Today is the eagerly-anticipated payday, and the official commencement of our sting operation.

We've temporarily released our suspects from custody. In exchange for sentencing deals, they're going to help us bring down the mastermind behind all this. They will effectively be going undercover, pretending like they were never caught, and meeting the organizer of this whole charade for the rest of their promised money. They all got half upfront and now they're supposed to get the second half. Jeff is here, too, but I strongly suspect his reward will be a bullet through the head for botching the operation.

In fact, the whole thing screams shady. Why not give the workers the rest of their money in the mail like the first half? The mysterious organizer claims it's because we're on to them, but I think he just wants to deal with the loose ends in his plan, kill off anyone who could possibly be used to help bring him down.

It's going down at an abandoned warehouse next to a scrapyard. We're going in with SWAT to intercept the transaction and hopefully stop the mass murder of the contractees.

We're filing out, ready to go, when a hand lands on my shoulder, halting my progress.

"Not you, Romano."

I spin around to face the captain, incredulous.

"We're talking about Ciel here, cap! He's my boy-"

"You got a target on your back; you're not going anywhere until it's removed."

"So I'm under house arrest," I deadpan. That's absolutely ridiculous...

A pair of officers step up, flanking me on either side. I look from them to the captain. "You've gotta be kidding me. This is some kind of fucking joke-"

"I don't joke."

"I'll sign whatever I need to sign," I plead. "Release the city from all liability. I don't have any beneficiaries, anyway-"

"If they want you, you're our bargaining chip. There's a good chance that if you go in and they recognize you, all hell will break loose. I'm not taking that chance."

"But-"

"That being said, I never said I wanted you to stand down," Cap cuts in, clarifying. "You won't be going in, but I want you lead from here."

I blink, processing this for a moment, before nodding.

"Alright." That's the most he's going to yield.

"You'll be taking the lead from One P. P., and communicating with the SWAT commander on site. I've heard good things about your leadership; I want to see it myself."

Under normal circumstances, I would be thrilled. But circumstances are grim. We still haven't found Ciel, dead or alive, and I might lose more men today.

"Send the drone up. Get me wide angles, get me body cams."

Ken stays behind with me, and we take the control room to establish communication with the officers on the ground and start giving orders. We'll be able to watch the live feed through the cameras hooked up to the SWAT helmets.

Six guys in standard formation approach the building from behind with guns drawn.

"Alright, we're going in full package. Full breach and blow. On my go, we'll do gas, flash, dynamic entry. Marksman, take the roof. Watcher One, man communications. Watcher Two, Eagle is not seeing you, report."

"Eagle, this is Two. Checking my link." Moments later, I get his feed. "Watcher Two, in position."

"Watcher Three, do you have eyes on?"

"Affirmative."

"Watcher Four, report."

"In position. Give me a two."

"Watcher Five. What's your status?"

"I'm on the floor about to take position."

"Back up Four."

"Roger that."

"Watcher Six."

"In position."

"Alright, mount up. Prepare to repel and flash bang on my command."

Our contractees are all standing in a semi-circle on the main floor of the warehouse, watching as a car approaches slowly, tires crunching on the gravel road.

"Eagle to the one-four corner. Confirm that you have containment."

"Roger, we're holding on the one-four corner."

"Eagle to all units. Confirm that you're holding."

"Eagle, we're holding top of stairwell."

"Eagle, floor is clear."

Three men in ski masks get out of the car and walk into the building.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. You must be here for your reward."

My ears are straining for every detail, hoping against hope that they identity themselves. We get no names, however. All talk is strictly to the point, the bare minimum required to conduct business.

"Boss sent us in to give you just that."

While the leader talks, the other two men go around to the back of the car, pop the hood and carry out duffel bags.

