🚓🤍

The chase is on. She sees the flashing lights in the distance, the dance of red and blue a macabre reflection of the chaos within. The car weaves through traffic, a silent testament to the desperation of the man behind the wheel. She grips the steering wheel tighter, her knuckles white with the effort.

Her heart thunders in her chest as she speeds up, the engine roaring a battle cry. The streets of L.A. blur around her, a canvas of concrete and asphalt that holds a hundred different stories. But today, it's Hawke's story that's unfolding, and she's a player in the grim narrative.

The radio crackles again. "7-Adam-12, It's Captain Anderson," the voice is firm and authoritative. "We've got your location. I'm giving you permission to initiate a PIT maneuver."

"Copy that," Lauren says into her radio, her voice steady despite her racing heart. She knows the risks, but the stakes are high. They can't let Hawke slip away again.

As she rounds the corner, her eyes scan the horizon for any sign of Hawke's truck. And there it is, a grey speck growing larger in her rearview mirror. Her hand tightens around the grip of her gun, her knuckles white with the tension. She flips on her lights and siren, the wail a call to arms.

The truck speeds up, weaving through traffic with reckless abandon. Her heart hammers in her chest as she hits the gas, the engine roaring in response. The gap between them closes, and she can almost taste the victory.

But as she draws closer, a flash of movement catches her eye. A head pops out of the passenger window. It's Hawke's son, his eyes wide with fear, his small hand pressed against the glass. The sight hits Lauren like a brick wall.

Her heart skips a beat, and she slams on the brakes, the car screeching to a halt. "7-Adam-12 negative on any PIT," she says into the radio, her voice shaking. "Hawke's son is on board."

The silence on the other end is deafening, but she knows the message is clear. They've got to find another way to stop him without endangering the boy. She hits the gas again, the engine protesting before roaring back to life. The chase continues, but now with a newfound urgency. Three cop cars form a convoy behind the rogue truck, their sirens a symphony of chaos echoing through the city streets.

Tim's voice crackles over the radio. "7-Adam-19, we're on intercept course with Hawke's truck. Three blocks out and closing." Lauren's grip on the steering wheel tightens. This isn't just about catching a suspect anymore; it's about saving a life, maybe two.

They round the corner, the other patrol cars in a tight formation behind her. The roar of engines and the wail of sirens echo off the buildings as they converge on Hawke's truck. The street narrows, forcing the vehicles into a tighter pursuit, the danger of a crash a stark reality. Lauren's eyes dart between the truck and the traffic, her instincts sharpened by the fear for Hawke's son.

The truck swerves into a side alley, the tight space forcing Lauren to gun her engine to keep up. The walls of the alley fly by in a blur of graffiti and shadows, the smell of exhaust heavy in the air. The radio crackles again, the dispatcher's voice tense. "7-Adam-12, we've got another call about a disturbance at the same address from earlier."

Lauren's heart drops. "Shit," she murmurs, her mind racing. Could it be something else? Or was the woman in trouble? She can't risk it. She hits the siren, the sound bouncing off the alley walls. "Copy that."

Her car squeals around the corner, tires smoking. The alley opens up onto the residential street, and she floors it, the engine's roar echoing off the houses. The address looms ahead, the house a silent sentinel in the middle of the chaos. She screeches to a stop, the car rocking slightly as she throws it into park. The door flies open, and she's out.

"7-Adam-12, on scene at 2128 Morrison," Lauren says into her radio, her voice tight with urgency.

Neighbors stand on their lawns, a sea of faces etched with fear and confusion. They watch the police car with wide eyes, whispering to each other in hushed tones. Lauren's eyes scan the crowd, searching for the blonde woman from earlier. She's not there, and Lauren's gut clenches. The quiet is shattered by a piercing scream, the sound tearing through the air like a knife. It's coming from the McLain's house.

She draws her gun, her boots pounding against the pavement as she slowly walks towards the house. The front door is ajar, the quiet inside a stark contrast to the cacophony outside. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself for what she might find.

