[Brooklyn Medical Center – Basement Level]
The fluorescent lights flickered above Amy and Boyle as they walked deeper into the basement hallway. The air smelled of damp tile and antiseptic, the kind of scent that made Amy's clipboard hand twitch. She hated messes. And this place was one big, bureaucratic red flag.
They followed a hunched figure down the narrow hallway. The man wore a stained maintenance uniform with "RICKY" stitched across the chest in faded thread. He walked with a slight limp, keys jangling at his belt, humming what sounded like the theme to Murder, She Wrote.
Boyle leaned toward Amy and whispered, "Janitors always know the good secrets. They see everything. Like sewer elves."
Amy shot him a look. "That's horrifying. Never say that again."
"Right, sorry. Floor goblins?"
"Stop talking."
They reached a locked steel door at the end of the hall. The sign above it read: RESTRICTED – Renovation Zone – Live Wires – KEEP OUT.
Ricky pulled out a thick ring of keys and started working on the lock.
Amy frowned. "This wasn't listed on the floor plans."
Ricky gave a slow shrug. "Renovation order came down last-minute. Elevator shorted two weeks ago. Fire code violations. You know how it is."
Boyle, peeking through a vent near the floor, said, "Uh… Amy? There's no construction in there. Just crates. Lots of crates. Plastic wrap. I think some are leaking."
Ricky turned the last key and pushed the door open with a groan.
Inside was a large, dim room filled with towering storage units and rows of medical supply crates. Only they weren't medical supplies. Amy stepped forward and spotted what was unmistakably a crate full of vacuum-sealed bricks. Cocaine, maybe. Next to it, a cooler marked with an organ transport label. Next to that, another crate that had been carelessly taped shut with gold bars peeking out through the slats.
Her eyes widened.
"This isn't a renovation zone," she said.
"No," came a voice behind her, and it wasn't the voice of a tired janitor.
She turned just as "Ricky" reached up and yanked off his cap.
With it came the wig. His gray hair vanished, replaced by black strands slicked back. The glasses dropped next. Then the fake mustache. His spine straightened, and the limp disappeared.
Amy reached for her gun.
Too late.
He was fast. Unnaturally fast. He grabbed a scalpel from the tray behind the door and flicked it through the air.
Boyle yelped as it sliced past him, cutting a thin line across the wall beside his head. "Whoa! Who throws a scalpel?!"
Amy had her gun up now.
"Hands where I can see them!"
The man grinned, still unarmed but fully in control.
"I figured it would take longer," he said, voice calm with a bit of Russian accent. "But the Nine-Nine is more competent than the rumors suggest. Or, was it the Ghost?"
Amy narrowed her eyes. "Ivan Preston."
Preston gave a slight bow. "In the flesh."
Boyle whispered, "Wait, this guy was pretending to be a janitor? I offered him gum. I told him my favorite dinosaur!"
Preston smiled without humor. "Triceratops. Very charming. Shame I'll forget it after I kill you two."
Amy kept her aim steady. "You're not going anywhere. This is over."
Preston didn't flinch. "I doubt that. But you're welcome to try." He opened his jacket and revealed a strapped vest bomb. "Go ahead. Shoot. Oh, you can take a quick headshot, but the problem is this bomb is specially made by one of my best technicians." He pointed at the red LED screen with little dots. "My heart stops, this goes boom. And guess where we are standing?"
Amy's finger twitched on the trigger. Her eyes flicked to the vest. The screen on it was glowing softly. Eight red dots. A biometric sensor taped to his chest. One wrong move and the entire floor would be reduced to shrapnel and red mist. Besides, they were inside a medical center, so it's better not to take any chances.
She slowly lowered her gun by an inch. Just enough to show she was listening.
Preston smiled. "Good. You're smart. I always preferred smart cops. Makes the game more entertaining."
Boyle stepped forward slightly. "You're insane."
Preston gave a small shrug. "Insanity is often a matter of perspective. From where I'm standing, I've already won."
Amy's voice was low. "You are not going to win this time."
Preston cocked his head. "You mean the Ghost?"
"Oh my god, Amy, he knows," Boyle said quickly.
"Of course I know. You buffons aren't clever enough to mess up my operation. Which means, he's here and working with the cops to make my life miserable as usual. I mean like, what the fuck is wrong with him?" Ivan raised his voice in anger.
He continued, "Yeah, I agree I tortured him for weeks, broke his bones, sliced his skin and pulled out his nails and then my fuckhead meth cook blew up the lab and everyone die in the explosion. Except for him. That motherfucker survived even after falling in a vat of dangerous chemicals shit. I saw him crawling out of the vat. He looked like he was in pain, so I shot him thrice as an act of mercy, and then sadly we had to leave."
Ivan paused his story for a moment.
"Look, look, look. Let's make this easy for everyone. Like a win-win situation for everyone, yeah?" Ivan said with a sinister grin. "I'm going to operate on you two and take your fresh organs and blood, then I'll melt your flesh and skin and take your skeletons. Fresh human skeleton has some big value in the market."
"Time, please," Boyle made a hand sign. "How is this a win-win situation for everyone? You are going to kill us and melt us. That's horrible. Will it hurt?"
"You won't feel any pain," Ivan said with a side nod.
"Ah! I see... That's what you meant," Boyle said with an awkward expression. He grabbed Amy's shoulder. "Amy, it's been an honor knowing and working with you. Although Jake is my best friend, you are my second-best friend. We are never going to see each other again. Oh, I wish I had a nice hot bowl of authentic prawn ramen with an extra egg."