I keep my eyes peeled to see if either of the three messengers reach for a gun. I know I'm going to have two seconds to make a decision that will be heavily scrutinized, analyzed from every which angle and torn apart for two months. IA is old school. It used to be about precision: 'take it slow and get it right.' In this day and age, however, shit happens fast. Rapid responses are needed. Our training is no longer static. We target, shoot and rescue on the move - fast. Magazines should be empty in fifteen seconds as a rule of thumb. That's how my instincts have been trained.

I watch carefully as the two men bring the bags over to the speaker in charge. There should be hundreds of thousands of dollars in cash in those bags.

I get a hidden sniper to zoom in on them.

"Watcher Two, go in on the bags times five. Pan left, then down."

"Physics..." I mutter to Ken. "Something about the way they're carrying that money doesn't add up from a physics perspective."

"They should be a lot heavier..."

"They're empty."

"There was never any money," Ken affirms grimly. Which means, this is an execution, not a payday.

Classic trick.

I bring my radio to my lips. "Breach."

"I'm laying down cover."

"Pop smoke!"

Suddenly, a canister bursts into the room and settles on the floor right in the middle of the floor. The flash bang goes off with a hissing sound and a cloud of gas. Amidst the cover of the plumes of smoke and the shower of broken glass raining down, men in black storm the building.

Everybody's dispersing. It looks like our decoys are mutinying, fighting the officers and sometimes getting shots in. They probably still think they were about to get paid. The three messengers have fled to the stairs. We've got six officers in there versus three unknowns plus Anderson, Griegs, Bingham, Stanton and Frente. The odds are about even, but I can't afford for this to go south. I request backup fast, and I'm told it'll arrive by chopper.

Heart in my throat, I shout commands under a hail of gunfire.

Kneeling barricade positions!

Block all exits!

Change barricade!

Contact door!

Hold, hold, hike!

Contact window. Left. Quick!

High-low firing position!

Contact. Window!

Behind you. Move, move!

Forward firing position!

"Watcher Three to Eagle. One suspect neutralized."

"Zoom in on his face... That's not our guy; he's one of the decoys. Cut him loose."

"This is Watcher Five, I need an RA unit for a gunshot wound to an officer..."

The rotor wash of a helicopter overhead announces the arrival of backup.

Reinforcements are lowered down on ropes from the chopper. They blow the glass, break into the warehouse through the windows.

Structured clearance and close quarter contact is their expertise. It's like a dance. Everyone is thinking and moving in sync, communicating with hand gestures and nods, creeping forward with guns drawn.

"Let's go, let's go!"

Stanton whips out a gun and trains it on a group of SWAT officers nearby. What the fuck?

"Drop the gun," they shout.

Stanton hesitates, red dots dancing across his chest.

Then he raises his gun at them in a surefire bid for death and the scene that unfolds is horrific. Instantaneously, a shower of bullets riddle his body so hard and fast that it shakes as it comes tumbling down to the ground in what seems like slow motion. Well, that's one way to avoid spending the rest of your life in jail.

"Fuck," I swear loudly, pounding my fist against the table.

"Shots fired, shots fired. Suspect is down."

"Alright, move in. Check him. Continue sweep. Let's go. Make sure these guys did not leave us any surprises. And give engineering the all-clear."

I turn to Ken, brow taut with tension and finding my own grim anxiety mirrored in his eyes.

"Watcher team, be advised; there is a friendly about to cross your perimeter, I repeat, a friendly," I mutter.

"What're you doing," Ken demands when I rip my headset off.

"They could know where Ciel is. I can't let them get away."

I signed my life away the day I graduated from the academy and they pinned a badge to my chest. Ciel never asked for this. 

I ignore Ken's cries of protest; he can go on record later saying I fucked up on my own, disobeyed the hold, made the decision myself. He can be back on the job tomorrow. As for me, I don't care anymore.

I move lightening-fast. Opening the back of my trunk, I start rifling through supplies. I put on a bullet-proof vest. Slide a knife in my sock. Grab my favourite gun, the one with a flared mag well, custom porting and textured grips. Robust. Precise. I used to get hard just thinking about using it one day. The gun goes in my holster, magazines in my duty belt.

