Chapter 1045: The Impossible Purge (Patreon)

“So, how exactly did Jasper manage to communicate with Duval without any of you noticing?”
The police officer in the white dress uniform, decorated with a cap badge and service flowers, stared seriously at Ronick as if he could coax a confession from the furrows in his brow.

Ronick had expected this. But being interrogated by Internal Affairs like a suspect still lit a fire in his chest. He slammed his hand on the table in anger.

“You should be asking that question to Jasper or Duval! How the hell would I know how they made contact? The precinct is massive—everyone had multiple windows to cover. Not to mention Jasper had the only working police radio!”

“But Jasper is dead. So is Duval. Of the remaining officers in the Anti-Gang Unit, aside from a few who were completely unaware and didn’t participate, the rest are all in the ICU.”
The DPD Internal Affairs officer continued, bureaucratic in his tone. “We’re trying to get to the bottom of it too. You know this has been the deadliest—”

Ronick cut him off with a roar. “I know they’re dead! I watched them die! So why don’t you take your self-righteous questions and go ask them in hell?!”

“Anger doesn’t help solve anything.”
The flabby, beer-bellied official gave a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Okay, next question—during your undercover days, did you ever come into contact with Marino Bishop—”

Before Ronick could explode again, the conference room door burst open. Jack stepped in with a squad of FBI agents in crisp black suits and white shirts.

“DPD Internal Affairs Superintendent Secco Dodge, you’re under arrest.”
Jack waved his hand, and two agents moved in. One presented a pair of handcuffs, the other rested his hand calmly on his firearm.

The previously smug Internal Affairs official turned sheet white, his face matching the pristine uniform only senior officers were allowed to wear.

Jack glanced briefly at the union-appointed lawyer sitting next to Ronick, who had been silent the entire time. The man froze in his seat.

“I got you a real legal advisor. He’ll help recommend some more competent lawyers.”

Jack stepped aside, and Wesley—Angela Lopez’s husband—came forward to shake Ronick’s hand and warmly introduced himself.

“Based on evidence provided by Marino Bishop, the Department of Justice has authorized the FBI to conduct a full investigation into corruption within the Detroit Police Department.”

Jack shot a look at the now-collared Dodge, who was slumped in defeat.
“Clearly, when Detroit emerged from municipal bankruptcy and restructured its police department, you let too much trash in the door.”

“And even once this investigation wraps up, I wouldn’t recommend staying in the DPD—either you or Iris.”

Ronick threw up his hands. “Then where am I supposed to go? I grew up in this city.”

Sure, Jack had taken down most of the bad guys—but it was Ronick who had killed Duval. And that had earned him no favors.

Duval wasn’t just any officer—he was a media darling, the kind of “celebrity cop” who showed up on TV once a month. Ronick was a nobody, the interim captain of a fading precinct.

So while the DPD had issued a vaguely worded official statement acknowledging the incident, the real story was already being twisted by rumor and misinformation.

People whispered in break rooms and bars. To some, Ronick was a disgraced undercover cop who’d gone too far. In certain circles, that was almost indistinguishable from being a criminal himself.

Meanwhile, Jack and John? Nowhere in the official narrative. The FBI had swiftly assumed control of the investigation, and the LAPD was in no hurry to have one of their own tangled up in Detroit’s dirty laundry.

Let’s be real: the DPD was too rotten to be cleaned overnight.
A proper purge would take years—and it was easy to predict that, in the end, most of it would quietly disappear.

In many of Detroit’s districts, where basic order had to be maintained by street gangs, it was logistically impossible to do a top-down reform of a police department that had already shriveled to half its original size.

Jack had no grand solution for that. But he did have one practical offer for Ronick.

“I’ve got a friend who just started a private security firm. They’re offering good pay and urgently need people with experience.”

Ronick took the business card Jack handed him and was about to decline, but Jack cut him off.

“I talked to my friend—he’s very interested in your background. If you’re willing to come out to their headquarters in Los Angeles, he’s offering a base salary of at least $200,000 a year. Full benefits. Housing stipend.”

Ronick’s eyes widened. $200K might not sound like much in New York or L.A., but in Detroit? A precinct captain in the city center barely earned $100K.

It also explained why Duval’s unit had gone dirty. In poor cities, where the cost of living was weirdly high and salaries remained stagnant, even honest cops could barely support their families. A little “gray income” wasn’t a luxury—it was survival.

And this job? In Los Angeles? It was like a beachfront company in Hainan offering free room and board to people from frozen Northeast China. Irresistible.

The firm in question? "Shangri-La Security Solutions."

Brian Mills, fresh back from Paris, had recently joined as their lead operator.
As a lone-wolf ex-CIA man, his administrative skills were... lacking.

But Ronick? He’d at least run a precinct for six months. Sure, he’d been a bit of a burnout—but he had real experience, and more importantly, he had integrity.

Even in the final moment, he had tried to arrest Duval instead of gunning him down.

Jack stuck around Detroit for another week but never made it downtown to visit the GM or Ford headquarters.

Why? Because half of Los Angeles came storming in after the shootout.

Led by Chief Gray, the group included John’s wife Grace, Angela Lopez and her husband Wesley, and even a representative from soon-to-be Congresswoman Zoey Anderson—her spouse-slash-chief of staff, Professor Maureen Cahill.

It was one hell of a New Year’s reunion.