The view from Gillis's office opened to a wall of concrete and rain-slicked glass. Rain hammered the building's face like a barrage of fists. Bullock leaned beside the window, a glass ashtray perched on the sill. His cigarillo burned to a nub. He pinched it between two fingers, smoke curling around his thick knuckles.
Chen and Rusty sat slouched in cracked leather chairs across from Gillis' desk. Johnson sat in a spare he'd pulled from beside a cluttered bookcase. The squad had been speculating about the meeting. They kept cutting glances at Johnson, who just clasped his hands and told them to be patient. His calm posture told Bullock enough—it wasn't bad news.
When Johnson asked Chen about his run-in with the plainclothes, Chen straightened in his seat.
"We won it," he said, voice cocky, shifting like he wanted to puff himself bigger.
Bullock snorted. "You didn't win shit. Fritzy can't even open his fucking eye."
"Not my fault the kid can't block," Chen snapped.
Rusty grunted. "Harv's right. One of you gets that banged up, it ain't a win."
Johnson cut in, voice flat. "What matters is you're both breathing and fit to work."
Chen leaned forward. "So where did the Cap put Fritzy?"
"Missing Persons. Mendez is showing him how to enter cases into the database. He's got desk duty until the swelling goes down," Johnson said.
Chen and Bullock started trading jabs again. Nothing serious—just each giving the other lip to pass the time. When Chen had enough he threw a lazy "Fuck you, Harv," which got a dry chuckle out of Johnson and Rusty. They were still jawing when the office door creaked open.
Bronson, Dent, and Gillis stepped in. The room went silent.
"Gentlemen," Bronson said, eyes scanning the room. "First things first—besides Chen, anyone else get into it tonight?"
Bullock pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to Bronson. "Flass and Brandon. Caught me outside my place. They were just feeling me out."
Chen flicked a card from his wallet. "Lifted this off one of the pricks who jumped us."
Bronson lingered over Chen's, then handed it to Gillis, who passed it to Dent.
Dent turned it over, brow furrowed. "Internal Affairs?"
Rusty let out a humorless snort. "Someone's gunning for one of us."
"We don't know that," Gillis said.
The room went tight with silence. Bronson cleared his throat.
"We'll handle it. You all stay sharp, stick to pairs. But there's more. Dent found something."
Dent stood dead center in the room and laid it out—Gordon's record in Chicago, his military background, all of it framed like a resume with weight. Bullock could hear the angle in Dent's voice, the hard sell beneath the facts. Then it came. And even Bullock had to blink twice.
He scanned the room. Chen looked blindsided, mouth slightly open. Rusty sat rigid, arms folded across his chest. The Captain stood by the window now—a few feet from Bullock—his back to everyone, staring out.
"Gordon?" Chen said, disbelief bleeding into his voice. "The guy's such a square."
"This whole fucking time?" Rusty muttered, arms crossed tight like he needed to hold something back.
"That's not all. Dent's got a proposal," Bronson said.
Gillis gave a short, bitter laugh and shook his head.
"I want to work with them," Dent said. "I want all of us to work with them."
Chairs creaked. The air felt brittle. Bullock noticed Rusty straighten in his seat, jaw clenched.
"I ain't working for a fucking freak," Rusty growled.
"You wouldn't be working for him—but with him," Dent corrected.
"I don't need his help."
Chen chimed in. "Haven't heard anyone say Gordon had run-ins with him."
"He keeps it out of the reports," Johnson said. "Not one mention."
"Which is smart," Dent added. "Any decent lawyer reads that name in a police report, the case goes up in smoke."
"So he lies," Rusty said flatly.
"Don't we all," Johnson muttered.
Rusty shot him a glare.
"Syd's right," Chen said. "I've told more than one crying mother there were no prints, no leads, knowing damn well there were. Shit doesn't just magically vanish from the evidence room. We just shut our mouths. Same thing."
"It ain't," Rusty said coldly.
Dent looked to Bullock. "You've been quiet."
Bullock shrugged. First time in a long time he'd felt words stick in his throat.
"How was it, working with him?" Chen asked.
Bullock exhaled smoke. "Ass clenched like a fist."
That got a laugh from Rusty.
"What'd you make of him?" Johnson asked.
Bullock tapped ash into the tray. He didn't know why, but something kept him from answering.
"I worked with him one night. What the fuck am I supposed to know?"
Attention shifted back to Dent, who kept talking—cold cases, dead leads, and an end to it all. Bullock drifted, then caught Johnson's pale blue stare. It pinned him. He looked away.
"I heard something," Bullock said finally. "Not from Gordon. Word is the freak's taken over South B."
Chen raised a brow. "Like he runs it?"
"Nothing like that. Just that the Boyz and the other gangs started steering clear because he's made this his regular spot."
"So, like a thug, he's claimed territory?" Gillis muttered.
"They're afraid of him. That's why they've cleared out," Dent said.
"Didn't he shred some guy's arm in Robbinsville?" Gillis asked.
"Heard that was exaggerated," Johnson said.
"Nah," Chen chimed in. "Perez said the guy sliced his finger going toe-to-toe with him. Said the freak's wearing black gauntlets with blades. Finger got lopped clean off."
Rusty sneered. "I don't give a shit what he does to Maroni's crew. But he crossed the line with some of ours. And we're just supposed to let that slide?"
"No," Dent said. "We bring him to the table. See if there's a deal to make."
Gillis gave a low, bitter laugh. "He doesn't strike me as the negotiating type."
"Maybe you're wrong," Dent said. "Maybe there's more to him than we think."
Bronson stepped forward. "You've heard Dent's pitch. So here's the deal. If you're in, Gordon stays on the squad. When word spreads, I expect you all to have his back. If not, we pull out of Homicide and desk him."
"So we vote?" Chen asked.
"Yes. You have two days to think it over," Bronson said. "Until then, Gordon's off rotation."
"I ain't working with a psycho in a cape," Rusty muttered.
Dent's voice stayed level. "He breaks the law—true. He's a wanted criminal—also true. But he helped an outsider—someone with no ties to the city, no favors to call in—and together they closed eight gangland murders in three months."
The weight of it dropped like a body. No one spoke.
"That's not your average street thug."
Bullock rolled the cigarillo between his fingers, watching the ember burn low. Still, he said nothing. And it pissed him off. What did he care if the ginger got benched? But he did. And that was the problem.