A Midnight Package Delivered To My Desk Contains A Severed Hand And A 60-Minute Timer Pointing To My Son's Family
👉 Previous Decision: You chose to mobilize Detective Kowalski and the precinct SWAT unit to secure the perimeter.
Three SWAT vans, their lights dark, peeled off Route 1/9. Kowalski drove the lead vehicle, his jaw tight. I rode shotgun, the cooler on the floor between my feet, the timer flashing 22 minutes.
Cruisers fanned out, their spotlights painting the warehouse in stark white. Officers moved with practiced precision, securing the perimeter. No movement, no shadows on the roofline.
“Clear the entry,” I barked into my comms.
Tactical officers advanced on the reinforced steel doors. The hydraulic ram slammed against the metal with a deafening crash. The hinges shrieked, then gave way.
Flashbangs exploded inside, momentary blinding flares. We streamed through the breach, weapons raised. My eyes scanned every corner. No live hostages. No armed snipers. Nothing.
The vast space was empty, save for stacks of shipping crates. In the center, on a lone, overturned wooden box, sat a single laptop. Its screen glowed.
A pre-recorded video played on a loop. A shadowy figure, voice distorted, threatened retribution against rival syndicate families. The message crackled across what sounded like old syndicate radio frequencies.
Kowalski moved to the laptop, his brow furrowed. “Captain, this isn’t a bomb. It’s a broadcast.”
The countdown timer on the cooler continued its relentless march, now showing 18 minutes. The threat wasn’t a physical explosion. It was something else entirely.
➡️ Read Chapter 4 to continue the story
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