Luca watched Gisele Yashar slip quietly into the informant's house. Only after her slender figure disappeared inside did he finally look away.
"Give it a minute before we move," he told Brian, then pulled out his phone and dialed Milano from the L.A. family to ask about the drug scene in Los Angeles.
L.A. was crawling with dealers—Crips, Bloods, Latino Gang—and the product lineup was just as "diverse." The supply routes? Even more so. With the Mexican border right there, a huge portion came straight across. On top of that, L.A. being a port city meant plenty of shipments arrived by sea.
But no matter how many dealers were flooding the streets, there was always a major upstream supplier behind it all.
"Braga," Milano said, naming him. "Mexican drug lord. Supplies almost half the city. Crews like the Crips and Bloods buy from him and handle street distribution. Guy's careful—never shows his face, lets his people do everything. Hardly anyone knows what he actually looks like."
Luca almost laughed.
"Braga" didn't exist—at least, not the way people thought. Just a name, a mask. In the original Fast & Furious storyline, the so-called boss was a fabrication cooked up by his own second-in-command. The real villain hid behind the identity while everyone—FBI included—chased a ghost.
And Gisele? She worked for that "ghost."
"So," Milano went on, curious, "why are you asking? Thought you swore off the drug business."
Luca answered casually, "Just checking things out. I've got some goods that might need to move into Mexico. Figured I'd see how they handle transport."
Milano shook his head. "No clue. Border security's tight as hell. Smuggling drugs across those mountains shouldn't even be possible. No idea how they pull it off."
Luca did.
Tunnels through the mountains. GPS blind spots. Elite drivers running high-speed routes. Same trick as in the original timeline—where Brian and Dominic Toretto ended up "lucky" enough to get involved.
Not for the first time, Luca thought bringing the blond kid along had been the right call. No matter the situation, Brian had a way of ending up in the middle of it.
After hanging up, Luca glanced back at the house.
Gisele showing up here wasn't random. Harris's informant—a corrupt cop's golden goose—was also a dealer, and most likely getting his supply from "Braga."
L.A. really was a goldmine.
Rare cards everywhere. Sometimes it felt like you could just stand still and wait for one to drop out of the sky.
Luca closed his eyes, mapping things out.
What's the cleanest way to take Braga down?
A direct hit? Useless. Kill one "Braga," another pops up tomorrow. The name's just a front—could be Gisele's boss, could be someone else entirely.
The real problem was the market.
And in Los Angeles, that market was massive—bigger than New York. In some neighborhoods, the air practically reeked of drugs. As long as demand existed, suppliers would never truly disappear.
Even New York proved that. After the drug wars, things improved—but new players still emerged, including the Triads.
At best, Luca could lean into his role as an anti-drug "ambassador" and… nudge things in the right direction.
But if he was going to act, he might as well go all the way.
Cut the supply chain.
That wasn't something a mob boss could handle alone—and honestly, not something he should handle. This needed official intervention. Only the authorities could shut down cross-border tunnels and lock down trafficking routes.
The plan started to take shape. Faces flashed through his mind—rare cards from both sides of the law.
"Brian," Luca said suddenly, "you or Toretto—who's faster?"
"Me. Obviously."
"Try again."
Brian hesitated, then scratched his cheek. "Call it even. Toretto drives like a maniac. The second he launches, the car's practically sideways—and every race he's in? Something's getting wrecked."
He didn't like admitting it, but Dom's skill behind the wheel was the real deal.
"Good," Luca said with a faint smile. "Let's set up another race."
He had a feeling that race would bring in more than just adrenaline—probably a few rare cards, too.
"But first," he added, glancing toward the house, "let's help our rookie cop survive day one. Might be his last at this rate."
Jack and Harris stepped out of the informant's place together.
"Who was that woman?" Jack asked, Gisele's figure still stuck in his head.
"Doesn't matter," Harris said, waving it off. "We deal with the informant. He deals with the dealers."
Which mean it's not his problem.
