[Outside]
Captain Holt stood behind the mobile command unit, headset clipped to one ear, arms crossed. A portable monitor showed thermal imaging of the mall's interior, though much of it was useless, too many heat signatures clustered together, overlapping in a mess of red and orange.
A loud voice crackled through the external speaker system mounted near the mall entrance.
"This is Captain Raymond Holt of the NYPD," he called out into the open space, his tone calm, level, unshaken. "I'm here to talk. Let's not escalate this any further."
For a long beat, there was only static. Then a reply.
"You're not in a position to negotiate, Captain," came a voice, male. Confident. Controlled. "This mall is ours. The people inside are ours. But... I'm listening. Talk fast."
Holt stepped closer to the mic.
"I want to understand what you want. Your people took a bold risk today. Coordinated. Calculated. That kind of precision doesn't happen without motive. So what is it? Money? Release of a prisoner? Exposure?"
Silence again.
Then the voice returned.
"You'll find out soon enough, Captain Holt. For now, stand by. Or you'll be washing pieces of your civilians off the concrete."
Holt didn't flinch.
"I have all day," he said smoothly. "Do you?"
The line went dead.
He tapped his earpiece.
"Echo, status."
[Third Floor – Mall Interior]
Raymond leaned behind a collapsed photo booth like one of those criminals, pretending to check his rifle. He was a little far away from the main group.
Ahead of him, near the center atrium, over fifty hostages were huddled together in the open. Parents clutching children. Store employees with their hands behind their heads. Teens, elderly, couples. Scared. Exhausted. Shaking.
Surrounding them were six visible guards: three posted on the upper walkway, two near the food court railing, and one pacing near the center. But something caught Raymond's eye.
He tapped his comms.
"Echo to Command. I've got a visual on the hostages. Center atrium, third floor. Estimate: 50 to 60 civilians. Repeat, 50 to 60."
"Copy that, Echo," Holt's voice replied in his ear.
Raymond continued, voice low.
"They're clustered in front of the escalators. Elevated position means any direct move risks crossfire. Worse, some of the terrorists are likely posing as hostages."
Amy came in on the line.
"You sure?"
"I can spot at least two clean boots, dry pant legs. No panic sweat. They're watching more than they're trembling."
Jake added, "You mean they planted their people with the civilians? That's messed up."
Raymond scanned slowly with his scope.
"They're hiding in plain sight. If we storm in, we might shoot the wrong people or get hit from behind."
Holt's voice returned, calm but urgent.
"What's your move, Echo?"
"I'll scout the floor. Quietly. Try to mark the moles. Alpha and Bravo stay put for now. If they notice we're inside before I'm done, those hostages will be dead."
"Understood. Proceed."
Raymond moved along the upper walkway, rifle lowered, posture casual.
He kept to the edges, avoiding eye contact, pretending to patrol like the others. Not rushing. Not creeping. Just existing.
The key was rhythm. People who belong move a certain way.
As he neared the atrium rail, he paused beside a shuttered Sunglass World kiosk. From this angle, he had a clean line of sight into the crowd below. His eyes scanned the hostages slowly, methodically.
Mark one.
Near the edge of the group, a man in a blue puffer jacket. Face pale, eyes wide, but his right hand? Resting too close to his waistband. Not trembling. Not praying. Not even blinking.
Raymond lifted his phone, pretending to check a message. Snapped a quick photo.
Marked.
He moved on.
Mark two and three.
A couple. Woman in a red hoodie, man with buzzed hair and a bandage on his cheek. They were sitting a little too far from the others, creating a tiny buffer zone around them. Like predators making room to pounce. The man had dried blood on his pants but no visible wound. Raymond narrowed his eyes.
Photo. Tagged.
He circled along the walkway toward the toy store, acting like he was doing a perimeter sweep. From behind a cracked glass display, he got a side angle on the group.
Mark four.
Teenage boy, maybe seventeen. Shaky legs. But too steady with his eyes. He kept glancing up, not around. Looking for signals. Commands. Waiting. His sleeve had been rolled to the elbow. Raymond spotted a faint blue mark on his forearm. Tattoo or stamp, couldn't tell. But he was positioned perfectly: near the center of the hostages. Access to everyone.
Mark five and six.
Two women seated near a crying toddler. Both looked the part... matted hair, blood on their clothes, breathing shallow, but one kept scratching her arm. Not like a tick. Like she was adjusting something under the sleeve. Raymond noticed the bulge beneath her jacket. Holster. Left side.
The other's boots were army-issue. But not US-issued. Probably some foreign country.