As she steps over the threshold, the scene unfolds before her. The living room is a mess, furniture overturned, a vase shattered on the floor. The air is thick with the smell of fear and desperation. She follows the sound of muffled cries to the back of the house, her gun raised.

"Police! Come out with your hands up!" she shouts, her voice echoing through the corridor. The cries stop abruptly, and the silence is deafening. She can hear her own breath, shallow and quick, the only sound in the house.

"7-Adam-12, requesting backup to my location," she says into her radio, her voice steady despite her racing heart. "Suspect may be armed."

The dispatch's voice is quick to respond. "Copy, 7-Adam-12. All available units are currently assisting in the pursuit of Hawke."

"Damn it," Lauren mutters under her breath. She's on her own.

With no time to waste, she advances through the hallway, her boots soundless on the carpet. The cries had come from the back of the house, and she's determined to find the source. She reaches a closed door, and the muffled sounds of a struggle filter through the wood. She takes a moment to gather herself, then kicks the door in, the frame splintering with a resounding crack.

In the corner of the bedroom, she finds the blonde woman, cowering and crying. Her eyes widen with terror when she sees Lauren, and she stammers, "No no no. You can't be here. He'll kill you."

Laurens eyes go wide with understanding. "Ma'am, it's okay. I'm here to help." she says soothingly.

The woman's eyes dart to the bedside, and Lauren follows her gaze to see a gun lying on the floor, just out of her reach. The room's tension is a tangible force, pressing against her chest. "Is he in the house?" Lauren asks, her voice firm but not demanding. The woman nods, her body trembling. "Upstairs." she whispers, her eyes never leaving the weapon.

Lauren's heart races, and she glances over at the wall, listening for any sound that could indicate his presence. The house is eerily quiet, save for the distant wail of sirens. "Is he armed?"

The woman nods, her eyes wide with fear. "Yes," she whispers, her voice shaking. "Please, you have to go. He can't know you're here."

Lauren's gaze flicks back to the woman, her mind racing with the implications. She's trapped in a potential hostage situation, with a suspect who's already shown he's capable of extreme violence. "7-Adam-12, suspect is armed and dangerous. I need backup now."

The radio crackles again, "Copy, 7-Adam-12. All units are still in pursuit of Hawke."

Lauren sighs. She has no idea how she's going to get out of here. Her eyes never leave the woman as she speaks, her hand still hovering near her gun. "I'm not going anywhere," she says, her voice low and reassuring. "I'm here to help you. What's your name?"

The woman looks up at her, the fear slowly draining from her eyes. "It's... it's Marissa," she stammers.

"Marissa," Lauren repeats, her voice a gentle murmur. "I'm Lauren." She takes a step closer, her hand reaching out to offer comfort. The gun on the floor glints in the dim light, a stark reminder of the danger they're in. "I need you to be strong. I will get you out of here and this relationship."

Marissa nods, her breath hitching in her chest. "Thank you," she whispers, her eyes never leaving Lauren's.

The sound of footsteps thundering down the stairs sends Lauren's heart racing. She quickly assesses the room, searching for any means of escape or a place to hide. The only option is the closet, its door slightly ajar, offering a sliver of darkness.

"Marissa!" The deep, angry voice of Preston booms through the house. "What's going on?"

Lauren's eyes meet Marissa's, and she sees the terror in the woman's gaze. Without a word, they both move to the closet, shutting the door just as Preston's heavy footsteps enter the room. The space is tight, filled with the scent of dust and forgotten clothes, but it's their only hope.

"Marissa, come out!" Preston's voice is a mix of anger and concern, a dangerous cocktail that sends chills down Lauren's spine. She can feel the woman's trembling body pressed against hers, the warmth of her breath as she silently sobs.

They stand there in the darkness, listening as his footsteps draw closer. The gun in Lauren's hand feels heavier than ever before, the weight of the decision she might have to make a constant reminder of the gravity of the situation. The floorboards creak under his weight as he paces the room, his eyes scanning the shadows.

