AN: Here you go, another bonus chapter. C'mon, guys, more Powerstones.
---
[Observation Room]
The room was dead silent, except for the wheezing sound of Jake Peralta's oxygen-deprived lungs trying to reboot after forty-three minutes of sustained laughter. He was lying on the floor, face flushed, legs twitching like a fainting goat, one arm draped dramatically across his chest.
Amy sat on the windowsill, arms limp at her sides, as if she'd just watched the moon explode and didn't know how to process life anymore. "He confessed… to everything. Because of Borat."
Boyle clutched a half-crushed popcorn bag to his chest like a baby bird. "I think I just witnessed a war crime… that I would fund on Kickstarter."
Terry was frozen in place, coffee mug halfway to his mouth, mouth halfway to a "what the hell" he never got to say.
Even Rosa blinked once, which, in Rosa's terms, was the emotional equivalent of a full standing ovation.
Then Holt finally spoke.
His tone was flat, analytical, as always. But even his left eyebrow had lifted a whole millimeter. It was his version of screaming.
"Well. That... worked."
Everyone turned to him like he was Moses and had just parted the Sea of Sanity.
Jake staggered to his feet, eyes bloodshot from laughing. "Sir, with all due respect, what the hell did we just witness? That man has scars on scars. He's eaten nails and bled vodka. And he folded like a beach chair because of Kidz Bop and Borat?"
Holt calmly removed a folder from his briefcase. (Yup! Ray gave him the info on the guy. Thick. Labeled: SIDOROV – HIGH RISK. He opened it.
"Sidorov," Holt began, flipping through pages like he was reading bedtime stories to emotionally unstable grown-ups, "once burned down three theaters across Bulgaria, Ukraine, and Austria."
Everyone stared.
Holt continued without blinking. "The trigger? Each theater was playing Borat."
Jake slowly backed up and leaned against the wall like he'd just been told unicorns were real and carried assault rifles.
"Wait, wait, wait," Amy said. "You're telling me this international mercenary, this ex-Spetsnaz bomb-making assassin... has a personal vendetta against Borat?"
Holt nodded, like that was the most reasonable sentence anyone had ever said.
"Sidorov claimed, quote: 'That film was cultural terrorism wrapped in clown flesh.'"
Boyle raised a finger. "He also once slapped a United Nations diplomat during a screening of The Dictator and screamed, 'This is not comedy! This is hate crime in banana suit!'"
Jake nearly fainted from joy. "He's literally the anti-Borat. He's like... No-rat."
Rosa didn't move but said, "This is why I don't watch comedies."
Terry finally blinked. "So what you're telling me is... Officer White successfully broke a war criminal... with memes."
"No," Holt corrected, completely serious. "He broke him... with musical parody and culturally inappropriate satire. Which, in fairness, is worse."
Jake grabbed Amy's arm. "Can we... can we please submit this for a police innovation award? We have to! There's a category for unconventional interrogation methods! There's a trophy shaped like a magnifying glass!"
Amy rubbed her temples. "I don't think the committee allows psychological trauma via children's music videos. Especially not choreographed ones."
Terry sighed and muttered, "I'm going to need therapy. Because of Boyle's popcorn. Terry hates wasabi popcorn."
Boyle held up the bag. "Wasabi cheddar. You feel it in your soul."
Jake turned to Rosa. "Okay, you're the most emotionally armored person here. Be honest. Are you even slightly impressed?"
Rosa didn't blink. "A little. But only because Kidz Bop is the aural equivalent of someone pouring bleach directly into your ears and then singing about friendship."
Then they all looked back at the glass.
Raymond was standing, dusting off his hands like he'd just finished changing a tire instead of dismantling a human mind. He picked up his laptop, headphones, and juice box.
As he turned to leave, he looked straight at the mirror.
Jake whispered, "He's looking directly at me. I feel like he knows my browser history."
Raymond gave a slight smile. A calm, quiet, I-just-broke-a-killer-using-sarcasm-and-a-children's-cover-of-WAP kind of smile. Then walked out of frame.
...
[NYPD Nine-Nine – Meeting Room | 12:37 PM]
The precinct briefing room had undergone a transformation. Files were stacked three deep on the center table. A city map stretched across the whiteboard, covered in red dots, post-its, and strings. Tablets showed aerial views, warehouse schematics, and port manifests.
Captain Holt stood at the head of the table. A whiteboard marker rested between his fingers like a weapon.
