Chapter 1170: Gunfire During a Peaceful “Walk”

“So you’re saying the greatest value an escort provides isn’t in bed, but in emotional satisfaction?”

Jack had to admit—it had been a real eye-opener. He’d heard of certain programs marketing themselves as sex therapy, even some with official licenses in certain states.

But the way this madam had expanded her business beyond simple sex work into an elite, emotionally driven market—he had to respect the hustle.

After saying goodbye to Ms. Peyton, and with daylight still lingering, Jack and Aubrey drove downtown to Reunion Tower to grab afternoon tea and meet up with JJ, so the three of them could review their current leads.

Most cities had at least one landmark in their downtown areas. Television towers were almost universal—originally for broadcasting, but now doubling as sightseeing spots.

Reunion Tower was no different. Standing 171 meters tall, it was topped with a geodesic sphere—a massive grid-patterned orb sitting atop a concrete shaft, resembling a bird’s nest on a stick.

The "nest" was divided into three levels: a lower observation deck, a revolving restaurant in the middle, and a bar at the top.

Downtown Dallas, in general, was one of the safer city centers in the U.S.—maybe proving the old adage that “an armed society is a polite society.”

Texas was arguably the most gun-friendly state in the country. Thanks to a recent law, most legal gun owners could openly carry firearms in public, no permit or training required.

It still made Jack uncomfortable. Where others might be charmed by a sexy cowgirl opening the elevator for them, he couldn’t help but notice that the revolver on her slim waist was real—and fully loaded.

JJ was already waiting in the revolving restaurant. Since they’d talked on the phone beforehand, she greeted them with a teasing smile.

“So, what’s the plan now? We don’t even have a motive anymore. Should we try going through that lady to reach the girls themselves?”

“As someone recently told us—no escort is going to willingly talk to the FBI,” Jack said as he admired the slowly rotating skyline and ordered a pot of tea for the table.

Thanks to the sins of certain past colleagues, the FBI didn’t exactly have a glowing reputation. “Unreliable” was putting it lightly. Flipping on informants for promotions or convenience wasn’t uncommon.

Jack had thought that reaching the madam would crack things open, but her business used a B2C model—the client lists were in the hands of the girls themselves.

It might’ve just been a liability-avoidance tactic, but it was undeniably effective. Without catching someone in the act, prosecuting such operations was near-impossible.

JJ batted her lashes. “I’m just curious—how do people like Ms. Peyton and her backers actually make money? Is it just training fees?”

“Hardly.” Aubrey had already quietly tapped into his old contacts. “Ms. Peyton is actually in business with our ‘cleaner’ friend. They provide protection and guarantees for the girls. In return, each escort makes regular donations to a so-called nonprofit foundation.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Sounds more legit than most food delivery platforms.”

Just as he was about to dive back into the files, movement outside the window caught his eye—a crowd was gathering on the street, and police cruisers were blocking intersections.

“Is there some local protest going on?” he muttered—not really directing the question to anyone, just thinking out loud. He pulled out his phone and checked local news.

Dallas had its own version of “BLM”? The headline made Jack flinch. Had another incident like George Floyd’s pushed the U.S. further into social division?

He kept reading and let out a breath of relief. It turned out this was a peaceful “walk” organized by a group called Next Generation Action Network. It was a response to two recent police shootings of Black suspects in Louisiana and Minnesota.

About 800 people had joined the walk, according to reports. Jack looked down—sure enough, the number wasn’t huge. The number of cops, however, was.

The “walk” was taking place near a district called Belo Garden, with many nearby intersections.

Typically, four to six cruisers were needed to lock down a main intersection. Right now, the entire street was flashing red and blue—easily over 40 or 50 police cars.

Assuming two officers per vehicle, that meant over 100 local cops were out just to manage this one peaceful protest.

So the three FBI agents found themselves effectively “stranded” at the top of Reunion Tower. Their hotel was on the other side of the protest route.

Well, work was work, no matter where it happened. The trio had dinner at the revolving restaurant and waited until nearly 9 p.m., when the demonstration began winding down.

Finally, they packed up and took the elevator down to the parking garage, ready to head back to the hotel.

Jack was behind the wheel of the Suburban. As they passed through Dealey Plaza—the infamous site of President Kennedy’s assassination—he made a left turn near the JFK Memorial, when suddenly the sound of gunfire cracked through the night like a string of firecrackers.

All three instinctively ducked in their seats. Jack even rolled the window down slightly to better hear where the shots were coming from.

“Three hundred meters ahead—assault rifle. Someone’s engaging the police.” Jack spoke in a calm but clipped tone, analyzing on the fly.

But almost immediately, the wail of dozens of sirens erupted, drowning out his voice.

“What? What’d you say?” Aubrey shouted, eyes wide.

“I SAID SOMEONE’S SHOOTING AT THE POLICE!” Jack yelled back, repeating the second half of his sentence. He immediately reclined his seat and reached back toward the trunk. “Vests! Get us the body armor first!”

JJ was in the passenger seat, so naturally, Aubrey had been riding in the back. The trunk was separated from the rear seats by a folding panel—and their tactical gear was all in the back.