Tagged.
He headed toward the last corner of the upper walkway, by the defunct massage chairs and frozen yogurt stand. On the bench sat a man in his forties, hands folded like in prayer. But when a hostage sneezed, the man didn't even flinch. He wasn't afraid. He was waiting.
Mark seven.
Done.
Raymond turned and headed down the corridor past the food court. A sign ahead read RESTROOMS in faded mall font. He pushed through the door and checked the stalls.
Empty.
He locked the entrance.
"Echo to Command," he whispered, tapping his earpiece. "I've tagged seven moles posing as hostages. Photos sent to Bravo and Alpha via secure line. Locations mapped. Target identifiers embedded in the metadata."
Holt's voice came in, clipped and serious.
"Copy. Seven. Are you confident in the IDs?"
"Very. Cross-referenced body language, eye movement, hand tension, sweat patterns, and positioning. They're playing scared, but they're not reacting like hostages. And they're armed."
Amy came through next.
"Photos received. I've marked their positions on our map overlay. Standing by."
Jake followed.
"Yup. Got 'em. Two of them look like the kind of guys who steal your Netflix password and blame the algorithm."
Raymond ignored him.
"I suggest we move in stages. Echo will stay ghost and try to locate the leader on the fourth floor. There could be more hostages up there. Bravo comes in from the south stairwell. Alpha from the east corridor. Surround them and shoot. These aren't your regular goons. Be careful."
Holt responded after a pause.
"Approved. Maintain radio silence until final go-code. No mistakes. And Officer White..."
"Yes, sir."
"Good work. Be careful and try to capture the leader alive if possible."
"That's the plan."
Raymond stepped out of the stall, adjusted his vest, and pulled his ski mask back down.
Time to finish what he started.
...
[Meanwhile...]
Rosa stood over the smoldering wreckage of the security room. Sparks flickered from ruined terminals. The monitors were fried. Drives melted. Any attempt to use the room against them was now impossible.
She'd made sure of that...
Well, she was always good at destroying things.
She moved quickly, slipping through the back stairwell and taking the long way to the fourth floor, bypassing the exposed walkways.
[Fourth Floor – Storage Hallway]
Rosa turned a corner and froze.
Bombs.
Not just one or two. She counted three crates, lids off, lined with sticks of RDX wrapped tight with blue det cord. It was professional. Military-grade. A timer was strapped to one unit, blinking red.
'Shit!'
She moved closer.
More voices echoed from deeper down the hall.
She followed them, heart rate even, steps light.
Then she saw them.
Another group of hostages. At least forty. Taped mouths. Zip-tied wrists. Forced into sitting positions along the floor in a straight line.
Rosa walked forward and leaned on a vending machine. Since she was dressed like them, it was easy to blend in. She noticed three armed men walking around, but one figure stood out.
A tall, burly man in a brown trench coat, barking orders.
"Wrap them fast. The police are slow, but not stupid. We delay even one more minute, they'll breach. Detonate as planned. Stage one ends here."
She'd seen his face before.
Mikhail Sidorov. Russian mercenary. Ex-Spetsnaz. Vanished two years ago after bombing a trade station in Munich.
Rosa pulled out her phone and took three rapid photos of the bombs, the hostages, and Sidorov. She tapped into her comms.
"Echo to Command. Fourth floor is wired. RDX, minimum three crates. I counted two active timers. Estimated blast radius will level the building and take out at least a full block."
There was a pause.
Holt's voice returned, quiet but sharp.
"Understood. Hostages?"
"At least forty. The yoga center near the east elevators. They're taping charges to civilians. Preparing for full detonation. And I think I've found their leader. It's Mikhail Sidorov."
Jake broke in next. "Jesus... That guy's still kicking?"
"Yes," Rosa said. "You move now, we lose them all, and we'll die too, thanks to those bombs."
Raymond's voice came in, "Rosa, time to end this. I'm coming up from the north. I got a plan to stop this. Team Alpha and Bravo, take position and standby. We'll take them all down at the same time. And don't miss your shots."
"Officer White. I permit you to proceed with this plan of yours. But you have to ensure the hostages' safety," Holt's voice came through the comms.
"Copy that," Raymond replied.
"Alright, we are on standby. Hiding like the Hollow Man," Jake whispered.
...
Raymond moved fast. He was already on the fourth floor.
He was at the north access hall, handgun raised, every step silent. Ahead, he counted three guards. Two were checking the timers on the bombs. One was texting.
'Stupid.'
Raymond raised his gun.Pop.Pop.Pop.
