Do not forgive. Do not forget. Expect.

[Jack Malone, Jr.]

They should've all known by now that when you poked the coiled snake, he'd react. They all knew that throwing gas onto a fire would cause larger and brighter flames, and this was no different. Junior had been so incredibly pissed off that he'd had to force himself to sit for a couple of days - make sure the idea set, stuck, and went along with his convictions (or, lack thereof). And then, he placed a single call to a higher up, but not to whom one might expect. It wasn't to his father, or a superior.. no. Not at all. It was straight to the agency, he went, so he could get his hands on a certain tool considering, where the detective was, the prototype was sure to follow -- or, at least, be very nearby.

It was only after acquiring that item that was no larger than a tri-fold wallet, that he'd locked his apartment door and set forth to prepare the other things necessary. Since that bastard had caused him to fumble his glock and he'd yet to replace it, he'd simply make due with a different type of weapon; nothing near as simple as a 1911-A1, or a .38 Special. Shit, no. Jack had more class than that, and took his time in selecting a dated, but favorite: a Desert Eagle MK VII. A .357 Magnum, to be more precise; the fucking thing was nick-named a 'hand-cannon' for a reason, and when you were intending to do damage - as he most definitely was - it fit with a certain perfection that left him grinning with anticipation.

As far as attire went, he had no qualms with strapping in some kevlar atop the white wifebeater, beneath the sleek and proper black, long-sleeved, button-up shirt he wore with the sleeves rolled to mid-forearm. A pair of distressed, charcoal colored jeans, and his typical black boots. Toss the dark-lensed shades atop his head, and the snake was only left to set a place and a time-- which, would only be by default. Who.. -- which one of them would have been dumb enough to meet him somewhere by their own choice? The pocket-sized device was placed in his back pocket, and the D.E. was dropped into the holster that usually housed his glock, and after adjusting the open shirt, he was good to go.

He set out at four o'clock in the afternoon, which would - without a doubt - confuse Sage, but.. he couldn't bring himself to think about it right then. The boy was on a goddamn mission, and nothing was going to stop him. Not this time. He parked himself nearby the pier, with his cellphone in hand and went as far as to purchase a cup of coffee that would, more than most likely, be ignored -- no, those dark brown eyes, worthy of belonging to a puppy's, were focused down at the screen of his phone watching the pin-trackers move along the segment of the map. You bet your ass he was tracking the detective, and this time? This time he had a personal vendetta, agency involved or not; the detective had made it personal.

This was damage control. This.. this was Jack when you pressed certain buttons that you should never, ever, press.