"Marissa, I know you're here," Preston says, his voice a low growl. "You can't hide from me forever."

Lauren's pulse thunders in her ears, drowning out the sound of her own breathing. She can feel Marissa's heart beating against her side, a frantic drum in the silent symphony of fear. The closet seems to shrink around them, the darkness pressing in like a living entity.

"Marissa, please," Preston's voice is softer now, almost pleading. "We can work this out. Just come out." His footsteps stop right outside the closet, and for a moment, Lauren's convinced he knows they're there. She tightens her grip on the gun, her mind racing through possible scenarios.

Then, as if on cue, the radio at her waist crackles to life. "7-Adam-12, Hawke is on the loose. We need you at the Fair Street Mall." The urgency in the dispatcher's voice pierces the tension in the room.

Lauren's heart drops. Preston rips open the closet door and grabs Lauren, his eyes wild with rage. The gun falls from Lauren's hand, clattering onto the floor as Preston pushes her hard against the closet wall, his fist connecting with her jaw. Pain explodes through her head, and she tastes blood.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he snarls, his grip on her collarbone tightening.

Marissa's scream pierces the room, and the reality of the situation slices through Lauren's fog of pain. "Let her go!" Marissa yells, her eyes flashing with a mix of anger and fear. She reaches for the gun, her hand shaking slightly.

But Preston is too quick. He kicks the weapon away with a viciousness that sends it skidding across the hardwood floor, out of reach. With a snarl, he shoves Lauren to the ground, the impact jarring her body and knocking the wind from her lungs. She hits the floor hard, the air expelling from her in a painful rush.

Marissa's hand trembles as she reaches for the gun, her eyes never leaving Preston's. The room feels like it's closing in around them, the air thick with tension. But she's not fast enough. Preston lunges forward, grabbing her wrist before she can make a move.?

In a swift, brutal motion, he twists her arm, forcing her to drop the gun. It hits the floor with a clatter that seems to echo through the house, a sound that feels like a gunshot in the quiet room. His other hand comes up, and before Lauren can even process what's happening, he pulls out a knife, the blade glinting in the dim light.

"You're the one who called them," he accuses, his voice a mix of disbelief and fury. "You're going to pay for this."

Marissa's eyes widen in horror as she tries to pull away, but Preston's grip is like iron. She gasps as the knife glitters in the air, and with a swift, brutal motion, he brings it down.

The sound of the blade slicing through fabric and flesh is a sickening wet thud that fills the room, a stark contrast to Marissa's high-pitched scream. Lauren's eyes widen in shock, her breath catching in her throat as she watches the knife plunge into Marissa's stomach. Time seems to slow down, every detail etched into her mind—the way Marissa's eyes go wide with pain and betrayal, the crimson bloom that starts to spread over her shirt, the smell of coppery blood.

Her training kicks in, pushing aside the horror, and she acts on instinct. With a roar, she grabs Preston's wrist, trying to pry the knife from his hand. They struggle, the knife waving dangerously between them. Preston flicks his wrist causing the knife to nick Lauren in the cheek.

Ignoring the warm trickle of blood, Lauren uses her free hand to grab his elbow and twist, applying pressure to his wrist. With a grunt of pain, he drops the knife, and it clatters to the floor. The room seems to come alive again, the sound of their struggle a stark contrast to the sudden silence. Preston's eyes flick to the gun on the floor, but Lauren's quicker. She kicks him hard in the side, sending him stumbling.

Using her momentum, she spins and flips him around, his body hitting the floor with a thud. Straddling him, she pins his arms behind his back, the force of her body keeping him down. "You're under arrest," she says, her voice cold and clear, the fear and shock of the moment giving way to the calmness of duty.

As soon as the cuffs snap into place, she quickly makes her way over to Marissa, her heart pounding in her chest. "Hey, hey," she says, her voice gentle, trying to soothe the trembling woman. "It's gonna be okay."

