The warehouse on Meserole Street was a squat, two-story building wedged between a auto body shop and a long-abandoned textile factory. HTBB leased it under one of their shell corporations, used it for temporary storage and the occasional meeting that required privacy. At 11:47 PM, it should have been empty except for Perez.
Vancouver arrived with four men—reliable operators who'd proven themselves over years of service. Marcus Vega and Danny Reese were former military, the kind of disciplined professionals who followed orders without asking unnecessary questions. Tommy Liu had grown up in the organization, worked his way up from street-level lookout to trusted enforcer. And James Barker was their technical specialist, the one who'd handle any electronic evidence they found.
They parked two blocks away and approached on foot, staying in the shadows. Vancouver had a key to the warehouse, but he didn't intend to use it. Better to observe first, confirm Perez's location, assess whether he was alone.
Vega moved to the side door and carefully checked for signs of surveillance—cameras, trip wires, anything that might indicate Perez was expecting trouble. He signaled all clear. Vancouver nodded, and Liu picked the lock with practiced efficiency.
Inside, the warehouse was dark except for a single office light on the second floor. They could hear movement up there—footsteps, the scrape of a chair. Vancouver held up a hand, and they all froze, listening.
One person. Perez was alone.
Vancouver gestured, and they split up. Vega and Reese took the back stairs, cutting off any rear exit. Liu and Barker positioned themselves at the front entrance to the second floor. Vancouver waited, counting seconds, giving everyone time to get into position.
Then he started up the main stairs, his footsteps deliberately audible.
The movement in the office stopped. Vancouver could almost feel Perez's sudden awareness, that animal instinct that something was wrong. He reached the top of the stairs and turned toward the office.
Perez appeared in the doorway, and for a split second, their eyes met. In that instant, Vancouver saw the recognition and the calculation flash across Perez's face. He knew. Somehow, he knew this wasn't a routine visit.
Perez bolted.
He went for the back stairs, but Vega and Reese were already there, blocking his path. Perez reversed direction, agile and fast, heading for a window at the end of the hallway. Vancouver moved to intercept, but Perez was younger and desperate. He crashed through the window in an explosion of glass, hitting the fire escape outside.
"Don't let him reach the street!" Vancouver snapped.
They poured out after him. Perez scrambled down the fire escape, taking the metal stairs three at a time. He dropped the last eight feet to the alley below, stumbled, recovered, and ran.
Vancouver came down the fire escape more carefully, taking the stairs at a measured pace. Below, his team had already reached the alley and were spreading out. Perez had a head start, but he was heading into an industrial area with limited exits. They had numbers and coordination. He had speed and desperation.
The chase spilled out onto Meserole Street. Perez ran east, toward the more residential areas where he might lose himself in apartment buildings and side streets. Vancouver emerged onto the street and saw Vega and Liu in pursuit, about thirty yards behind their target.
"Reese, parallel on Kingsland," Vancouver ordered into his radio. "Cut him off if he turns north."
He got into his car and started the engine, following at a distance. This wasn't his first hunt. Perez was running on adrenaline now, but that would fade. He'd tire, make a mistake, choose the wrong turn. And when he did, they'd be there.
Three blocks. Four. Perez darted between buildings, trying to lose his pursuers in the maze of industrial corridors. But Vega had served two tours in Iraq hunting insurgents through urban terrain. He knew how to track, how to anticipate, how to herd a target toward a kill zone.
Perez emerged onto Lorimer Street, breathing hard now, his speed flagging. He looked back, saw his pursuers closing in, and made a desperate decision. He turned down a side street, heading for what he probably hoped was another through route.
It was a dead end.
Vancouver pulled his car across the entrance to the side street, blocking it. He got out slowly, drawing his weapon—a Sig Sauer P226, suppressor already attached. Vega and Liu came up behind Perez, cutting off his retreat. Reese appeared from a parallel street, completing the box.
