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“We’ve come up with a positive ID on three of the four gunmen,” Jacobson informs. “The fourth we’ve yet to identify. I’m afraid we didn’t get a good enough look before he shot out the cameras.”
“Let me guess,” I mumble. “Recently released convicts with Russian affiliations?”
“Yes, actually. How did you…”
Damn. Luka was right.
“Call it a hunch,” I say. “What are their names?”
When Officer Jacobson tells me, it’s a simple matter of entering them into the FBI database. Our records are extensive and organized. If they have priors—and they all do—they can’t so much as sneeze without my being able to hear about it. Unfortunately, it seems these sons of bitches are capable of much,muchworse.
I’ve seen some terrible stuff working for the FBI, but these men’s profiles are enough to make me break into a cold sweat. It’s frankly a miracle there weren’t any fatalities during the hospital shooting, because these men are heartless.
If Luka was right and The Trinity have somehow managed to convince these people to work for them, I won’t be surprised if we’re about to see a massive wave of violence break out across New York. Murder, assault, gang-related torture. These people are not meant to be trifled with.
“Do we have eyes on them?” I ask firmly.
“Our boys are out searching for them now, and we do have an address on file for one of them. An old apartment in the east end. The warrant’s just come in.”
“I want to go,” I say, standing.
Jacobson gives me a hesitant look. We’re all on the same side, but interdepartmental cases can sometimes get messy. Too many cooks in the kitchen often leads to toes being stepped on.
“It’ll be your collar,” I assure, “but I need to see this guy myself. It could give me a lead on my own case.”
“Alright, then.”
“Gomez!” I call over my shoulder. He’s already seated at his desk, breaking into what I assume is supposed to be his lunch. “We’ve got a lead. We’re heading out.”
My colleague sighs, setting his food down. “No rest for the wicked, huh?”
“Never,” I confirm.
* * *
It’s a twenty-man raid. Mostly NYPD officers, with Gomez and myself following close behind. It’s a shady part of town, underdeveloped and mostly quartered off for future development. There’s a heavy homeless presence in the area, but I’m hopeful they can be useful to us. Who knows what they might have seen?
With my Kevlar vest strapped in place and my Beretta at the ready in my holster, we make our way into the building. It’s a condemned building, not at all surprising. The place smells of smoke and mold. The carpeted halls are dingy, sticky beneath my boots. The wallpaper is peeled back and faded from years of sun exposure, ugly brown water spots covering most of the ceiling.
The commander at the front signals for quiet, gesturing with his hands to communicate.
Targets ahead.
Proceed on my mark.
He counts us down with his fingers. Three, two, one…
It happens with urgent efficiency.
The breacher at the front uses his battering ram to break open the door. Armed officers rush in in file formation, covering each other’s sixes as they sweep the shoddy apartment, shouting loud enough to shake the building. The exchange of gunfire, the hard thud of bodies. Hopefully none of our own.
It’s over in a matter of seconds. When the dust settles, the commander shouts the all clear.
Gomez and I exchange a look as we step into the apartment, taking in the damage. All three of our suspects are dead, shot through the chest or the head. I do my best not to stare at the carnage. My years as an agent have hardened me to these sorts of things, but that doesn’t stop my stomach from clenching.
“Shit,” I mumble under my breath. “I wanted them alive for questioning.”
“We had no choice,” one of the officers near the front snaps. “They were armed.”