"Captain said you stay," Ken challenges form the doorway.

"What's he gonna do, give me a five-day rip? Great. Gives me more time to find Ciel." I toss him a gun and a vest. "Make your decision fast."

"God, I hate how much I love you," Ken sighs, catching it.

"We ride together, we die together. Bad boys for life, baby."

"I do love capping me some bad guys."

"That you do."

"Let's hit it."

"Ciel could be in that car or building or somewhere nearby. If you see that someone's holding him against his will, shoot first, ask questions later."

"Yes, Beast."

I rev my engine and we peel out of the lot.

"Dare, look, if this all goes south-"

"Uh uh." I shake my head. "Tell me when we get back. And remember. You get a shot, you take it."

"Revision: two friendlies. Lay us down some cover; we're coming to you," I instruct the watchers over radio.

"Bad guys have heavy hardware. Move in with caution," we're told.

"Copy, coming around."

I instruct Ken to pull my balaclava out of the glove compartment, for concealment. He tosses it onto my lap and takes out his own.

Minutes later, I pull up to the vacant backlot behind the warehouse in my unmarked car.

I spare a fleeting glance over my shoulder in case something happens to it and I never get to see it in its gleaming beauty again.

Then I put my face covering on, draw my gun, and advance towards the building.

"Go upstairs; I'll sweep down here-"

"Wait. They're coming out." Ken halts me with a hand on my arm and points to where it looks like the action is about to spill out of the building.

A man comes running out, breathless, eyes darting over his shoulder. When he turns around to find two guys in masks pointing guns at him, he skids to a halt and raises his hands slowly.

"Who the fuck are you guys," he demands.

"Where's Ciel?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't move, or you will be AMFed," I warn.

"It's all good," he says - but then pulls a gun from behind his back and shoots at us.

Ken crumples to the ground with a groan, and my heart lurches to a halt.

"Ken-"

"I-I'm fine! Bullet-proof vest. Just...winded..."

Slumped on the ground, Ken tosses me his gun. I catch it and whirl around with both guns drawn in tandem.

"You shot my partner."

"Look, he's fine, alright? And whatever you think I'm involved in, I don't know anything about it-"

"So that makes you useless to me."

"I-I just had a simple job to do; I never hurt anyone!"

"Except my partner. Make peace with your maker, subject."

"Beast, no," Ken calls.

"Don't let him kill me," the suspect appeals to the more rational of the cops facing off with him.

"You're already dead," I snarl.

I've got the upper hand in the stand-off, until another suspect emerges from the building.

I wish I could just pump a couple slugs into them, but they're of no use to us dead. They've had direct contact with the organizer of this whole thing; we need to question them alive.

The second suspect races towards his car, despite my calls at him to stop.

I run after him and he scrambles to flee. I chase him to the adjacent lot, a junkyard consisting of a sea of cars with little space in between. Turning to find me hot on his heel, he jumps onto the hood of the closest car. I follow him, and he hops onto a nearby vehicle. Security alarms go off as I chase him from one car to another. It's a balancing act, pitching, tottering, swaying, lurching, reeling, teetering, wobbling.

I hear tires squealing and a lurching movement beneath me, realizing the first suspect has commandeered the getaway vehicle and I'm catching a ride on his hood. I roll off and land on the ground with a painful thud, rolling away to evade the radiator grill.

Suspect one tries to hit me with the car again and I stagger to my feet. I stand, winded and disheveled, in front of the car, gun trained on the space between his eyes and a feral gleam in my eye.

"Behind you, partner," Ken calls behind me, a fierce bit to his voice.

"Tell daddy how you want it. You want an open or closed casket? Huh? Any last requests? Got any messages you want us to deliver to your family, or..?"

SWAT officers emerge from the building, each holding one or two decoys. The third suspect is also among them. Awesome. Everyone's accounted for, and no one's dead except our suicidal assassin, Stanton. Two left to secure.