Marissa's eyes are squeezed shut, her face a mask of pain. Blood soaks her shirt, and she gasps for air, each breath a shallow gasp. Lauren's stomach turns at the sight, but she can't let herself get overwhelmed. She needs to act, to save her.

Her hand shakes as she reaches for her radio, her voice strong despite the horror. "7-Adam-12, suspect is down. I need RA now," she says, her voice urgent.

The dispatcher responds immediately. "Copy that. Sending units and RA."

Lauren's eyes never leave Marissa's face as she assesses the wound. It's deep, and blood pools on the floor beneath her, but she's still breathing, still fighting. She presses her hand to the woman's stomach, trying to stem the flow of blood, feeling the sticky warmth seep through her glove. Marissa's eyes find Lauren's. "Thank you, Lauren." she whispers, a smile ghosting across her pale lips.

Lauren nods, her own eyes filled with a fierce determination. "Don't thank me yet," she says, her voice tight with emotion. "You're going to make it. Help is on the way." But the doubt in Marissa's gaze tells her that she knows the truth. The wound is severe, and time is slipping away. Her eyes flutter shut, and Lauren feels the warmth of life draining from beneath her fingertips.

"No no no," Lauren whispers, her voice a desperate chant. "Come on, please." She can't let her go, not like this. With a surge of adrenaline, she shifts her position, placing her hands on Marissa's chest and starts CPR. The rhythmic compressions echo through the room, a frantic dance of life and death.

But it's no use. Marissa's body lies still, the light in her eyes extinguished. Lauren's heart feels like it's shattering into a million pieces. She sits back on her heels, her chest heaving with the effort of her futile attempt to save her. The room is silent except for the sound of her ragged breaths and the distant wail of approaching sirens. The world around her feels cold, the starkness of the moment a stark contrast to the warmth of human life she'd been fighting so desperately to preserve.

The sirens grow louder, their piercing wail cutting through the silence like a knife. With each passing second, they inch closer, a painful reminder of the help that's too late. Lauren's eyes fill with tears as she looks down at Marissa, feeling a deep void open up inside her. The sirens seem to mock her, their cacophony a symphony of regret and failure.

"Lauren?" The voice is distant, muffled by the pounding in her ears and the rush of blood. She looks up, her vision swimming. Tim stands in the doorway, his gun drawn, his eyes wide with shock.

"I could've saved her," Lauren repeats, her voice hollow. The words echo in the room, a stark contrast to the silence that follows. Tim's gaze drops to Preston, who lies unconscious on the floor, cuffed and bleeding.

The cavalcade of officers and paramedics flood into the room like a wave, their boots thundering against the floorboards. They move with a precision that speaks of a thousand similar scenes, a grim ballet of chaos and urgency. The flash of blue and red lights from outside casts a pulsing glow across the walls, painting the scene in a harsh, otherworldly light.

Tim watches the chaos unfold, his eyes never leaving Lauren's crumpled form next to Marissa's lifeless body. "I'll go call it in," Lucy says, her voice a gentle touch on the edge of the horror. She's already on the move, her footsteps receding into the hallway.

Lauren's eyes never leaving Marissa. She can feel the weight of Tim's gaze on her, but she can't bring herself to look at him. She's failed. Failed to save a life, failed to keep a promise she'd made in this very room. "I called for backup." She whispers.

Tim's hand on her arm is firm, but gentle, as he pulls her to her feet. "You did what you could," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "You did everything right."

Lauren's eyes are haunted as she looks at him. "It wasn't enough," she murmurs, her voice barely audible above the din of the officers and paramedics. "I promised her I'd get her out of here."

Tim wraps his arms around her, his embrace a silent testament to their shared grief. "You did everything you could," he says, his voice a warm rumble in her ear. "You can't save everyone."

The words hang in the air, a stark reminder of the harsh reality of their job. Lauren nods, her body feeling heavy with the weight of her failure. The paramedics push past them, their footsteps a cacophony of urgency as they work on Marissa. She can hear their low murmurs, the beeps of the machines, the desperate rhythm of their movements. But she knows it's too late.

