Jensen turned to Harkin and put a hand on his shoulder. "Good to have you back, 
detective."