Suspect one revs his engine, beckoning to suspect two to get in, and we start shooting at the vehicle's tires. Swearing loudly, suspect two bursts from the vehicle and flees on foot.

My ears fill with the sounds of panting and grunting and the pounding of footfalls against asphalt.

In my peripheral vision, I see the SWAT officers scramble to get everyone inside their truck before moving after the fleeing suspects. One is caught. The other re-enters the warehouse.

Arms pumping at my sides, heart racing and lungs heaving, I send up a quick prayer of gratitude for my training. My body complies easily with my commands, just like I've trained it to do, despite the heavy equipment dragging me down.

Ken and some SWAT officers catch up to me inside the building.

"Where'd he go?"

I look around, unsure.

Ken points out a door with shoe prints in the dust leading up to it.

We approach the door, turning parallel to it and flanking it on either side.

Reaching out with my left arm, I give it several hard knocks. No sooner have I shouted NYPD than the bullets start firing through the door. This is why we stationed ourselves this way: for cover.

We wait on either side of the door while the suspect empties his rounds, then stick a rifle through the bullet holes and fire back. When we hear a shout, we try the handle. It's locked, so we shoot the bolt and kick the door open.

"We have shots fired by the police," Ken is muttering into his mic. "Roll an ambo..."

"Y-you shot me," the suspect gasps, clutching his calf.

"Damn straight. You unload an AK at us, you're asking to die."

Yelling, he lunges for a nearby gun. I launch myself at him, pinning him to the floor.

"Kiss the ground, subject."

We're wrestling, rolling on the ground, dust and dirt flying everywhere, until I get my arm around his neck and squeeze. His arm goes lax; I grab the gun, stand up and train it on him.

"Stay down!" Ken is shouting. "Do not move."

"Move again," I snarl. "Move again."

He glares at me, spitting at the ground by his side.

I grab subject three and haul him up to the wall where I cuff him. Then I sit him down and wait.

In the distance, sirens hail the arrival of the ambulance.

A bodybag is brought out for Stanton. A gurney is wheeled out for subject three.

Two cops step out of a cruiser and approach us.

"We're gonna need a statement, detectives. It shouldn't take long."

"I'll go first," Ken offers, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

Leaning against the wall, I lower myself into a sitting position and cradle my head in my hands.

I'm so sick of this. When will it all end?

I'm unraveling, mentally, I can feel it. I keep thinking of Tony being lowered in the ground, of Ciel's dead body rotting in some shallow grave, of all the other victims... How much longer can I keep this up before I stop passing the psych evals, before I really hurt someone, before I lose everything?

I'm in the middle of explaining how I discharged my weapon to incapacitate a shooter with access to multiple firearms barricaded behind a locked door, when Ken's cry summons my attention.

"Beast. These guys are the would-be hitters who jockeyed for Stanton's position."

"Good luck briefing the captain," the interviewing officer purses her lips grimly.

"Thanks." He'll tear me a new one, but that's nothing new.

I walk over to where Ken is standing by our two uninjured subjects, each cuffed to a cruiser.

"Y'all remember my unhinged partner, the one that shot your friend? Believe it or not, he's the one of us that's not pissed off," Ken glares by way of introduction.

Both subjects start fighting their restraints, shaking the cars they're cuffed to in a futile effort to get away from me.

"Whoah, whoah. I am way too unstable for this bullshit," I exclaim, reaching for the gun on my holster. "Stop all this movement."

"He just got out the joint," Ken explains apologetically.

"Don't you disrespect me in front of these clowns, Kenneth."

"Beast, meet Michael and Rocco. They were just in the middle of telling me how they had contact with the organizer of this little crime ring. Michael, tell him what you told me."

"What's up, Mike?" I walk around behind him, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck.

"Hey. You can't afford another ding on your file, Beast," Ken warns. "You remember how much it cost the department last time? The astronomical number of lawsuits against this city since you joined the force, for that matter?"