Tim's hand is firm on her back, guiding her through the sea of officers and into the cool night air. The sirens are a constant wail in her ears, a mournful song that seems to follow her wherever she goes. He leads her over to an ambulance, its lights flashing a silent code of distress. The scene outside is chaotic, but it feels distant, like it's happening to someone else.

"Sit down," Tim says gently, his voice cutting through the fog in her head. She does as she's told, her legs feeling like they might give out at any moment. He takes a seat beside her, his eyes never leaving hers.

A pair of paramedics rush over, their eyes scanning her for injuries. One of them gently touches her cheek, the sting of the disinfectant a stark reminder of the reality of the situation. "You're going to need a few stitches, but you're going to be okay," he says, his voice professional despite the chaos around them.

Lauren nods, her eyes still on the house, the windows now filled with flashing lights and shadows of the officers inside. The world feels like it's spinning, the weight of what just happened threatening to consume her. Tim's hand is a lifeline, anchoring her to the present moment. "I'm okay," she murmurs, though she's not sure she believes it.

The paramedics work quickly, their hands deft as they clean and stitch her cheek. The pain is a distant throb, a dull ache that pales in comparison to the emotional turmoil raging inside her. She can feel Tim's eyes on her, his concern palpable, but she can't meet his gaze.

The sound of a gurney rolling out of the house snaps her out of her thoughts. She jumps to her feet, the world spinning briefly before she regains her balance. The paramedics are rushing a man out, his face obscured by an oxygen mask, but she knows it's Preston. She watches as they load him into the ambulance, his body jerking with the movement, the fight not quite gone out of him.

Tim's hand on her elbow is the only thing keeping her upright. "Come on, let's get you back to the station," he says, his voice firm.

Lauren nods, her legs feeling like lead. She lets him lead her to his patrol car, the night air cold against her skin. The drive back is a blur, the sirens in the distance a fading memory. The precinct's warm lights offer a false sense of security as they pull into the parking lot.

Once inside, Captain Anderson's office looms before them, a stark reminder of the gravity of the evening's events. The captain's face is etched with lines of concern and fatigue. "Clark," she says, her voice a gruff bark. "What happened?"

Lauren's mind races, trying to piece together the narrative of the night. She recounts the disturbance call and the tragic outcome. Each word feels like a nail being driven into the coffin of her pride. Her eyes sting with unshed tears, but she blinks them back, maintaining her composure.

"I... I tried to stop him," she stammers, the weight of her failure pressing down on her chest like a boulder. "But he was too fast. The knife..."

Captain Anderson's expression tightens, her eyes darkening with a mix of anger and sorrow. "You did your best, Officer Clark," she says, her voice softer than Lauren expects. "It's not on you."

But the words don't ease the guilt that clings to Lauren like a second skin. She nods, her throat tight with unshed tears. Tim's hand on her shoulder is a silent offer of support, but she feels like she's drowning in the sea of her own regret.

...

In the locker room, she peels off the bloodstained uniform with trembling hands, the fabric sticking to her sweaty skin. Each piece feels like a part of her is being stripped away, leaving her exposed and raw. She changes into her dress pants and shirt, the fabric cold and foreign against her skin. The scent of antiseptic from the first aid kit lingers, a haunting reminder of what she couldn't do.

As she touches up her mascara, her hand shakes, smearing the black ink beneath her eyes. She stares at her reflection, the woman in the mirror a stranger with a mask of grief. Her phone buzzes in her pocket, a jarring reminder of the world outside this sterile space.

Pulling it out, she reads Lucy's text with a gasp of hope. "They took Marissa to the hospital; she regained a pulse. She's in surgery now." The words blur before her eyes as tears threaten to spill over. A pulse—it's something. It's not a victory, but it's a thread to cling to.

The locker room door swings open, and Tim's silhouette fills the frame. She quickly wipes at her eyes, not wanting him to see her like this. "Hey," he says, his voice low and filled with understanding. "You okay?"

