Frank leaned back, looking at his youngest son. He saw the same fierce, immovable integrity that had killed Joe and aged Danny by twenty years. It was beautiful, and it was terrifyingly dangerous for a career in the NYPD.
Then, the heavy double doors at the far end of the gym swung open.
Twenty-four hours later, Jamie was standing at attention in the lion's den: the office of the Police Commissioner. Frank Reagan sat behind the heavy oak desk, his expression unreadable, though the disappointment radiating off him was heavy enough to choke the room. Blue Bloods 11x13
"You should've let him take me, kid," Jill muttered, her voice gravelly and worn thin by too many winters on the street. "I’m not worth the trouble you’re about to get."
The truth didn't come out at the Commissioner's office, and it didn't come out at the Sunday dinner table, despite the ice-cold tension passing between Frank and Jamie over the pot roast. Frank leaned back, looking at his youngest son
"With every win comes a loss, Jamie," Frank warned him quietly. "If you don't give this department a reason, they will take that badge. Family name or not." "Then let them take it," Jamie replied. The Ghosts of Fallujah
Jamie Reagan stood under the awning of a closed bodega, watching the squad car pull away. Inside it was Hector, a rookie whose uniform still had the stiff, sharp creases of the Academy. Hector was furious. He had been shoved by a homeless woman in a manic state, and he wanted an assault collar. Then, the heavy double doors at the far
"Jill?" Danny’s voice cracked—a sound the tough-as-nails detective rarely made.