Chapter 5 - The Breakout at 12th Precinct
The midnight storm over Detroit was a wall of white noise, blinding the surveillance cameras and keeping the streets empty.
Inside the 12th Precinct, the night shift was quiet. Marcus Vance sat at his desk, drinking stale coffee, his eyes fixed on the evidence log. The black Pelican case was currently sitting in the basement locker, locked behind three steel doors and a digital keypad.
Suddenly, the lights flickered and went black.
"Generator backup in five, four, three..." Henderson muttered from across the room.
But the backup didn't kick in. The entire station was plunged into an absolute, suffocating darkness.
Before Marcus could reach for his flashlight, a soft, high-frequency hiss filled the room. The scent of sweet, almond-like gas drifted through the vents.
"Henderson, get the—" Marcus started, but his knees buckled. His head felt heavy, his vision swirling into a dark, warm vortex. Within ten seconds, every officer in the bullpen was slumped over their desks, unconscious.
Downstairs, the heavy steel security doors of the evidence locker did not groan. They opened with a quiet, electronic click as a military-grade bypass device was attached to the wiring harness.
Julian Cross walked into the room, wearing a tactical black suit, his face covered by a respirator mask. Behind him, Arthur Pendelton quickly located the black suitcase, checked the digital seal, and lifted it.
"We have the package, Julian," Arthur said through his comms. "But we have a problem. The silent tracker on the dye is emitting a signal, but someone is trying to jam it from a localized tower in the North End."
Julian pulled off his mask as they reached the exit corridor. "Can we bypass the jamming?"
"Only if we get within two miles of the source," Arthur said, checking his wrist-worn monitor. "The jammer is powerful, but it’s crude. It’s a commercial-grade signal blocker. If we drive toward the North End, the signal will clarify."
"Then let's go," Julian said.
As they reached their armored SUV parked in the dark alley behind the precinct, Julian’s phone buzzed. It was an private number.
He answered it. "Speak."
"You think you’re clever, Julian?" a distorted, electronic voice laughed. "Stealing your own money back from the cops. We watched the precinct go dark. We know you have the case."
"Where is my daughter?" Julian growled, his knuckles turning white on the steering wheel.
"The old packaging plant on the river," the voice said. "Bring the money. If I see a single patrol car, I’ll drop the child into the ice. You have twenty minutes."
The line went dead.
Julian looked at Arthur. "He’s lying about the location. The packaging plant is three miles south of the North End. The jamming signal is coming from the north."
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"It’s a trap," Arthur said. "He wants us to go south while he clears out of the north with Clara."
"He doesn't know we have his signal," Julian said, a cold, lethal smile spreading across his face. "We go north."
