Trust me, it ain't a do-gooder you've stumbled into, Faolan. It's a man with foresight, who figures that apprehending a culprit early means less work by the time the corpses are getting cozy in his dead room. He's close enough to work for this potential case to become his division's problem, and the last thing Jackson ever wants is more work.

Scratch that. The last thing Jackson ever wants is this-- to suddenly be pulled in and dragged headlong into whatever mess this man's made manifest for himself. But Faolan's momentum is forcing him forward, unable to resist his lead. They pass two parked cars and a street light before Jackson gets a hold of himself.

"Let--" He yanks his arm back with surprising strength. "--go of me!"

Jackson extricates himself from Faolan's grip, immediately stumbling backwards, and nearly spraining his arm in the process. He brings them to a halt. "The hell are you doing? Besides askin' me to pack this lead into your jaw?" He draws the gun, pointing it straight at him. "Trust me, I ain't shy."