The deactivated grenades were immediately sent to the CSI lab. While the initial explosion had been far too intense to be caused by these old grenades, the second blast's strength matched the characteristics of an M26. Mike Taylor was expediting the analysis of the explosive residues.
"Beep, beep."
Jack's phone buzzed, showing a message from Jubal Valentine, who had sent a short clip from a community center surveillance camera.
The footage, taken at the back entrance of the gym, clearly showed a tattooed man handing a black sports bag containing explosives to Wilmer. The timestamp was 5:00 p.m. yesterday, an hour after the first bombing.
Danny Reagan watched the video on Jack's phone and then slammed his hand on the table. He grabbed Wilmer by the collar, pushing the frozen video frame in front of his face.
"You've got two choices. Either tell me who this guy is, right now, or I call immigration and have every one of your friends and relatives deported. And my friend here from the FBI will freeze your bank accounts, seize every cent you've sent to your family in Metapán, and leave them homeless."
Jack casually walked to the corner, yanking the wall-mounted surveillance camera off. "Wow, seems NYPD equipment could use an upgrade."
Danny shrugged. "It was broken anyway."
Wilmer nearly wet himself, panicked and stammering, "It's—Bernardo Fuentes!"
---
Jack rushed to the police parking lot, got into the driver's seat of an FBI SUV, and waited for Danny to climb in. "Tell your logistics department I'll cover the cost of that camera."
Danny just shrugged again. "I wasn't kidding—it was just a prop."
Jack raised an eyebrow, then chuckled. "Keep that interrogation room reserved for us. I think we'll need it again soon."
---
They returned to the federal building, where the operations center was buzzing. Jubal Valentine stood in front of a large screen, reviewing various surveillance feeds, while Dana Mosier observed intently from behind him.
"What's the situation?" Jack asked.
"ESU just raided Bernardo Fuentes' home. He wasn't there, but CSI found trace explosives. No sign of the materials or tools used to make bombs, though, so he must have another workspace."
Jubal didn't look pleased. Although New York's public surveillance density is slightly higher than Los Angeles, the cameras are often vandalized or absent in high-crime areas.
Using facial recognition software, analysts tracked Bernardo Fuentes near his house this morning, but they quickly lost his trail.
"Now that he knows his bomb was discovered, will he hide out somewhere, or try to leave the city altogether?" Dana wondered aloud, hoping someone had an answer.
"Well, since you cut off public transport, there's a good chance he's still here," Jubal replied smoothly, flattering her.
Dana smirked, though she maintained her composure. "Tell that to the mayor. He's been calling every hour, asking when we'll reopen transit."
Given the case's rapid progress, she felt confident handling the press conference later that afternoon. Of course, a complete resolution would make it even better.
"Any ideas on how to find Bernardo Fuentes' hideout quickly?"
Jack and Danny exchanged a glance. With one having been an LAPD patrol officer and the other a seasoned NYPD detective, both were experienced in tracking down gang members on the streets.
"Old-school method?" Danny grinned, tilting his head toward Jack.
"Old-school it is."
---
"Bam!"
"Help! Please!"
"Bam! Bam!"
"Don't… I'm begging you…"
Jack stood at the mouth of a foul-smelling alley, a cigar between his teeth as he kept watch. Behind him, the sound of fists landing could be heard.
Soon, Danny stepped out, rubbing his sore knuckles. "This idiot knows nothing. Wasted two hundred bucks. Next."
The street was not a good place for petty thugs that day. Similar scenes were playing out across Clinton and nearby neighborhoods. The NYPD and FBI were effectively paying for information with a combination of intimidation and cash.
After two hours and several thousand dollars in "special expenses," some leads finally arrived on Danny's phone.
"That the kid we're looking for? He's dressed a lot like Wilmer," Jack noted, following at a distance in his Pontiac Firebird.
The FBI's black SUV was too conspicuous, so Jack had opted for his Firebird, which blended in better on New York's streets.
"Damn, what kind of engine did you put in this thing? Feels like it could launch into orbit," Danny said, listening to the powerful engine's low growl.
"Throw some wings on it, and it just might. I used to have a Hennessey Mammoth, even more powerful, but some terrorists turned it into Swiss cheese," Jack replied, lamenting his old car.
"I should've joined the FBI after the army," Danny joked.
"Ha, just some side business," Jack clarified. "Nothing to do with the Bureau—I'd rather not get flagged by the Office of Professional Responsibility."
Despite his senior detective rank, Danny's salary wasn't much, and he had two sons and a stay-at-home wife. With New York's cost of living, his paycheck barely covered the essentials. It seemed the Reagan family, despite its police legacy, managed to stay clean and upright.
Jack liked working with these "straightforward" types because they simplified conflicts, even when political agendas were in play. Good people to have on your side.
The gang kid they were trailing maneuvered through traffic on his bike, requiring Jack to keep up without drawing attention. Fortunately, additional NYPD undercover officers and FBI surveillance teams were supporting them. Back in the operations center, Jubal Valentine was tracking their location with real-time road cameras.
This time, they weren't as rushed as last night, and they had radio and earpieces to stay coordinated.
As traffic thinned and abandoned buildings became more frequent, they followed the target to a deserted street.
"He's got to be nearby," Danny pointed to a rundown smokestack in the distance. "There's an old factory around the corner."
Jack slowed the car and turned the corner, watching as the gang kid parked his bike and started unloading something from the rear. When he looked up and saw the Firebird, he panicked, dropping the bag and pedaling away at top speed.
"Forget him. Surround the building," Danny ordered over the radio. Jack parked at the factory entrance as several NYPD squad cars and FBI SUVs pulled in.
Jack grabbed an M870 shotgun from the backseat, loaded with door-breaching rounds, and moved toward the main entrance.
"He's getting ready to run," Danny muttered, nudging the dropped bag, which contained clothes, a cap, and a mask.
Instead of shooting the lock, Jack aimed his shotgun at the door hinges, firing twice. With the hinges blown off, Danny kicked the door, sending it flying open.
"FBI!"
"NYPD!"
"Bernardo, give yourself up!"
The interior of the factory was dim and covered in dust, styled like an old heavy-metal bar. It appeared to have been used as an underground venue before being abandoned.
Behind the bar stood a tattooed, bald man who froze as officers burst in. Instinctively, he grabbed a nearby knife and pressed it to his throat.
As Jack and Danny held their ground, NYPD and FBI agents fanned out, sweeping through the adjacent rooms. The stand-off was on, leaving the three alone in the tension-filled room.
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