Three bodies hit the ground before they knew they were targets. Silenced, clean, fast.
He dropped to one knee behind a pillar, tapped his earpiece. "Go. Now."
[Simultaneous Breach]
Bravo Team hit from the south stairwell, flashbangs first. Screams erupted. Gunfire followed.
Alpha stormed in from the east corridor, bullets slicing the air. Amy fired two precise shots. Jake tackled a guard mid-sprint. Boyle, in full comms mode, fed real-time updates to every team, shouting coordinates like a man possessed.
[Back on Fourth – Yoga Center]
"Well, time to go loud," Raymond mumbled as he took a deep breath, checked his mags and vest. "Phew..." He closed his eyes for a moment and stayed still for exactly 10 seconds, then...
He moved.
Raymond's plan was simple. Kill them all before they kill all. The only risk was the bombs. All he gotta do is kill everyone before they can go near them and just pray that the bullets won't hit them by mistake.
But here's the thing. What would they do when they see someone wearing their clothes shooting around? A perfect confused situation will be created, and the terrorists will try to kill them first, and some may hesitate in confusion. Ray and Rosa will have a brief opening to end it all. A few seconds, but that should be enough for him.
"Gonna kill 'em all," He mumbled to himself.
The moment Rosa saw him, he raised three fingers. Countdown.
Three.
She nodded, rifle lifted.
Two.
She stepped out from behind the vending machine.
One.
Raymond lowered his hand, then pointed forward.
Go.
They ran forward, rifles raised, boots pounding the linoleum in perfect sync. Raymond lobbed a flashbang down the hall without breaking stride. It detonated with a sharp crack and a burst of light that swallowed the corridor in chaos.
Rosa moved left. Her rifle snapped up. Two rounds... Stomach. One enemy down. Another raised his gun too late. She dropped to a knee, squeezed the trigger. Groin and chest shot. The man slammed back into the wall and crumpled.
Raymond charged ahead, close quarters. A man lunged from a side door, screaming, blade in hand. Raymond sidestepped and elbowed him in the throat, then spun and fired a single round through his temple. The attacker dropped like a puppet cut from its strings.
Another came from behind a yoga display, screaming in Russian. Raymond turned, shot him once in the leg, then in the chest. The man's weapon fired wildly as he fell, spraying sparks across the tile.
Rosa took a glancing shot to the upper arm, blood blooming through the fabric. She didn't flinch. She pushed forward, eyes locked on the hostages. One guard raised his gun at a civilian... too slow. Rosa's bullet caught him in the throat. He staggered back, choking on blood, and collapsed before he could pull the trigger.
She didn't stop. Rifle up, sweeping the room. Another movement to her right. A tall man ducking behind a stack of yoga mats. She fired two shots, then charged. Her boot caught the mat stack, toppling it. The man stood, only for Rosa to slam her rifle butt into his jaw. He dropped with a wet thud.
Raymond vaulted over a knocked-over bench and rolled into cover behind a metal locker. One of the final gunmen spotted him and opened fire. Bullets sparked off the locker, hot metal shrieking.
Raymond leaned out, two shots. One missed. The second found its mark in the man's shoulder. He spun and fell. Raymond was already moving, sliding in and putting another round into the man's chest as he hit the floor.
Behind him, Rosa shouted, "Left!"
Raymond turned. A guard emerged from the back room with an SMG. Raymond fired, a perfect headshot. But another came out from the nearby candy store.
Rosa stepped forward, raised her rifle, and sent a single shot through the man's eye. The body hit the floor hard.
Raymond turned to her, panting. "Show-off."
"You're slow," she said, gripping her bleeding arm.
A final man stumbled out of the shadows, knife raised, eyes wild.
Raymond didn't raise his weapon.
He stepped forward, twisted the man's arm, and jammed the knife into his throat before slicing out. Blood sprayed everywhere like a broken faucet as the man grabbed his throat and fell to the ground, twitching and gurgling blood.
Within a few seconds, he stopped twitching and died.
Silence.
Raymond and Rosa stood at opposite ends of the corridor, weapons up, scanning.
No movement.
Then, behind the smoke and wreckage, Sidorov stepped forward.
He hadn't moved once. Hadn't blinked. Just watched his men die, arms crossed, face unreadable.
Raymond raised his weapon.
Sidorov raised his hands and taunted.
"Fight like a man, if you dare."
The Alpha and Bravo teams have already cleared the enemies below and evacuated the civilians, and then came to the fourth floor.
Time for one final standoff.
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[POWERSTONES AND REVIEWS PLS]
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[31 advance chs] [No double billing.]
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