The conference room on the fourth floor of the DEA field office had earned the unofficial nickname "The War Room" years ago, though no one could remember exactly when or why. It was a utilitarian space—long table, uncomfortable chairs, whiteboards covering two walls, and a projection screen that had seen better days. At 6:03 AM, it was packed with thirty people nursing coffee and waiting for Noah Jogensen to begin.
Noah stood at the head of the table, a laptop open in front of him, his expression as controlled as it had been at the crime scene five hours earlier. He'd gone home for exactly ninety minutes, showered, changed clothes, and returned to the office. Sleep could wait. Everything could wait.
Coe sat to his right, tablet in hand, already pulling up files and imagery. To Noah's left was Sara Reeves, his lead intelligence analyst—a sharp-eyed woman in her early forties who'd spent fifteen years tracking money laundering operations across three continents. Behind them, the whiteboards had been converted into what would become their operational center: photographs of HTBB's known associates, organizational charts, timelines, location maps.
At the center of it all was a photograph of Benjamin Perez, alive and smiling, taken during his initial DEA training three years ago. Next to it, a crime scene photo from the storm drain—a deliberate choice by Noah. He wanted everyone in this room to understand exactly what they were dealing with, exactly what had been taken from them.
"Let's begin," Noah said, his voice cutting through the low murmur of conversation. The room fell silent immediately. "At approximately 2:15 AM this morning, we recovered the body of Special Agent Benjamin Perez from a storm drain in Brooklyn. Preliminary examination by the ME indicates a single gunshot wound to the head, close range, execution style. Time of death is estimated between ten PM and midnight yesterday."
He clicked a key on his laptop, and the projection screen lit up with a map of Brooklyn, a red pin marking the location where Benjamin's body had been found.
"Benjamin had been undercover with HTBB for two years," Noah continued. "In that time, he provided us with extensive intelligence on their money laundering operations, organizational structure, and connections to their primary client, JK Mallman. His last scheduled contact was thirty-six hours before his body was discovered. He missed that contact, which was unprecedented in his two years of operation."
Noah paused, looking around the room at faces ranging from grim determination to barely suppressed anger. These were his people, professionals who understood that the murder of one of their own demanded a response.
"Our working assumption is that Benjamin's cover was compromised, and HTBB moved quickly to eliminate the threat. This wasn't a crime of passion or an accidental exposure. This was a calculated execution followed by careful disposal. That tells us we're dealing with a professional, disciplined organization that takes threats seriously."
He clicked again, and a new image appeared—a surveillance photo of Eliot King entering a restaurant in Manhattan. The man in the photo was in his late forties, impeccably dressed, with the kind of face that projected calm authority.
"Eliot King. Age forty-eight, born in Philadelphia, moved to New York fifteen years ago. On paper, he's a financial consultant specializing in international transactions. In reality, he runs HTBB—a mid-level but highly efficient money laundering operation. No prior arrests, no convictions, extremely careful about insulating himself from direct involvement in criminal activity."
Another click. A second photograph appeared—Vancouver Sell, captured by a traffic camera six months ago. His face was partially turned away, as if he'd sensed the camera even in that brief moment.
"Vancouver Sell, also known as 'The Crosswalk.' King's second-in-command and primary enforcer. Age and background unclear—we've found at least three different identities he's used over the past decade. Former military is our best guess, possibly special operations. He's the one who handles King's problems, and he's very good at it."
Noah let that sink in. "These two men, along with their organization, are our primary targets. Our mission is twofold: one, find out exactly who killed Benjamin and ensure they face justice. Two, dismantle HTBB completely. No half measures, no plea deals that leave the organization intact. We're going to take them apart piece by piece."
Coe stood, taking over the briefing. "Tactical breakdown. We're organizing into four teams. Team Alpha, led by me, will handle all direct action operations—raids, arrests, physical interdiction. Team Bravo, led by Reeves, will focus on intelligence gathering, surveillance, and analysis. Team Charlie will handle financial forensics—we're going to follow every dollar HTBB has ever touched. Team Delta will coordinate with other agencies—FBI, NYPD, financial crimes units, whoever we need."
He pulled up a new image—a complex flowchart showing HTBB's organizational structure as Benjamin had documented it. "Benjamin's intelligence gives us a significant advantage. We know their key personnel, their operational locations, their financial networks. But we have to assume they're currently in crisis mode. They know we'll come after them for killing a federal agent. They're probably destroying evidence, shifting resources, maybe even planning to disappear."
"Which means we move fast," Noah interjected. "We've already requested surveillance warrants for King, Sell, and twelve other HTBB associates. Judge Morrison is reviewing them now, and I expect approval within three hours. The moment we have those warrants, I want eyes on every major player in this organization."
Sarah Reeves stood, her tablet connected to the projection system. A new set of images appeared—financial documents, transaction records, business registrations. "Benjamin's last intelligence dump, delivered six days ago, included documentation of a major transaction scheduled for next week. HTBB is moving eight million dollars through a series of shell corporations, ultimately bound for an account in the Cayman Islands. We believe this is payment from JK Mallman for services rendered over the past quarter."
She highlighted several points on the document. "If we can interdict this transaction, we accomplish two things. One, we seize a significant amount of criminal proceeds, which hurts HTBB's operations and credibility. Two, we demonstrate to Mallman that his money isn't safe with them, which might pressure him to cut ties or, better yet, cooperate with our investigation."
"What's our legal basis for interdiction?" someone asked from the back of the room—Marcus Webb, one of the field agents who'd found Benjamin's body.
"Multiple civil forfeiture statutes," Reeves replied. "The money is demonstrably connected to illegal activity. We can freeze it pending investigation, and if they want it back, they'll have to prove legitimate origin in court—which they can't do."