Behind him, Amy was organizing intel into folders. Terry reviewed the list of captured moles, reading each one aloud with visible anger. Rosa sat near the window, chewing on the end of a pen. Jake paced in the corner, his excitement barely contained. Raymond leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes scanning the map without blinking.
Holt spoke.
"One hour ago, based on Sidorov's confession and Officer White's extraction of intel, we arrested all four internal moles. Orlando was the trigger. Chuvas was the tech breach. Nelson, from FDNY, funneled traffic info. The tattooed courier is still missing."
Amy nodded. "I've got an APB out on all transport hubs. He's not walking out of the city."
"Good," Holt said. "Now we come to the critical question."
He pointed at the board where three words were circled in red.
GOLD. ORGANS. DRUGS.
"That's what Preston is moving. Sidorov said Brooklyn is just a stop along the route. Which means the cargo is already here, or en route, and the chaos from the attacks was designed to mask its arrival."
Rosa leaned forward. "So what's our play, Captain? Do we chase Preston's people, or go for the stash?"
Jake stopped pacing. "Why not both? Come on! This is it! If we get the names and the cargo before the feds show up and steal the headlines, the Nine-Nine becomes legendary. We're talking TV interviews. Podcast deals. Maybe, just maybe... a bigger budget and a nice raise."
Boyle nodded, eyes wide. "I heard the 7th precinct got new vending machines after their drug raid. Like, with real food. Muffins and hummus!"
Amy spoke up. "Jake's right. If we break this open ourselves, we're not just cleaning up our own mess. We're punching above our weight. We become untouchable."
All eyes turned to Holt.
Holt, in turn, looked to Raymond.
"You've seen this kind of operation. You've faced Preston's people. What do you recommend?"
Raymond didn't move for a second.
Then he stepped forward and pointed at the city map.
"Sidorov gave us more than names. He gave us a timeline. He just didn't know it. He said Preston moves every week. That means he has a rhythm. An exit plan. They're not hiding this haul in lockers or basements. Ninety billion in gold, organs, and narcotics? You need real estate. Space. Isolation. Tight security."
Jake raised a hand. "So, like… underground vault?"
Raymond nodded. "Maybe. Or shipping containers. Old subway tunnels. Private hangars. Cargo depots with paperless control systems. Places where questions don't get asked and bodies don't get counted."
Terry added, "We still have access to the NYPD logistics grid. We can cross-check which warehouses haven't been inspected in the last month."
Amy started typing furiously. "Adding filters for temperature control, because of the organs and heavy freight clearances."
"Morgue," Rosa said with a blank expression as usual.
Everyone paused.
"Morgue?" Jake repeated, turning toward Rosa.
She nodded, tapping her pen on the table. "Think about it. What do you need for gold? Weight tolerance. For organs? Cold storage. For drugs? Controlled movement with low suspicion. A city morgue or private mortuary, especially one with outdated oversight, can tick all those boxes."
Amy frowned. "But wouldn't there be paper trails?"
Rosa shrugged. "Not if the paperwork's fake or you put in enough bribes. Or if the place is technically shut down but still operating off-book. Or they could simply buy out that place and operate in secret."
Raymond stepped forward again and circled a few red pins on the map. "There's a triangle here. See it? Medical center. Industrial zone. And the East Flatbush safehouse. Dead center? Van Nuys Memorial Storage."
Terry squinted. "That place was shut down last year. Violation of health codes, rat infestation. No one's touched it since."
Raymond looked at Holt. "We check it. Now."
Holt nodded without hesitation. "Jake and Raymond, gear up and check out the site. Amy and Boyle, go to the Medical center and find out if there's anything suspicious. Terry, mobilize a secondary unit for sweep and crowd control. Be on standby."
Jake pumped a fist. "Yes. Time to hit the crypt."
Amy stood, snapping her holster into place. "Just once, I'd like to do an op that doesn't involve body fluids or shadow empires."
Rosa narrowed her eyes, "What about me?" She asked.
"You are injured. Don't push yourself and take rest," Hold said.
"That's bullshit, I can still..." She tried to argue, but against Holt's glare, she gave up. "Fine."
Raymond was already halfway out the door when she stormed past him with an angry face.
Jake followed, mumbling under his breath, "Please don't be filled with zombies. Please don't be filled with zombies…"
---[]---
[POWERSTONES AND REVIEWS PLS]
Support link: www.patr eon.com/UnknownMaster
[28 advance chs] [No double billing.]
---