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CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The forensics lab in the bowels of the NYPD’s central precinct was a sterile kingdom of humming machines and harsh fluorescent lights, where the air hummed with the faint ozone tang of high-tech equipment and the underlying metallic bite of preserved evidence. Glass-walled partitions separated workstations cluttered with microscopes, spectrometers, and evidence bags sealed in plastic like captured secrets. It was mid-afternoon on a gray December day, the kind where the city’s perpetual gloom seeped through even the underground levels, casting pallid shadows across the linoleum floors. Detective Donnell Winston leaned against a steel countertop, his short red mahogany hair catching the overhead glare, a fresh cigarette already tucked behind his ear in anticipation of his next break. His brown eyes, sharp and shadowed from too many late nights, fixed on the young forensic scientist before him.Lathan Beckham paced the lab’s central aisle, his golden blonde hair disheveled under a lab ca
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The executive office at Hendrix Industries was a fortress of polished ambition, its walls lined with framed accolades and panoramic views of Manhattan’s relentless skyline. But on this crisp December afternoon, the space felt more like a pressure cooker, the air thick with the residue of defeat. Austen Hendrix paced behind his massive oak desk, his ocean-blue eyes blazing with unchecked fury, his graying blonde hair slightly disheveled from fingers raked through it one too many times. The boardroom debacle replayed in his mind like a bad film loop, Kace Cameron, that smug interloper, dismantling Axel’s pitch with surgical precision, turning the shareholders against them in minutes. Austen’s fists clenched at his sides, the vein in his temple pulsing like a war drum. “That bastard,” he muttered, his voice a gravelly snarl that echoed off the glass.Axel Tantanam stood by the window, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his dark brown hair still perfectly combed, but his hazel eyes down
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The Brooklyn street was cordoned off with yellow tape fluttering in the chill December wind, a grim barrier against the gawkers clustering on the sidewalks. Smoke still curled lazily from the ruins, the acrid stench of burnt wood and melted plastic hanging thick in the air like a shroud. Fire trucks idled nearby, their hoses coiled like sleeping serpents, while uniformed officers directed traffic around the block. The house, or what remained of it, stood as a blackened husk, windows shattered into jagged maws, the roof partially caved in like a defeated giant.Detective Donnell Winston stood at the edge of the debris field, his short red mahogany hair ruffled by the breeze, a cigarette dangling unlit from his lips as he surveyed the wreckage. His brown eyes, sharp and weary from years on the job, flicked over the soot-streaked walls and the twisted metal of what might have been a front door. Beside him, Aubrey Wilburn scribbled notes on a battered notepad, his sandy brown hair catchin
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The boardroom at Hendrix Industries headquarters was a temple of corporate power, all gleaming chrome accents and polished walnut panels that screamed old money and unyielding authority. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of Manhattan’s steel canyons, the December sun glinting off skyscrapers like diamonds scattered across a gray velvet sky. The air hummed with the subtle tension of a company on the brink, shares fluctuating, whispers of takeovers circulating like smoke in the vents. Austen Hendrix presided at the head of the long conference table, his ocean-blue eyes steely under furrowed brows, graying blonde hair impeccably combed despite the invisible storm raging within. Flanking him were the shareholders: Bernice Tantanam with her sharp bob and sharper gaze, a few silver-haired veterans nursing coffees, and others scribbling notes on tablets. At the opposite end stood Axel Tantanam, mid-presentation, his dark brown hair gelled to perfection, hazel eyes alight wi
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The front door loomed like a threshold to hell. Anderson eased it open, rain lashing his face as he stepped onto the sagging porch. The street was a study in deception: quiet houses, glowing windows, but the vans across the way disgorged figures now—six, no seven—clad in black tactical gear, suppressed rifles glinting wetly under the streetlamp.Two broke off, suits tailored sharp over body armor, advancing like wolves in wool. Anderson raised the Glock, sighting center mass. “I want to talk to The Man,” he called, voice steady despite the storm. “Now. Face to face.”The lead suit smirked, rain beading on his bald pate. “No talks. The boss says you’re done.” His partner raised his MP5, the suppressor a black maw.The first shot whizzed from the muzzle, a subsonic crack that punched through Anderson’s shoulder, spinning him into the doorframe. Pain bloomed hot and immediate, blood soaking his sleeve, but he fired back—one in the chest, one in the throat. The man in the suit crumpled,
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The kitchen in the Rogers’ modest Brooklyn brownstone hummed with the mundane rhythm of evening chores, the kind that Anderson clung to like lifelines on stormy seas. Fluorescent light from the single bulb overhead cast harsh shadows across the chipped Formica counters, illuminating stacks of mismatched plates and the faint steam rising from the sink. Outside, the December drizzle pattered against the window like impatient fingers, blurring the streetlights into hazy orbs. He stood at the sink, sleeves of his faded army-green Henley rolled to his elbows, scrubbing a casserole dish with more force than necessary. The hot water scalded his hands, but he welcomed the burn—it grounded him, kept the ghosts at bay. Emilia’s silence from the dining table was louder than any argument, a wall of teenage resentment that had thickened over the past weeks. Dinner had been a battlefield of unspoken barbs: her fork scraping against her plate like nails on a chalkboard, his attempts at conversation
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