For Jack, a Los Angeles native, the cramped, aged living conditions of New Yorkers were hard to imagine. These cheap, brick or brownstone apartment buildings, built over a century ago, had endured countless storms and tests of time. As he navigated the rubble of the leveled building, stepping carefully through broken bricks and shattered concrete, it was clear the rescue work was nearing its end. As the saying goes, "no eggs remain unbroken under a fallen nest," and here, only a few lucky individuals had survived, while most had been buried under the debris.
Unlike collapses caused by earthquakes or other natural disasters, this implosion-type collapse—resulting from a blast—left almost no chance of survivors. Each floor had been crushed into fragments, leaving no pockets of space where someone might have taken refuge. What had once been a six-story apartment building had caved inward, with much of the material plunging into the basement, so the rubble didn't even rise far above street level. In places, especially further from the street, the debris lay below ground.
Several K9 units combed through the ruins, not to search for survivors but rather to locate any unexploded devices. Mac Taylor's team was already at work, wearing white protective suits and dust masks, sifting through the rubble for any useful clues.
"Any findings?" Jack made his way, stepping carefully, to what he remembered as the area closest to the explosion. This was near the apartment's central hallway, and, according to the building manager, it had been where Felton Ames, the likely target, had lived.
The room was now flattened, a 2D version of its former self, covered by layers of broken floor slabs. Only shards of the bodies remained, but with some luck, they might still uncover something valuable.
Inadvertently, Jack seemed to be living out a scene right out of a detective show. But, as luck would have it, tagging along with seasoned professionals seemed to come with a bit of a hero's aura.
"We found a foot… and a piece of red silk pants."
A tall female researcher looked up at Mac Taylor and Jack, gesturing toward an overturned piece of a sofa. "Would two fine gentlemen lend a hand?"
"Happy to," Jack said, introducing himself as an FBI agent. They shook hands briefly. Though her face was hidden by a mask, her familiarity with Mac Taylor suggested a close working relationship.
"New in town, huh?" she remarked. "It looks like New York's first impression hasn't been great for you. Stella Bonasera—Mac's assistant," she added, her introduction uncannily similar to Mac Taylor's earlier words.
Together, Jack and Mac easily moved the sofa piece, revealing a partial leg beneath it.
"Looks like it could be part of Felton Ames—the building manager said he always wore flashy red silk suits."
Mac Taylor squatted down and took a pair of scissors from his kit, carefully cutting through the fabric, now nearly fused to the flesh.
"Is that a… cell phone?" Jack asked, spotting what looked like an old-style Nokia phone, a spark of hope lighting in him.
"Yes, it's embedded in the flesh," Mac confirmed. "Stella, can you pass me an evidence bag?"
Once the phone remnants were bagged, Jack inquired, "Any chance of recovering data from it?"
"Depends on our luck, but the odds are decent," Mac said, handing the evidence bag to Stella. "Get it to the lab right away and ask them to prioritize it."
"Notify me as soon as you get something," Jack said, exchanging contact information with him. This disposable phone could be a key lead, much more useful than tracking Ames's known numbers, which were likely registered under fake IDs anyway.
By the time Jack left the scene, the city was lit with evening lights. After calling Alexis and confirming that her grandmother had picked her up, he retrieved his car and drove to Rosy's apartment.
Dana Morrell had already returned to the office, leaving instructions for him to change and report back afterward. Compared to his new boss's relentless work ethic, Rosy, his previous supervisor, was much easier to appreciate. When Jack stepped out of the private elevator, hauling two suitcases, and opened the apartment door, he was instantly struck by the grand layout.
The spacious, three-hundred-square-meter duplex was modern in design, with light tones throughout and top-of-the-line appliances—even a brand-new, oversized kitchen hood and a double-door refrigerator in the open kitchen.
Jack's mood brightened immediately. If Rosy were here, he'd hug the old man on the spot.
After all, this was Manhattan, where tiny "pigeonhole" apartments could rent for thousands a month. This luxury apartment easily cost over fifteen thousand dollars a month. If Jack had to pay out of pocket, he'd likely be funneling his entire FBI salary into rent.
However, now wasn't the time to marvel at the apartment. Jack didn't even unpack, only dug out a suit, took a quick shower, and headed out again.
The New York FBI office was located at 26 Federal Plaza in Manhattan, which housed numerous federal agencies, including Immigration and Commerce. The FBI had its own dedicated floor. After clearing security and reaching the reception desk, Jack was soon greeted by a large, broad-shouldered man in just a shirt, striding toward him.
"Assistant Special Agent-in-Charge Jubal Valentine," the man introduced himself. "Welcome, Senior Agent Jack Tavore. I'm sorry we couldn't throw you a proper welcome party, given today's events."
Valentine looked tense, but Jack understood it wasn't personal. While risk was high in the criminal division, losing two agents at once was rare and devastating.
"I'm very sorry about Agents Maggie Bell and Omar Adom Zidan," Jack said, still feeling uneasy. Though their deaths were somewhat circumstantial, he couldn't help but wonder if people might blame him, pinning him with a nickname like "bad luck charm." After all, superstition wasn't unique to any one culture.
"I've reviewed the footage from bystanders' phones," Valentine said, his rapid speech and concise style underscoring his efficiency. "Your bravery was commendable."
He guided Jack into a large open office and clapped his hands, commanding everyone's attention. The room had long, unpartitioned tables with rows of six desks facing each other, all crowded with computers and phones. Nearly every seat was occupied.
This was likely a permanent operations support room, and Jack assumed most of the casually dressed individuals were intelligence analysts.
"A quick introduction," Valentine said. "Senior Agent Jack Tavore from the BAU, here to assist in our current investigation."
Without giving the group time to respond, Valentine gestured to the front of the room. "Now, let's refocus on the case at hand. Agents Bell and Zidan's deaths are tragic, but we must act immediately. With two bombs successfully detonated, it's clear that the suspect's intent was targeted. First and foremost, we need to consider the threat of terrorism. Janie, give us the details."
A female analyst stood up. "Over the past 72 hours, neither the NSA, CIA, nor DHS detected any threats online, and there has been no chatter since the explosion."
"Good," Valentine said, gesturing to the screen facing the room. "If a terrorist organization were responsible, they'd have already claimed it, so I'm inclined to believe in the gang-related lead Agent Tavore uncovered at the scene."
As he spoke, the screen displayed a photo of a gaunt-looking young Black man. "The target appears to be Felton Ames, a gang member affiliated with the MacBala family."
Valentine then nodded toward a middle-aged white man with a visitor badge, who appeared to be around his age and equally solidly built.
"Danny, could the NYPD provide an overview for the group?"
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