Across the city, in a nondescript apartment in Queens, Vancouver Sell was methodically destroying his digital life. Laptop hard drives were being wiped and physically destroyed. Phones were being disassembled and disposed of in separate locations across the city. Every piece of electronics that might contain evidence or tracking data was being eliminated.
He worked with practiced efficiency, the same way he approached everything—calm, thorough, emotionless. This was just another operational challenge, another problem to solve. The fact that it had been triggered by his execution of Benjamin Perez was irrelevant. He'd done what was necessary. Now he was doing what came next.
His personal apartment—one of three he maintained across New York—was already scrubbed clean. No documents, no evidence, nothing that could link him to HTBB's operations. The lease was under a false identity, utilities paid through an anonymous account, no neighbors who could identify him.
Within the hour, he'd be completely dark. No phone, no car registered in any name he'd used, no credit cards or bank accounts that could be tracked. He'd become a ghost, moving through the city's shadows, coordinating HTBB's operations through a network of intermediaries and cutouts that would make it nearly impossible for the DEA to connect him to any specific criminal activity.
It was inconvenient, certainly. Operating without modern communications technology would slow him down, make coordination more difficult. But it was necessary. Noah's people would be looking for him, trying to establish surveillance, document his movements, build a pattern they could exploit.
He wouldn't give them one.
A knock at the door—three quick taps, pause, two more. Recognition code. Vancouver checked the security camera feed on his phone one last time before destroying it. Russell Kingsley, the technician who'd spotted Perez, stood in the hallway, looking nervous.
Vancouver opened the door and gestured him inside. "Report."
"Perez's apartment has been completely sanitized," Kingsley said. "No electronics, no documents, no evidence. We pulled everything. Barker's team is analyzing the computer equipment now, seeing if there's anything we need to worry about."
"Good. What about the warehouse on Meserole?"
"Cleared out completely. All inventory moved to secondary locations, all records destroyed. If the DEA raids it, they'll find an empty building."
"They will raid it," Vancouver said. "Probably within the next forty-eight hours. Make sure there's nothing there—not even dust that might contain trace evidence."
Kingsley nodded. "There's something else. One of our people spotted DEA surveillance on the building in Midtown. Two vehicles, four agents, rotating shifts. They're watching Mr. King."
"Expected. What about our other locations?"
"No signs of surveillance yet, but I have people monitoring. If the DEA expands their coverage, we'll know."
Vancouver considered this. Noah and his team at the DEA would start with the obvious targets—King, the known HTBB associates, locations that Perez had documented. But eventually they'd expand, following financial trails, investigating shell corporations, tracking patterns in transaction records.
The key was to stay ahead of that investigation, to ensure that by the time Noah's people arrived at any given location or followed any specific financial thread, the trail had already gone cold.
"I need you to do something for me," Vancouver said. "Personal project, completely off the books."
Kingsley looked wary but nodded. "What do you need?"
"Information on Noah Jogensen. Personal life, family, habits, vulnerabilities. Everything."
"You're thinking about leverage?"
"I'm thinking about insurance. If Noah becomes too much of a problem, I want options."
Kingsley's expression suggested he understood exactly what kind of "options" Vancouver was considering. "That's... escalating things significantly. Going after a federal agent's family—"
"I didn't say family," Vancouver interrupted. "I said vulnerabilities. Maybe it's family, maybe it's financial problems, maybe it's an old mistake he's tried to bury. I just want to know what pressure points exist, in case we need them."
"And if we use them? If we threaten or harm a federal agent or his family? That brings down a level of response that makes the current situation look manageable."
Vancouver's expression didn't change. "Which is why it's insurance, not first option. But I want it available."
Kingsley nodded slowly. "I'll see what I can find. Quietly."
"Very quietly. If this gets back to Mr. King before I decide whether to use it, we'll have problems."
After Kingsley left, Vancouver finished destroying the last of his electronics, packed a small bag with cash and essential items, and left the apartment. He wouldn't be returning. By tomorrow, the lease would be anonymously terminated, the space thoroughly cleaned, all connection to his false identity severed.
He walked three blocks to a subway station, paid cash for a ticket, and rode into Manhattan. No one followed him—at least, no one obvious. But Vancouver operated on the assumption that he was always being watched, always being tracked. Paranoia was survival in this business.
He got off at a random station, walked through the crowds for twenty minutes taking a deliberately circuitous route, then entered a parking garage where he'd pre-positioned a vehicle under yet another false identity. A ten-year-old Toyota Camry, one of the most common cars in America, effectively invisible in traffic.
Vancouver drove to Brooklyn, to a warehouse district far from any of HTBB's known operations. Inside a storage unit registered to a shell corporation with no connection to King Financial, he'd established a temporary operations center—laptops with encrypted communications, files of key operational data, everything he'd need to coordinate the organization's restructure while remaining invisible to law enforcement.
He settled in and began making calls through encrypted channels. Personnel reassignments. Operational relocations. Financial network modifications. All the delicate, complex work of transforming HTBB from the organization Benjamin Perez had documented into something new, something that Noah's investigation couldn't quite pin down.
It would take time, effort, and absolute discipline. But Vancouver had all three.
As he worked, part of his mind kept returning to Noah Jogensen. The DEA agent was smart, experienced, motivated. He'd put everything into this investigation, throw every resource at HTBB, pursue them relentlessly.
But everyone had vulnerabilities. Everyone had pressure points. And if Noah pushed too hard, became too much of a threat to everything King had built, those vulnerabilities might need to be exploited.
Vancouver didn't enjoy the idea of targeting law enforcement on a personal level. It was messy, complicated, brought consequences that were difficult to predict. But he was also pragmatic. If it came down to HTBB's survival or Noah's wellbeing, there was no question which he'd choose.
He hoped it wouldn't come to that. He hoped Chen would focus on legal investigation, proper procedures, building a case that HTBB could defend against in court.
But if Chen decided to go after them with everything he had, no rules, no restraint?
Vancouver would respond in kind.
He returned his attention to the laptop and continued coordinating HTBB's transformation. The war had begun. And Vancouver Sell, The Crosswalk, intended to win it.
Whatever that required.