On this rundown street, a scene like this may never have occurred before—or at least not in a long time.
Police vehicles with flashing lights, emblazoned with acronyms like FBI, SWAT, and PPD (Philadelphia Police Department), lined the entire street, illuminating the night sky. Fire department ambulances, black coroner's vans, and countless other emergency vehicles blocked off the entire area.
"Ugh!"
A young officer, supported by his partner, stumbled out of the building and vomited under a nearby tree. Normally, a rookie like this would be mocked mercilessly by the veteran officers.
But today, things were different. Beneath the sparse street trees outside the building, more than a few seasoned officers were also leaning or squatting, pale and shaken by what they had witnessed.
In the backyard, State Police Chief Roland, dressed in his uniform, looked equally unwell. Despite standing in the open air, the overpowering stench of smoke and blood seemed to cling to his nostrils. The carnage inside the building was difficult to shake off.
The corpses taken down by Hannah's Barrett sniper rifle weren't in any condition for an open-casket funeral. The rounds, after penetrating walls, lost just enough velocity to maximize their destructive power inside bodies. Meanwhile, the dead left by Jack and Clay were similarly horrific. As staunch practitioners of the Mozambique Drill (two shots to the chest, one to the head), their close-range engagements left few recognizable features.
In this brutal firefight, Jack, Clay, and Hannah were responsible for most of the kills, leaving the scene in a grotesque state.
Chief Roland had heard of the FBI's fugitive task force before, particularly about their exploits involving a high-stakes chase across West Virginia, Ohio, and Pennsylvania to rescue ambushed U.S. Marshals. However, there was a significant difference between rumors and firsthand experience.
During previous collaborations, the task force had impressed him with their methodical, intellectual approach to investigations—peeling back layers of evidence with precision. He'd thought of them as a team that relied solely on brains.
But today's events shattered that assumption. These young agents weren't just sharp; they were ferocious and decisive in combat. They didn't even wait for the SWAT team to arrive before storming the building and annihilating the armed thugs inside.
Though the scene was grim, Roland found himself smirking slightly. Having a group of tough, capable allies stationed in nearby New York wasn't a bad thing.
Pennsylvania, a struggling Rust Belt state, had long been in decline. From the once-mighty "Steel City" of Pittsburgh to the mining town of Bethlehem, the region was marked by economic stagnation and worsening crime rates. Having FBI agents like these on hand might prove to be a rare advantage.
Meanwhile, inside the recently arrived command truck, the task force was dealing with a very different challenge: DEA Agent Galeson. The man sat sobbing uncontrollably, tears and mucus streaming down his face like a pathetic wreck.
"I'm out of here. I'd rather help those cops move bodies," Clay growled after an outburst of frustration, throwing a few punches in the air before storming out of the truck.
"I'm going too."
"Count me in."
"I'll check on the Marshals' search efforts."
Hannah and Aubrey followed, unwilling to endure the awkward atmosphere. Only Alice hesitated, shifting in her seat but ultimately staying put under Jubal's disapproving glare. She resumed her role as the note-taker, reluctantly picking up her pen.
"So, you've been secretly in contact with Maldonado all along, haven't you?" Jubal interrogated.
"You deliberately fed us false information about his brother-in-law to mislead us. You knew full well Maldonado wouldn't seek him out."
"Now tell me—where's Maldonado planning to go next?"
Galeson kept his head low, his face a disgusting mess of tears and snot, refusing to answer.
"What are you waiting for? A lawyer?" Jubal continued, his patience wearing thin. "DEA's been informed, but they seem to be dragging their feet this time."
Jack crossed his arms, his jaw tightening. He was losing his patience too. Not long ago, he had restrained Clay from beating the man, but now Jack was sorely tempted to do it himself.
Finally, Galeson raised his head, his eyes pleading. "I don't know! Even if I did and told you, Maldonado's people would kill me!"
"Then why did you betray your badge? Was it for money or something else?" Jack asked, switching tactics in frustration.
"I... I fell in love with Emilia!" Galeson blurted out.
"What?!"
JJ nearly spat out her drink in shock.
"Are you serious? You know she was waiting on that plane to flee with Maldonado, right? She even took... special medication to please that psycho," JJ sneered, referencing the hormone injection Emilia had used.
Jack cleared his throat, steering the conversation back on track. "So, if you're in love with your boss's woman, shouldn't you have taken Maldonado out? You're a DEA agent, after all."
"Exactly! And that's why I know what happens to people who cross a cartel boss! They'll hunt you for the rest of your life!" Galeson stammered.
Jack pinched the bridge of his nose. "And let me guess—you're broke. Keeping a woman like Emilia happy would bankrupt you. She spends more at high-end salons in a year than you earn, not to mention her clothing and jewelry expenses.
"Maldonado probably promised you money and Emilia in exchange for helping him escape. Am I right?"
"No! Emilia loves me! She approached me first! She said if I helped Maldonado escape, she'd stay in the U.S. with me. We'd have children together..."
Jack stared at the delusional man, shaking his head in disbelief. "You've got to be kidding me."
"Please, you have to help me! I can't go to prison—they'll kill me there!" Galeson sobbed, groveling.
"Okay," Jack said, feigning sympathy. "Tell us where Maldonado is, and I'll talk to the Marshals about getting you into witness protection. Maybe they'll even let you and Emilia be cellmates."
Jubal rolled his eyes at the absurd offer but played along. "Come on, Galeson. Tell us where he's hiding. Otherwise, we'll hand you over to DEA. Trust me—you should be more afraid of them than prison."
"I can't! I don't know where he is! This has nothing to do with DEA!" Galeson wailed, shaking his head frantically.
"Jubal, DEA's here," Clay called from outside the truck.
"Then you're on your own," Jack said, standing up. He and Jubal grabbed Galeson by the arms, ready to turn him over.
Jack sighed internally. Does the DEA not screen for intelligence when hiring anymore? Or do they just recruit idiots to use as scapegoats?
(End of Chapter)
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