"Open the door, quickly!" The seemingly sturdy iron door gave way in less than two seconds under the hydraulic cutters. Jack and his team followed a SWAT unit through the side door of the warehouse, with three additional six-man teams trailing behind.
"Entering the target building, stay close."
"Team B, clear the left side. Team A, move forward."
Feeling Hannah tap his shoulder from behind, Jack reciprocated by tapping the shoulder of the SWAT officer in front of him, signaling that the team was ready to proceed. Aubrey, along with another SWAT group, followed their prearranged plan to head down the hallway leading to the stairs to the second floor.
The warehouse complex was enormous. Even with a deployment of 100-200 officers, forming a tight perimeter would have been impossible. As a result, supporting NYPD officers were stationed around the perimeter.
Because the operation involved the death of an NYPD officer, Commissioner Frank Reagan had deployed NYPD's Emergency Service Unit (ESU) to assist. Their role was to search the surrounding warehouses once the FBI's raid was successful.
The ESU focused on the two auxiliary warehouse areas to the east and west. This division of labor was a necessity—FBI SWAT and ESU, while cooperative, were not part of the same organization. Separate areas of responsibility helped prevent friendly fire incidents.
Sometimes, having too many personnel could complicate matters. To illustrate, a U.S. military task force of about 100 soldiers would require a commanding officer ranked at least a major, supported by numerous lieutenants and senior non-commissioned officers to maintain basic organization.
In contrast, throwing two unrelated tactical units together and expecting seamless coordination was the kind of simplicity only seen in video games.
Jack moved forward alongside SWAT, hugging the walls. As the team passed a row of shelves, they automatically split into two columns, merging back into a single file when entering the final hallway. Before he realized it, Jack found himself at the front of the group.
Having worked with SWAT numerous times, Jack had developed a solid rapport with them. Competence commanded respect, especially in high-risk frontline operations. Jack had a reputation: he'd bested the team's toughest fighter in the ring, outshot their sharpshooter on the range, and consistently excelled in CQB (Close Quarters Battle) drills.
Someone like him leading the charge wasn't seen as glory-hunting—it was reassuring.
Noticing a faint light shining through a plastic-sheeted room ahead, Jack stopped and lifted his night vision goggles, signaling the team to halt.
The others followed suit, raising their goggles, holding their breath, and straining their eyes to adjust to the ambient light.
Feeling another tap on his shoulder, Jack leaned forward and cautiously used the muzzle of his HK416 to lift the plastic curtain draped over the doorway.
Inside was a room with a metal desk. Two men sat across from each other, heads down as if reviewing documents. They looked like they were auditing accounts. Facing Jack was the Latino driver from earlier—the one who had shot the motorcycle officer.
The man seated with his back to Jack was a short, stocky middle-aged man with thinning hair slicked back into an oily comb-over. Both men wore expensive, custom-tailored Italian suits, resembling wealthy New York businessmen.
The difference? Wealthy businessmen didn't keep a Beretta 92 pistol casually within reach while reviewing accounts. They had the right targets.
"FBI! Don't move!"
Jack bellowed as he charged into the room. The Latino driver reacted instantly, reaching for the handgun beside him as soon as he heard the rustle of the plastic curtain.
Pfft! Pfft! Pfft!
Unfortunately for him, he was up against the FBI's top-tier operative. Jack's reflexes were faster, and he squeezed the trigger without hesitation. The suppressed HK416 emitted muffled shots, opening several bloody holes in the driver's chest.
Whether the man was Vargas's driver-bodyguard, trusted lieutenant, or second-in-command, Jack showed no mercy.
A dead drug lord was the best kind of drug lord. Jack didn't care if the higher-ups wanted live captures; no one could reasonably demand a live suspect in a raid like this.
Jack shifted his aim to the other man—Anthony Vargas. The crime lord instinctively reached for the pistol on the desk, but hesitated, hand hovering mid-reach. If anyone had been wearing night vision goggles, they would have noticed a steady, invisible infrared laser dot trained on the shiny comb-over.
"Federal agent! Hands in the air!" A SWAT officer shouted as the rest of the team poured into the room, fanning out along the walls. Hannah, rifle in hand, crouched beside Jack without saying a word.
The sound of the driver's body hitting the floor made Vargas flinch. Sensing Jack's intent, he froze. Slowly, he retracted his hand from the gun and raised both arms.
"Don't shoot. My hands are up," Vargas said, turning to face the two FBI agents pointing their rifles directly at his head. His expression twitched involuntarily.
It had been years since Vargas had experienced this—being held at gunpoint and stared down like a dead man walking.
By now, Jack no longer had the option of lethal force. While he wasn't keen on taking Vargas alive, the SWAT officers following them wore body cams mounted to their helmets alongside night vision gear.
In the command vehicle outside and in the FBI headquarters operations center, countless eyes were watching the scene unfold.
Jack had no personal vendetta against Vargas. Although Jubal had mentioned the drug lord was responsible for the death of an FBI agent, that was seven years ago and unrelated to Jack. Killing Vargas out of vengeance wasn't necessary.
In fact, everyone, including Jubal and Dana Morge, preferred a live capture. Convicting Vargas through due process and getting him to confess to the FBI agent's murder would be a PR triumph, especially if it were publicized nationwide.
After seven years, crimes didn't become any less severe, but public awareness faded. Killing Vargas on the spot would feel abrupt—like a poorly executed twist in a novel. Convicting him publicly, however, would resonate far more.
"Turn around, keep your head up, and hands high," Hannah ordered, holstering her rifle and pulling out handcuffs as if Vargas were an ordinary suspect.
Jack stepped forward, pressing the silencer of his HK416 close to Vargas's ear. "Don't try anything stupid. I was hoping you'd grab that Beretta so I'd have a reason."
Vargas snorted, wincing as Hannah tightened the cuffs. Despite the discomfort, he tried to maintain his air of authority. The dossier was right—this Italian-American truly knew how to put on a show.
"One down, primary target secured. Two suspects remain unaccounted for. Aubrey, stay alert—they might be on your side," Jack relayed over the comms.
"Copy. Continuing the search," Aubrey replied from upstairs.
"Jack, confirm the suspect is Vargas," Jubal requested over the radio. Although he had been watching the operation, the poor lighting and low-resolution body cam footage left room for doubt.
"Confirmed," Jack replied. The channel immediately erupted in subdued cheers.
Jubal's voice returned, noticeably lighter. "Bring that son of a bitch back immediately!"
Jack raised an eyebrow. "Back to headquarters?"
"Yes, take him to 26 Federal Plaza. I want to question him myself," Dana Morge's voice cut in over the comms.
(End of Chapter)
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