Lauren takes a deep breath, trying to compose herself. "Yeah, Marissa gained a pulse," she says, her voice a hoarse whisper. "They're taking her to surgery now."

Tim nods, his expression a mix of relief and concern. "That's good," he says, his voice a gentle rumble. "You never know, miracles happen."

Lauren manages a small smile, trying to believe in the possibility of a positive outcome. "Yeah, they do," she agrees, her voice wavering slightly. She tucks the phone back into her pocket, feeling the weight of the evening's events pressing down on her.

Tim nods, his gaze searching hers. "You want to get a drink?" he asks, his voice gentle. It's an offer of comfort, a way to ease the pain that threatens to overwhelm her.

"I would love to," Lauren says, the words a sigh of relief. They leave the precinct, the cool night air a stark contrast to the stifling atmosphere of the station. They walk into the bar, the bell jingling on the door. The two go over and sit at the bar.

The bartender, a friendly face from countless other nights, asks them what they'll have. Tim orders a beer while Lauren orders a whiskey, neat. The clinking of glasses and the murmur of conversations around them seem to fade away as they sit in silence, the weight of what happened earlier still palpable between them.

Taking a sip of her drink, Lauren's eyes flick to Tim. "You know, I never thought this job would hit me so hard," she says, her voice low and shaky. "I've seen people die, but..." she trails off, unable to find the words.

Tim's gaze is understanding. He nods. "But this one hit a little too close to home?"

Lauren takes a deep breath, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Yeah," she whispers. "It did." She takes a sip of her whiskey, the burn a comforting sensation.

Tim's hand rests on her leg, a silent offer of support as he leans over to order another round. His eyes meet hers briefly, a question in his gaze. She nods, and he nods back, turning his attention to the bartender. The conversation shifts to the latest football game, a mundane topic that seems almost obscene in the face of the tragedy they've just experienced.

Suddenly, the phone at the bar starts to ring. The bartender glances at the display before looking at Tim, his eyebrows furrowing in concern. "It's for you," he says, handing over the phone. Tim takes it, his expression tightening as he brings it to his ear.

"Bradford," he says, his voice a gruff rumble that fills the space between them.

"Never tell a crook where you hide your money." The voice on the other side says.

"Lucy?" Tim asks, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"You told me to think like a criminal," Lucy says, her voice light and teasing, "so when you were getting your ass kicked, I grabbed your money clip."

Tim's hand drops to his belt, feeling the empty space where his wallet should be. "You are in so much trouble," he says, but the tension in his shoulders relaxes as Lauren's laughter fills the room. It's a welcome sound, a moment of levity in the face of so much darkness.

"What'd she do?" Lauren asks, a smile playing on her lips despite the heaviness in her heart.

Tim shakes his head, his own smile mirroring hers. "Took my money clip." He sets the phone down and looks at Lauren.

"What did you expect?" Lauren teases, her voice a balm on his nerves. "You're the one who told her to think like a criminal."

Tim rolls his eyes, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "It's not funny," he says, but the laughter in his voice betrays him.

"It's a little funny," Lauren counters, her eyes sparkling with amusement. The tension between them lightens for a brief moment, a balm on the raw nerves of the evening's tragedy.

Tim can't help but chuckle, the sound a stark contrast to the gravity of their conversation. "Okay, fine," he concedes, "but I'm getting it back."

Lauren's smile widens as she takes a sip of her whiskey, the warmth spreading through her chest. "You'd better watch your back," she warns playfully.

Tim laughs, the sound echoing in the quiet bar. It's a strange juxtaposition, their laughter in the aftermath of such a dire situation. But it's a reminder of the camaraderie that exists between them, a bond forged in the crucible of danger and shared experiences.

🚓...🤍

KATE SPEAKS!

big chapter for you!
this kind of shows who lauren really is
and how her past has affected her
but anyways
i love her and tim.
and her and lucy.
you'll be seeing alot more of her and lucy 
later on😊😊