The judge's gavel came down at 10:47 AM. Samuel Banks stood in the prisoner's dock with his hands cuffed behind his back. His suit was borrowed. His face was bruised. His eyes were empty. The courtroom was packed. Reporters. Detectives. Politicians. They'd all come to see the fall of the youngest homicide detective in the city's history. The golden boy. The one who was supposed to clean up the streets. The one who was supposed to be incorruptible. They'd gotten what they came for. "Samuel Banks," the judge intoned. "You have been found guilty of the murder of Detective Jeremy Stones. Do you have anything to say before sentencing?" Samuel looked at the judge. Then at the prosecution table. Then at the gallery. His former partner sat in the front row. Leonardo Riggs. He met Samuel's eyes. Didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Samuel had caught him once. Taking bribes. The system had protected him. And he has returned the favor by testifying against Samuel. By lying. By putting a bullet in

The blindfold came off in a different warehouse.This one was smaller and colder. A single bare bulb hung from the ceiling, swaying slightly as if someone had just walked past it. Samuel's wrists were free now. His ankles too. No chair this time. Just a rusty table in the center of the room with a folder on it.And a man standing in the shadows."You're awake. Good."The voice was younger than the man in the suit. Sharper. Less patient. Samuel watched as the figure stepped into the light.Late twenties. Clean-shaven. Dark hair cropped short. A scar ran from his left eyebrow to his cheekbone—old, faded, but still visible. He wore a black jacket over a white shirt. No tie. No badge. No indication of who he worked for."Who are you?" Samuel asked."Your handler. You can call me Vale." The man gestured to the folder. "That's your first task. Read it. Memorize it. Then burn it."Samuel didn't move toward the table. He studied Vale instead. The way he stood. The way his eyes tracked Samuel'

Samuel stood in the shadows of a shipping container, watching Warehouse 14 through a pair of night-vision binoculars. The building was windowless, surrounded by chain-link fence topped with razor wire. A single guard sat in a booth near the gate, scrolling through his phone. Bored and unaware.It was 10:55PM. Friday night. Alan Cross's meeting would start at eleven.Samuel had spent the last three hours studying the layout. One entrance. One exit. No cameras on the outside. Cross was too cocky for that. He owned the dock's security company. Why would anyone surveil his own building?Arrogance. Same thing that killed Greer. Same thing that would kill Cross.Samuel lowered the binoculars. Checked his gear. He'd acquired a knife from Vale. Nothing fancy, just a blade with a rubber grip. No gun. The assignment required silence.He moved.The fence was easy. A pair of bolt cutters he'd found in the safe house made quick work of the chain link. He slipped through the gap, hugging the shado

The surveillance started at dawn. Samuel sat in a parked sedan two blocks from Leonardo Riggs's apartment building. The car was a rusted Honda he'd stolen from a junk yard. Nothing memorable, nothing traceable. He wore a baseball cap pulled low and a cheap jacket that made him look like a construction worker on a break.Vale's intel had been solid. Leo's routine was clockwork. Every morning at 6:45 AM, he left his penthouse apartment, walked to his black Mercedes, and drove to the precinct. He was always alone. Always guarded by two men who followed in a separate vehicle.But today was different.Today, Leo's routine had changed.Samuel watched through a pair of binoculars as Leo emerged from the building at 6:30 AM—fifteen minutes early. He wasn't wearing his captain's uniform. Instead, he was in civilian clothes. A dark suit. No badge. No gun visible.He got into a different car. A silver BMW. No security detail.Samuel's instincts flared. Something was wrong.He started the Honda