Noah nodded. "That's Team Charlie's priority. Garcia, you're running point on the financial operation. I want that transaction tracked, documented, and ready for seizure the moment it moves."
Agent Maria Garcia, a specialist in financial crimes, nodded from her seat halfway down the table. "We'll need coordination with Treasury and probably Interpol if the funds cross international boundaries."
"You'll have it," Noah said. "I've already briefed Assistant Director Corso. She's making the necessary calls."
He clicked back to the crime scene photo of Benjamin's body. "Now let's talk about the investigation into Benjamin's death itself. Dr. Martinez conducted a preliminary examination at the scene, and her full autopsy is scheduled for later this morning. Based on what we know so far, Benjamin was shot once in the face with a medium-caliber handgun, probably a 9mm or .40 caliber. The shot was fired from approximately three to five feet away—close enough for an execution but far enough to avoid immediate blowback on the shooter."
Coe pulled up a new map. "The crime scene is here, corner of Meserole and Lorimer. However, we don't believe that's where Benjamin was actually killed. There's no blood evidence on the street level, no signs of struggle. Our working theory is that he was killed elsewhere—possibly in a vehicle—and his body was transported to the storm drain for disposal."
"Which means we need to reconstruct his movements yesterday," Noah said. "Benjamin's last known location was the warehouse on Meserole Street around eight PM. We have him on traffic cameras heading in that direction. After that, the trail goes cold until we found his body six blocks away."
He looked at Lewis. "I want a complete canvas of that six-block radius. Every business, every residence, every traffic camera, every security system. Somebody saw something—a vehicle, people moving, anything unusual. Find it."
Webb nodded. "Already in motion. We've got twenty uniforms from NYPD helping with the canvas, and I'm pulling footage from every camera we can identify."
"Good." Noah's gaze swept the room. "I need everyone to understand something. HTBB killed one of our own. They executed a federal agent and threw his body in a storm drain like garbage. This isn't just another case. This is a declaration of war, and we're going to respond accordingly."
The room was absolutely silent. Every person there understood the weight of what Noah was saying, the commitment he was demanding.
"We're going to work this investigation by the book," Noah continued. "Every warrant will be legally sound, every procedure will be followed, every piece of evidence will be documented properly. But we're going to be thorough, relentless, and we're not going to stop until HTBB is finished. King, Sell, and everyone else involved in Benjamin's death—they're going to pay for what they did."
He closed his laptop. "Team assignments are on the board. Your team leaders will brief you on specific tasks. We reconvene here at eighteen hundred hours for a progress report. Questions?"
Agent Thomas Briggs, one of the senior tactical operators, raised his hand. "Rules of engagement if we encounter King or Sell directly?"
"Standard protocols," Coe answered before Noah could respond. "We're law enforcement, not executioners. If there's resistance, you respond appropriately. But our goal is arrest and prosecution, not revenge. Clear?"
Briggs nodded, though Noah could see the tension in his jaw. They all felt it—the desire for immediate, visceral justice. But that wasn't how they operated. They were better than that.
"One more thing," Noah said. "We're going to consider the possibility of a leak within our own organization. Benjamin's cover held for two years, and suddenly it was blown. That could be bad luck, operational error, or compromise from within. Until we know for certain, we keep this investigation compartmentalized. Information flows through team leaders only. No unnecessary communication outside secure channels. If anyone notices anything suspicious—unusual questions, people asking about the investigation who shouldn't be, anything at all—you report it immediately to me or Coe."
That caused a ripple of discomfort through the room. Nobody liked to think there might be a traitor among them, but Noah had been in this business long enough to know that corruption could exist anywhere.
"Alright," he said. "Let's get to work. We've got a lot to do and not much time to do it."
The room emptied quickly, people breaking off into their assigned teams, tablets and laptops under their arms, already diving into the work. Within minutes, only Noah, Coe, and Reeves remained.
"You really think there might be a leak?" Reeves asked quietly.
Noah was silent for a moment, staring at Benjamin's photograph on the whiteboard. "I don't know," he admitted. "But we can't ignore the possibility. Two years is a long time for deep cover. For Benjamin's identity to be blown now, right when we're close to having everything we need for a major operation..." He shook his head. "It could be coincidence. HTBB might have gotten lucky, noticed something, put the pieces together. But it could also be something more deliberate."
"I'll run a quiet audit," Reeves said. "Communications logs, access records, anyone who knew about Benjamin's placement. If there's a pattern, I'll find it."
"Discreet," Noah emphasized. "I don't want to create paranoia or undermine morale. But I need to know."
She nodded and left, already pulling up files on her tablet.
Coe remained, studying the whiteboard with its web of connections and photographs. "You know what bothers me most about this?" he said after a moment.
"What?"
"The timing. If HTBB was going to burn Benjamin, why now? Why not six months ago, or a year ago? What changed?"
It was a good question, and Noah had been thinking about it since he'd first learned of Benjamin's death. "Maybe they didn't know six months ago. Maybe they only recently discovered his identity."
"Or maybe they knew for a while and were feeding him false information, using him to mislead us." Coe turned from the board. "Have we verified all of Benjamin's intelligence? Made sure it's actually accurate?"
Noah felt a cold weight settle in his stomach. He hadn't considered that possibility—that Benjamin might have been compromised earlier than they knew, that his intelligence might have been deliberately corrupted. If HTBB had been running a counter-operation, feeding Benjamin false information while concealing their real activities...
"Get Garcia to cross-reference everything," Noah said immediately. "Financial records, operational intelligence, organizational charts—I want independent verification on all of it. If Benjamin was being played, I need to know what's real and what's not."
Coe nodded grimly. "This just got a lot more complicated."