Truth was, Harris didn't care how the drugs moved—just that the money did. Today's visit was just a check-in. Next step? Collect.
After that, Harris dragged Jack around the city—busted a few clueless street dealers, then paid a visit to a gang hideout tied to MS-13. Latino crew, mostly El Salvador and Columbian. L.A. really had everything.
By afternoon, Harris was introducing Jack to other officers… and then, without a hint of shame, brought him along to meet his mistress—and slept with her while Jack sat awkwardly in the living room watching TV with her kid.
Just another day in narcotics.
Jack shifted on the couch, trying not to think about it.
Guess the boss trusts me… showing me all this.
Training day should be fine.
Right?
A little later, Harris walked out like nothing happened. "Let's go, rookie. We've got a job."
They rolled back to the informant's house.
This time, Harris didn't come alone.
He brought backup—armed officers, tools in hand, even hoes for digging. The whole thing felt less like a visit and more like a raid.
At first, Jack thought this was it—his first real bust.
Then he realized the target.
The informant.
"Isn't he… your guy?" Jack asked, confused.
Friend. Informant. Ally.
So why was he the one getting hit?
Moments later, Jack found himself aiming a gun along with the others, while Harris lounged on the couch like he owned the place.
"Had dinner with my superiors today," Harris said casually. "They want you to pay your protection fee. Be a good sport."
Jack's mind stalled.
Protection fee?
From narcotics cops?
The informant scoffed. "Haven't I paid enough already? You trying to bleed me dry?"
"Relax," Harris said with a grin. "Just taxes. Everything gets taxed in this country—even drugs. These officers need their cut. Boats, women, houses… you know how it is. I'm just the middleman."
"And what do I get?"
"Protection," Harris replied. "You stay out of jail, keep doing business, keep making money. Everybody wins."
Jack felt like the floor had dropped out from under him.
Protect sheep by working with wolves?
No—this was worse.
This was a wolf devouring everything.
And suddenly, joining narcotics didn't feel like such a great idea.
When the informant refused to pay, Harris moved to plan B. He led the team into the kitchen, pried up the floorboards, and pulled out a hidden stash—cash the informant had been sitting on the whole time.
Four million dollars.
Harris pocketed a million, split some with his crew, and set aside the rest for "the department."
Take down a dealer, collect the money, file the report—everybody gets paid.
Everybody wins.
Except Jack.
When Harris tossed him a stack, he shook his head immediately. "I'm not taking it."
"Come on," Harris said. "Buy your wife a car. Send your kids to college. This kind of money changes lives."
"I get paid by the department. That's enough."
The room went quiet—then broke into laughter.
"Kid's serious?"
"What are you gonna do with a salary?"
"Boy's acting righteous."
Harris's eyes darkened.
Honestly, he'd been willing to bring Jack in, even share profits—especially after hearing about his connection to Luca. But this?
Hanging around a mob boss, then acting clean?
What, was this kid a joke?
Fine.
If he wouldn't bend, he'd break.
Harris switched tactics.
He pulled Jack into the living room, pointed at the informant, and said flatly:
"Kill him."
Jack stared. "You serious?"
The money was already recovered—why not just arrest him?
Why kill him?
"I'm not doing that."
Disappointment flickered across Harris's face.
Wrong answer.
Gunshot.
Harris pulled the trigger himself.
The informant dropped.
Then came the cleanup—staging the scene. Drug dealer resisted arrest. Officers returned fire. Self-defense.
To sell it, Harris shoved a pistol into the corpse's hand, even fired a couple rounds at his own guy's vest for effect.
Clean. Convincing.
And the shooter?
That would be Jack.
The rest of the officers backed it up—statements lined up, story airtight.
Jack stared at Harris, disbelief written all over his face.
"It wasn't me. It was you."
Harris just smiled.
"Don't like the report?" he said lightly. "Fine. We can write a different one. 'LAPD narcotics officer killed in the line of duty. Leaves behind a wife and young daughter.'"
Jack felt ice crawl through his veins.
This wasn't justice.
This wasn't law enforcement.
This was rot.
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