"Shut it, Boyle," Amy grumbled as she looked around for something or some way to turn the situation around, but sadly, two more guys entered the room with SMGs. "Shit!"
...
[Brooklyn Morgue] [Vault Room] [5 minutes earlier than the above event]
Jake called Holt and then helped Raymond tighten the last pair of zip ties around one of the groaning, shot-in-the-leg smugglers. The guy whimpered as Raymond flipped him onto his stomach and cuffed his hands behind his back with mechanical efficiency.
Jake wiped sweat off his forehead. "Well. That's the last one, no casualties, and zero spleens stolen on our watch. I feel like I should get a medal. Or at least a mini fridge, right under my desk."
Raymond was already scanning the room again. Not for enemies. For something else.
He walked slowly across the floor, following a trail. Then he stopped near the far end of the vault, next to a metal cabinet that had been shoved against the wall. He crouched, fingers tracing faint lines in the dusty concrete.
Scrape marks.
Jake came up beside him, hands on his hips. "You find something?"
Raymond looked at the floor. "These lines. They're fresh. Metal-on-stone. Something heavy was moved."
He reached under the cabinet and gave it a strong tug. The whole unit groaned and slid back several inches. Underneath it was a circular plate in the floor, rusted, worn, with a faint ring and a recessed handle.
Jake crouched. "No way. That's a manhole. Inside a morgue vault?"
Raymond nodded. "This wasn't in the city blueprints."
He gripped the handle and pulled.
With a shriek of corroded metal and a puff of dust, the cover lifted, revealing a dark drop beneath.
Raymond grabbed his flashlight, flicked it on, and aimed it down.
Stone walls. Rusted ladders. Cobwebs. And faint scrape marks all over the floor.
Jake peered down. "Oh my God! A secret tunnel."
Raymond lowered the light a little further. "They've been using this. Dragging crates, moving bodies, organs, drugs, and gold. Whenever one location gets hot, they shift everything underground."
Jake stepped back, brain revving at full tilt. "And if this tunnel goes under Brooklyn, that means the operation's bigger than we thought. Not just a stash site. It's a pipeline. OMG. They are using the old sealed tunnels. No wonder we couldn't get any hits over the years. They were sitting right under our noses."
Raymond stood, eyes focused. "The moles were like traffic controllers. Telling Preston when to move the product, where to shift it, and when to disappear if things get too hot."
Jake turned to the wall, looking at the crates again. "So if they knew we were coming here, they would've packed up and shifted to the next node in the chain."
Raymond looked at the manhole again. "But we took down his moles before they could give them information."
Jake nodded. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"
Raymond already had a rope and harness pulled from one of the gear bags. "We go down. We follow the tunnel. Wherever it leads, we shut it down."
Jake grabbed another harness. "This feels like the exact opposite of what Amy would call a smart idea. But I'm in."
Raymond looked back at those bleeding goons.
"Ah! Someone has to take care of them," Jake said, looking back at them. "Or, maybe not?"
"No. Captain will be after our asses if he finds out there's no one guarding them. So, you stay here and I'll go in. As soon as the backup comes, you yell at them and make a run for it," Raymond said as he was already halfway down the hole.
...
[Brooklyn Medical Center] [Present Time]
Raymond followed the tunnel and tracks, and it led straight under that storage room. He looked up and saw a newly made hole with a metal door. He heard some voices from above. So, he carefully climbed the iron stairs and stopped, trying to listen.
"You two, walk ahead," he ordered, pointing at Amy and Boyle. "Any sudden moves, any screams, any American hero nonsense… I start carving."
Amy exchanged a quick glance with Boyle, her mind racing. Every option ended badly. Gunfire would ignite the bomb. Disarming him would take a miracle. And they were deep within the basement. Not exactly prime rescue territory.
Preston waved the pistol again. "Move."
The two NYPD detectives began walking toward the side hall, flanked closely by Ivan's men. Amy kept her hands visible, heart thudding in her ears. Boyle, eyes wide and twitching, tried to remember every episode of CSI he'd ever seen but ended up replaying a baking competition instead.
Behind them, Ivan adjusted the strap on his vest bomb with one hand and pulled a scalpel from his belt with the other, admiring it like it was an old friend.
That's when Raymond moved.
He got up into the room and followed them stealthily, and when they were in his range, he aimed his gun and...
Pop. Pop.
Two perfect headshots. The guards behind Amy and Boyle dropped like meat sacks, their SMGs clattering to the floor before they even hit the ground.
Ivan spun, rage flashing across his face, but he wasn't fast enough.
Pop. Pop.
Two shots slammed into his backside, one in each cheek.
"AAAAAGHHH! MOTHERFUCK... YOU SON OF A...!" Ivan screamed as he dropped to the ground, the scalpel flying from his hand, the gun skidding away across the tile. He rolled onto his side, clutching his ass, shrieking, "YOU SHOT MY BEAUTIFUL RUSSIAN ASS! DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO SIT WITH BULLET HOLES IN YOUR GLUTES?!"
"Don't! He has a vest bomb," Amy warned quickly.
Raymond kicked Ivan on his back and clipped two circuits, diffusing the bomb on the spot like it was a walk in the park. "Still using that ancient model, huh?! Ivan?" He aimed his gun at Ivan's head. "Miss me?"
---[]---
[POWERSTONES AND REVIEWS PLS]
Support link: www.patr eon.com/UnknownMaster
[28 advance chs] [No double billing.]
---