"Get the fuck away from me," Michael hisses, glaring.

"Awww, don't make this hard, Mike... Do you know anything? I'm being nice about it. Do you know anything?"

He grits his teeth, looking daggers at the ground.

I cock my head.

"You ever made love to a man, Michael?"

"N-No, sir-"

"Well, how would you like to do that for the next ten years?"

"No, sir..." His eyes dart away as he visibly struggles to compose himself. Reason wins his mental battle. "Somebody called me...offered me a job. He said he knew I was a hitman and he was one too; he killed cops. He said the feds were on to him and he couldn't afford to get the job done himself, but it needed to get done. Everything was at stake for him; he owed someone this favor, and all I needed to know was I'd be paid handsomely. I told him, sorry, I don't target cops or their families." Michael's eyes are wide with terror. "I told him: I put a bullet in one of you, you'll put so many in me no one'll be able to identify my body. I didn't want the whole damn blue line out for my blood."

"What else? I need more," I prod.

"I didn't take the job, but I said I could help in other ways. Rocco, Paul and I were gonna snuff out the dudes involved so they couldn't snitch. That's when you showed up."

The chain of command is like a fucking sausage roll. We've got C.K., who's recruiting a hitter. He ultimately delegates to Wheeler. Wheeler delegates to his nephew and his friend Stanton. Then C.K. hires, like, ten more people. Next thing we'll come to find out, C.K. isn't working alone, either. No wonder it's taking us so long to bust this guy.

"Where's the boss now?"

"I dunno..."

"Okay. Hope you like prison food and penis." I start walking away.

"Wait! Boss' hideout. We have the address."

I turn around. "We were supposed to bring the bodies there, after we killed everyone. We can take you there."

•••

"We roll in five," the commander of SWAT announces.

A fresh group of ESU officers in all-black SWAT gear carrying rifles will be accompanying Ken and I into C.K.'s lair. It'll be a major case breakthrough no matter what we find there. This time, I'm going in with them. If these boys have to die in a hail of gunfire because I pissed someone off, then I will too.

"Lock and load, boys, we're going in."

A procession of police cars with the BearCat in the middle peels out of the lot. Ken and I sit inside the BearCat, strapping our vests on. Two rows of uniformed men are with us, rifles resting between their legs. I pull my mask over my face, then my helmet, adjusting my visor and chinstrap.

"Hang back until we breach the door and give the all-clear," the commander instructs Ken and I.

"Ciel could be in there; I'm going in-"

"Negative. Until we know what's in there, you stay put."

Nobody fucks with SWAT. Our Emergency Services Unit is part of the Special Operations Bureau of the NYPD, uniquely trained and equipped to perform tactical and technical rescue duty for other department elements. And in the words of the maniacal Dwight Schrute, you could never withstand a SWAT team because they would flank you, throw in a concussion grenade, and then you'd be on the ground, blind, dead, dumb...

"Let's go boys," the commander calls when we arrive. "Round 'em up." Officers file out, Ken and I taking the rear.

The brick building looks like an old gun shop, storefront empty. Officers turn as they move, keeping their heads on swivels.

"Hit it!" There's a crash followed by cries of Police! and Go, go, go!

I wait with the CSIs, heart in my throat, for the all-clear.

We quickly learn that the place is rigged with a bomb. So we send up a drone equipped with a 3D mapping system, to avoid triggering the lasers.

"Beast, is that a woody?" Ken snickers beside me.

"Shut up." I'm gonna use my drone for way more than vacation pictures.

The drone reveals a path through the lasers to the other end of the room, which one of the officers takes. Once on the other end, she runs her fingers over the wooden flooring.

"It's a trapdoor," she mutters. "Disturbance in the dust. It's been used recently."

She also finds a switchboard, where she works her SWAT magic to disable the bomb. The lasers switch off. ESU leads the way, and we follow them.

