"It was always complicated. We just didn't know how complicated."
Noah's phone buzzed—a text from Assistant Director Corso: Judge Paish approved the surveillance warrants. You're cleared for immediate deployment.
He showed the message to Coe. "Get your team mobilized. I want eyes on King and Sell within the hour."
"On it." Coe headed for the door, then paused. "Noah... get some sleep at some point. You're no good to anyone if you collapse."
"I'll sleep when they're in custody."
Coe sighed but didn't argue. He knew Noah well enough to understand when pushing would be futile.
Alone in the conference room, Noah stood before the whiteboard and studied the faces of his enemies. Eliot King, calm and professional. Vancouver Sell, partially obscured, always careful. And scattered around them, the lesser players in HTBB's organization—drivers, couriers, financial operators, enforcers.
Somewhere in this network was the person who'd pulled the trigger on Benjamin. Maybe it was Sell himself. Maybe it was some foot soldier following orders. But whoever it was, Noah would find them.
He pulled out his phone and called Dr. Martinez. She answered on the second ring, sounding tired but alert. "Noah. I was about to call you."
"What have you got?"
"Preliminary findings from the autopsy. Your victim was killed by a single 9mm round fired from approximately four feet away. Based on powder residue patterns and the angle of entry, he was standing when he was shot, facing his killer. Death was instantaneous—the bullet severed the brain stem and caused massive trauma. He didn't suffer."
That was something, at least. Small comfort, but something.
"Anything else?" Noah asked.
"Defensive wounds on his hands and arms, fairly fresh. He was in a physical altercation or chase shortly before death—scrapes, bruises, consistent with running and possibly climbing or jumping. His clothes were dirty, torn in places. Whatever happened, he was trying to get away."
So Benjamin had known he was in danger, had tried to escape. Noah closed his eyes briefly, imagining those final moments—the realization that his cover was blown, the desperate flight through Brooklyn streets, the inevitable confrontation with trained killers who had no intention of letting him live.
"Time of death?" he asked.
"Between ten PM and midnight, as I estimated at the scene. I'll narrow it down further as I complete the full examination, but that's your window."
"Thank you, Sarah."
"Noah..." She hesitated. "I've been doing this job for twenty-three years. I've seen a lot of agents come through my examination room. This one bothers me more than most. He was young, he was doing important work, and someone executed him like he was nothing. I hope you get the bastards who did this."
"We will," Noah said. "I promise you that."
He hung up and added Martinez's findings to the growing file on his laptop. Ten PM to midnight. That gave them a two-hour window to account for. Somewhere in those two hours, Benjamin Perez had gone from a functioning undercover agent to a body in a storm drain.
Noah pulled up the traffic camera footage that Webb's team had already collected. Benjamin's vehicle—a nondescript Honda Civic registered to one of his cover identities—appeared on multiple cameras heading toward the Meserole Street warehouse around 7:45 PM. After that, nothing. The car never appeared on cameras leaving the area.
So either Benjamin had left on foot, or his car was still somewhere near the warehouse.
Noah called Webb. "The Honda Civic Benjamin was driving—have we located it?"
"Not yet. I've got people checking the area around the warehouse, but so far nothing."
"Expand the search. If HTBB took him, they probably took or disposed of the vehicle too. Check impound lots, report any abandoned vehicles in Brooklyn from last night."
"Will do."
Noah made notes, building a timeline:
7:45 PM - Benjamin arrives at warehouse area
8:00 PM (estimated) - Last known location
10:00 PM - 12:00 AM - Time of death
2:15 AM - Body discovered
Somewhere in those hours, something had gone catastrophically wrong. Benjamin had been identified, hunted, and killed. The question was how HTBB had discovered his identity.
His phone rang again—this time Reeves. "Noah, we've got something. One of the analysts was going through Benjamin's phone records from the past week. He received a text message yesterday afternoon from an unknown number. Just two words: 'You're burned.'"
Noah felt his pulse quicken. "Can we trace it?"
"Already on it. The number was a burner phone, probably disposed of immediately after sending the message. But we're pulling cell tower data to see if we can triangulate a location."
"Someone warned him," Noah said. "Someone inside HTBB knew he was compromised and tried to give him a heads-up."
"Or someone wanted to panic him into making a mistake," Reeves countered. "Either way, it suggests there might be fractures within HTBB, maybe someone who's not completely on board with King's leadership."
That was an interesting possibility. If there was internal dissent in HTBB, someone who disagreed with killing a federal agent, that person might be vulnerable to recruitment as an informant.
"Keep digging," Noah said. "I want to know everything about that message—where it came from, who might have sent it, whether Benjamin responded."
"On it."
Noah ended the call and stared at the whiteboard again. The investigation was expanding, growing more complex by the hour. Financial crimes, murder investigation, possible internal leaks, potential informants within the target organization—all of it had to be coordinated, managed, kept moving forward.
This was going to be a long war. But Noah had been preparing for it since the moment he'd learned Benjamin was dead.
He picked up his coffee—long since gone cold—and drained it anyway. Then he opened his laptop and began drafting the operational plan that would guide their campaign against HTBB.
Somewhere across the city, Eliot King and Vancouver Sell were probably doing the same thing—planning, strategizing, preparing for the inevitable conflict. They'd killed a federal agent, and they knew what that meant. The full weight of the DEA, backed by the FBI, NYPD, and every other law enforcement agency, would come down on them.
But King hadn't survived fifteen years in the money laundering business by being stupid or careless. He'd be ready.
Noah allowed himself a thin smile. So would he.
The war room hummed with activity around him as agents came and went, information flowed, the machinery of investigation ground into motion. On the whiteboard, Benjamin Perez's photograph looked out at them all, a silent reminder of what they were fighting for.
Justice. Vengeance. The simple, absolute certainty that you don't kill a federal agent and walk away.
Noah Jogenson intended to make sure HTBB learned that lesson, no matter how long it took or what it cost.
The hunt had begun in earnest.