His jaw tightened as he leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs, the glow from the Sony plasma reflecting sharply in his eyes. “The whole Samuel thing.” He continued, voice dropping, weighted with disbelief. “Taken to the Brooklyn Detention Center like a common criminal. Cameras flashing. CNN replaying it like some cheap spectacle. Something needs to be done.” Carolina swallowed, her fingers tightening together in her lap. The tension she’d been holding finally spilled over. “Please...” She said, her voice trembling but resolute. “Can you help me—by any possible means—to deal mercilessly with those strangers who forged their way into the Gordon name? They claim they belong to the Gordons. They humiliated my husband and I—destroy them!” Hamilton let out a slow breath through his nose, a humorless sound. He leaned back, shaking his head. “I’ve already heard all their claims,” he said. “I watched it on CNN and I was shocked—by how proudly they defended those

The Hilux fishtailed hard at the corner, tires shrieking while it cut away from Brooklyn Heights. Blue and red ghosts flashed behind them—sirens distant but closing—reflections skidding across iron railings and brick as the truck tore downhill. Streetlights blurred into pale ribbons. The driver swung onto Furman Street, hugging the curve that ran along the East River. Cold air rushed through the cracked windows, carrying the smell of salt and oil. Hamilton leaned forward from the front passenger seat, jaw clenched, eyes locked ahead. “Faster,” he said, calm and lethal. “Don’t give them a line.” The Hilux surged, engine growling deeper as it shot past the piers, then cut sharply onto Atlantic Avenue. The sirens wailed louder for a heartbeat—then faded as the driver punched it up the ramp, tires barking as they merged onto the Brooklyn–Queens Expressway. The sirens didn’t know. Hamilton’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Good,” he muttered

Brooklyn Heights unfolded ahead of them—midnight traffic still alive, headlights threading through narrow lanes, storefronts glowing softly behind glass. The Ford Police Interceptor merged into the flow, engine restrained but ready. Streetlights streaked across the windshield in pale bands. “Plate still live,” the junior officer said, eyes flicking between the road and the tablet mounted beside the steering wheel. Blue digits pulsed steadily. “Heading south. Consistent speed.” The senior officer leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on his thighs, gaze locked on the screen. His jaw was set and muscles in his face tight with focus. “Don’t rush it,” he said. “Let them think they’re clear.” Outside, a yellow cab slid past, music thumping faintly through its windows. A delivery bike weaved through traffic, tires hissing over asphalt still warm from the day. The plate blinked again. “Turning off Hicks,” the junior said. “Copy.” The SUV followed at a careful

His eyes burned into Hamilton’s, defiance etched deep despite the searing pain across his body. Every muscle screamed, veins pulsing like cords beneath his skin, yet he refused to flinch. Hamilton’s jaw tightened, and a slow, venomous growl escaped him. “Bring the spun baton now!” He barked at one of the masked men. Without hesitation, the man stepped forward, retrieving a sleek, black stun baton. The hum of electricity coursed faintly through it, a sinister prelude to the pain Lewis was about to endure. He snatched it from the man’s hands, rolling his shoulders as he advanced. “Thought you were some kind of machine,” he sneered, eyes glinting cruelly. “Can withstand any pain, right? Let’s see about that.” He pressed the tip of the baton against Lewis’s left shoulder. A violent jolt ripped through his body like molten lightning. Lewis’s head snapped back, muscles contracting violently, forcing a strangled scream through the gag. His whole torso jerked, legs kicking

Their boots touched each step with measured pressure, heels barely kissing the wood. The staircase groaned faintly under their weight, an old, tired sound that carried just enough to set nerves on edge. Flashlights stayed tight, beams controlled, never wandering too long in one place. At the top, the Senior Officer raised a clenched fist. They stopped. A narrow passageway stretched ahead with low ceiling, peeling paint, darkness pressed in on both sides. Dust hung in the air, drifting through their flashlights like ash. “Hold on,” he whispered. The Junior Officers shifted into position, rifles angled forward, scanners humming softly as they recalibrated for close quarters. “Thermal?” the Senior Officer asked without turning. “Negative,” a Junior Officer replied, eyes on his screen. “No heat sources beyond ambient decay.” “Motion?” “Nothing active.” The second Senior Officer leaned slightly toward the wall, running a gloved hand along flaking plaster. “Pl