Lifting the hatch slowly reveals a set of stairs leading down into what like a panic room. Probably soundproof.

Our flashlights dance across the walls.

There's a table with restraints in the centre of the dingy room, covered in old, russet bloodstains like it's been wiped a dozen times too many. Rusty, metallic torture implements hang on chains. A bloodstained knife, neon orange gloves, a bloodied rag, metal poles protruding from the wall like skewers, and canisters of various liquids hanging from the ceiling chains. I smell bleach.

No doubt, this is C.K.'s killing box.

"Looks like we found our primary," I mutter, flashlight illuminating the blood spatter on the walls.

A glass panel looks into an adjacent room. There's an aluminum tub in the corner, also bloodstained.

CSIs use luminol to illuminate bloodstains no longer visible to the human eye, making neon handprints glow eerily on the glass.

We approach the room. There's all kinds of paraphernalia including uniforms, badges, handcuffs, firearms, mace, police band radios scanners, and...

"Holy Jesus fucking Christ nailed to a cross," Ken mutters.

...a trussed-up man, seemingly unconscious, lying on a tarp on the floor. I immediately request for the EMTs waiting outside to bring a stretcher.

When our flashlights pan over his eyes, they fly open. He makes a guttural effort to scream behind the duct tape sealing his mouth.

"It's okay, it's okay, we're police officers," I rush to reassure him. "Real ones." Ken and I kneel next to him.

"Can't get the tape off his mouth," Ken mutters.

"His skin will rip without the solution," a CSI advises grimly.

While EMS works to get him out of here, Ken and I keep exploring the underground bunker.

There's a wall covered in pictures of precincts, littered with circles and arrows. What're we dealing with here? C.K. was planning to hit every PD in the state? Some kind of domestic terrorism? War on law enforcement?

Right now, I'm most interested in our house of horrors survivor, who also happens to be our sole witness.

•••

"He's critical," the doctor tells Ken, Estée, Violetta and I. "The cuts, contusions and electrical burns caused septic shock. Decreased blood flow necrosed his fingertips and toes. The purpura is his blood is clotting abnormally because of infection. He's got abscesses that I'd like to drain surgically, but in his condition, he'd never make it. We're pushing fluids and antibiotics. That's all we can do right now."

CSIs are here to document all the injuries, take pictures and obtain fingerprints. They'll run the victim's prints through AFIS, see if there's any DNA trapped under his fingernails, send the SAE kit to DNA, look for birthmarks or tattoos, whatever they can.

When the doctor asks, "what the hell happened to this man?" I draw a hand over my mouth, unsure how to answer. Civilians have no clue just how dark their precious little cities are - and it's better that way. He eventually just shakes his head and leaves us.

Violetta looks grim and pallid, peering through the blinds at the man in the hospital bed.

"I'm not used to dealing with living victims."

"He's not gonna make it," I say gently.

She turns slowly to look at me.

"You're not even fazed."

I shrug, feeling the bags under my eyes weigh at my facial muscles.

"How many dead victims have you stood over? Babies, rape victims... You can't tell me you never wanted to put your gun under the bastard's chin and-"

"-yeah, well, I can't." I sigh, turning to Estée. "I have to go brief the captain. You seen him?"

"Yeah. He's been in better moods. Internal Affairs' top watchdog, Captain Mahoney, was with him."

"I have so much brass up my ass you can play me like a trombone," Cap greets me back at One P. P. "Do you need a remedial English course, Romano?"

"I secured the suspects, didn't I?"

"I told you not to go in. I heard what I said because I was standing there when I said it!"

"Sir, you can yell at me later. You're gonna wanna hear this."

He listens to the events and findings as I describe them, not so much as a muscle twitch belying his horror. Leaning forward in his seat throughout the ordeal, he stares through my chest, hands folded below his chin.

"Shake the tree," he orders gravely when I'm finished. "Arrest every fucking thing that falls."

And with that, I'm dismissed.