March 4, 2026
11:02 a.m.
Midtown Manhattan – NYPD Special Crimes Task Force, 23rd floor
The conference room smelled like burnt coffee and panic.
Whiteboards on every wall. Red string connecting photos like a conspiracy theorist's wet dream.
At the head of the table: Deputy Commissioner Raymond McAllister, face the color of spoiled milk.
Jack stood in the back, arms folded, watching the man who buried Emily Rojas eight years ago try to bury this one too.
McAllister slapped a thick folder down.
"Listen up. As of 0600 this morning, the Caldwell case is now federal. FBI's Cyber Division is taking point. We're support only. That means we smile, we hand over evidence, and we stay the hell out of their way. Understood?"
A dozen detectives muttered some version of yes, sir.
Jack didn't.
McAllister's eyes found him.
"Reyes. You got something to say?"
"Yeah," Jack said, voice flat. "I'm saying the feds can have the glory when they catch him. Until then, this happened in my city, to my case, and I'm not sitting on my hands while another scumbag gets a collar around his neck instead of cuffs."
Snickers from a couple uniforms.
McAllister's temples throbbed.
"You're off the case, Sergeant. Effective now. Turn in your file."
Jack didn't move.
"Already did," he lied. "Left it on your nephew Dylan's desk. Figured family should keep it in-house."
The room went dead quiet.
McAllister stared murder at him.
Jack stared back, unblinking.
Then the lights flickered.
Every screen in the room (projector, laptops, the ancient TV in the corner) cut to the same black feed.
A new countdown appeared.
**21:57:11 until the next sinner faces judgment.**
The distorted voice filled the room like smoke.
"Good afternoon, New York.
I see the protectors of the guilty are already circling the wagons.
Detective Reyes, you asked for the next name.
Here it is."
A photo faded in.
A woman. Mid-thirties. Blonde. Perfect teeth.
**Monica Sterling**
**Senior Vice President, Apex Pharmaceuticals**
**Architect of the 2023 Oxyvitra recall cover-up**
**Directly responsible for 2,847 documented overdose deaths**
The voice continued, calm as ever.
"Ms. Sterling believed profits mattered more than children breathing.
Tonight at 9:00 PM EST, she will learn the cost of that belief.
There will be no envelope this time.
She's watching this right now.
Hello, Monica."
The feed cut to a live shot: Monica Sterling in her corner office on the 62nd floor of a glass tower, staring at her monitor with the same expression people wear when they realize the elevator cable just snapped.
She bolted for the door.
It didn't open.
The blinds slammed shut on their own.
Every phone in the task force room started ringing at once.
Jack snatched his before McAllister could bark orders.
Unknown number.
He answered.
"Enjoy the show, Detective," the Judge said.
"And tell Deputy Commissioner McAllister his nephew is number seven on my list.
He just moved up."
Click.
Jack looked straight at McAllister.
The Deputy Commissioner's hand was already reaching for his own phone, fingers trembling.
Outside the window, Manhattan stretched out like a city that had just realized it was next.
21 hours, 56 minutes, and counting.