The Black Organization's tech wizards worked fast, cloaking their digital tracks behind a network of hundreds of compromised servers. The photo of Jason and Avril, paired with its incendiary caption, hit social media like a Molotov cocktail. The kidnapping of Avril—a Hollywood darling—had already gripped the nation, dominating headlines and X posts. Now, this image, raw and unfiltered, exploded across platforms, racking up five million shares and a million comments in under thirty minutes. The internet was a furnace, and Jason had just tossed in a gallon of gasoline.
Analysts and armchair detectives dissected the photo, their findings spreading like wildfire. The blurry selfie, clearly snapped from a phone, was too raw to be a fake—not with 2005's primitive photoshop tools. The man's face matched the chilling confidence of Jason Walter, the Long Island escapee. The pieces fell into place: Jason had slipped New York's dragnet, resurfaced in LA, and orchestrated a massacre that left two hundred elite operatives dead. The government's "terrorist" narrative was a flimsy lie, and the truth was now a sledgehammer in the public's hands.
The revelation hit the nation like a shockwave. From coast to coast, Americans' simmering distrust of their government boiled over into rage. X posts and blog rants erupted, tearing into the LAPD, the NYPD, and every politician caught in the crossfire. "Fucking liars!" One viral post screamed. "They let Walter waltz into LA and slaughter our people, then pin it on some bullshit terrorists!" Another demanded, "Resign, you corrupt bastards!" Hashtags like #JusticeForAvril and #GovernmentLies trended globally, fueling a digital mob that grew angrier by the minute.
In LA, the truth was a match to dry tinder. The families of the fallen officers, already camped outside LAPD headquarters with their signs and fury, saw the photo and lost what little restraint they had. Their grief, raw and jagged, morphed into a primal need for vengeance—not against Jason, but against the system that had betrayed them. 'They lied to us,' One widow thought, clutching a photo of her dead husband. 'They let him die and covered it up.' The crowd surged, their shouts turning into roars, their signs brandished like weapons. What had been a disciplined protest became a riot, a tidal wave of rage crashing against the precinct's doors.
Inside the LAPD's conference room, the chief, the FBI bureau head, and the general—sat like condemned men awaiting execution. Their phones had just delivered a verbal flogging from their superiors, a tirade of insults branding them incompetent, spineless, and worse. The higher-ups had no choice: the public's fury demanded scapegoats, and these three were it. They'd be hung out to dry, blamed for the cover-up, their careers sacrificed to appease the mob. 'Fucking Jason Walter,' The chief thought, his hands trembling with impotent rage. 'He played us like goddamn puppets.'
"We thought handing the reins to the military would get us out of this shitshow," The FBI head muttered, his voice hollow. "But that bastard Walter had to blow it all up."
The general slammed a fist on the table, his face red with fury. "Why the hell didn't New York put a bullet in his head when they had him? Now we're all fucked because of their screw-up!"
"Enough whining," The chief snapped, his voice raw. "We need to figure out how to survive this."
Before they could strategize, an officer burst in, his face pale. "Chief, the families outside—they're losing it. They're about to break through the line!"
The chief's eyes blazed, his patience gone. "They wanna riot? Fine. I'll handle it." He stormed out, his jaw set, blood pounding in his ears. 'Ungrateful bastards,' He thought, his mind racing. 'We're trying to keep this city from burning, and they're throwing rocks.'
Outside, the crowd was a sea of fury, their chants—"Lies! Murderers! Justice!"—echoing off the precinct's concrete walls. The chief emerged, flanked by a phalanx of riot-geared officers, their shields gleaming under the midday sun. He climbed a set of steps, putting distance between himself and the mob, and raised a megaphone. "Listen up!" He bellowed. "The federal and state governments have authorized compensation for every fallen officer. Each family will receive $350,000, plus educational funds for children until adulthood."
In a different world, the generous payout—among the highest in the country, thanks to California's flush coffers—might have calmed the crowd. But Jason's photo had poisoned the well. The government wasn't a benefactor; it was a conspirator, complicit in the deaths of their loved ones. '$350,000?' One protester thought, her face contorted with grief. 'That's what my son's life is worth to these liars?' The crowd roared, their anger reigniting. Stones, bottles, and debris rained down, a hailstorm of rage.
The chief dodged a rock, but another clipped his forehead, splitting the skin. Blood trickled down his face, hot and sticky, pooling in his eye. "Fuck!" He roared, his composure shattering. He stumbled back, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to stem the flow. The riot police surged forward, their shields raised, but the crowd was relentless, their fury unstoppable.
Back in the precinct, the chief stormed into the command room, his face a mask of blood and fury. His deputy followed, his voice trembling. "Sir, they're out of control. What do we do?"
"Do?" The chief snarled, pointing to his bleeding forehead. "Look at this shit! These 'grieving families' are fucking rioters now. Hit 'em with tear gas and water cannons. I want this contained, or your ass is done as deputy!"
The deputy paled, his mind reeling. "But sir, they're the families of our own people. If we crack down, it'll break the force's morale."
"I don't give a shit!" The chief roared. "They're attacking us! Move, or you're finished!"
The deputy nodded, his heart sinking, and relayed the order. But when it reached the rank-and-file officers, a stunned silence followed. These weren't faceless thugs—they were the widows, kids, and parents of their fallen brothers and sisters. The cop on the line, a veteran named Martinez, gripped his baton, his stomach churning. 'That's Jimmy's wife out there,' He thought, picturing his old partner's widow. 'And Sarah's dad.' His colleagues exchanged glances, their faces set with defiance. One by one, they dropped their weapons—batons, shields, gas launchers—clattering to the ground. "Fuck this," Martinez muttered. "I'm not beating up my own people."
The refusal spread like a spark in dry grass. The police line faltered, then collapsed, the mob surging through the gap. The precinct's lobby became a battleground, glass shattering, furniture splintering as the families vented their rage. A gunshot rang out—nobody knew from where—then another, the sharp cracks cutting through the chaos. High above, a news helicopter captured it all, beaming the footage live to a horrified nation. The LAPD, once a symbol of order, was now a warzone, its own people turning against it.
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