Perez stood in the middle of the narrow street, trapped, his chest heaving. He had nowhere to go. For a moment, he seemed to consider fighting—he was younger, trained, maybe he thought he could take one of them and break through. But Vancouver saw the moment when reality settled in. Four armed men, all professionals, all committed. There was no escape.
"Benjamin," Vancouver said calmly, walking forward. "It didn't have to be like this."
Perez said nothing. His jaw was set, his eyes moving from one captor to another, still looking for an opening that didn't exist.
"Two years," Vancouver continued. "That's dedication. I respect that. But you knew the risks when you took the assignment."
"Fuck you," Perez said quietly.
Vancouver stopped about ten feet away. "Did you really think we wouldn't find out? That you could keep feeding information to the DEA forever?"
"I got enough," Perez said. "More than enough. You're done, all of you. King, you, the whole organization. It's just a matter of time."
"Maybe," Vancouver acknowledged. "But you won't be around to see it."
He raised the pistol. Perez didn't flinch, didn't beg, didn't try to run. Whatever else could be said about him, he faced his death with the same discipline he'd brought to his work.
Vancouver pulled the trigger.
The suppressed gunshot was barely louder than a cough. The bullet entered just above Perez's nose, snapped his head back, and exited through the rear of his skull in a spray of blood and bone. He dropped instantly, dead before he hit the pavement.
Vancouver lowered the weapon and looked at the body dispassionately. Twenty-nine years old, according to the limited background they'd compiled on him. No family. A ghost who'd lived in their world for two years and was now nothing more than a problem to be disposed of.
"Vega, bring the car around," he said. "Liu, check him for wires, phones, anything electronic. Barker, start cleanup on the blood spatter. Reese, watch the perimeter."
They moved with practiced efficiency. Within minutes, they had Perez's body wrapped in plastic sheeting and loaded into the trunk of Vega's car. Barker had documented the scene and was already working on the blood—bleach, water, scrubbing away the evidence. It wouldn't stand up to forensic analysis if law enforcement knew exactly where to look, but it would buy them time.
Vancouver walked to the nearest storm drain and crouched beside it. The metal grate was heavy but manageable. He pulled it aside, revealing the dark shaft below. He could hear water flowing somewhere in the darkness—the city's endless underground rivers, carrying away waste and secrets.
"Bring him here," he said.
Vega and Liu carried the wrapped body from the car. Vancouver stepped aside, and they lowered it into the storm drain. It fell ten feet, hit the bottom with a wet thud, and rolled slightly before settling into the shallow water.
Vancouver looked down at it for a moment. Benjamin Perez, DEA agent, dead at twenty-nine in a Brooklyn storm drain. Another casualty in an endless war between law and criminality, order and chaos, hunters and hunted.
He replaced the grate, checked the street to ensure they'd left no obvious evidence, then nodded to his team. "Clean. Let's go."
They dispersed to their vehicles and disappeared into the Brooklyn night, leaving Perez's body to be found or not found, to decompose slowly in the darkness beneath the city streets.
Vancouver drove back to the office and called King. "It's done."
"Clean?"
"Clean enough. Body's disposed of, scene is sanitized. Barker's team is hitting his apartment now."
"Good. Brief me in the morning. We'll need to assess our exposure and determine our next moves."
"Understood."
Vancouver hung up and continued driving through the empty streets. He felt nothing about what had just happened—no guilt, no satisfaction, no anger. It was simply a job that had needed doing, and he'd done it with his characteristic efficiency.
Somewhere across the city, Benjamin Perez's handlers at the DEA were probably starting to worry about his silence. By tomorrow, they'd be actively searching. And eventually, they'd find what was left of him and understand that their two-year operation had been compromised.
But by then, HTBB would have already adapted, shifted their operations, secured their vulnerabilities. They'd survive this, just as they'd survived other threats over the years.
Vancouver Sell, known as The Crosswalk, drove home through the pre-dawn darkness, already thinking about the next day's work.
The hunt was over. The real battle was just beginning.