The rookie rides with you. Let's go catch a sheriff. The Miller meat packing plant sat on a desolate industrial stretch of the riverfront, surrounded by high barbed wire fences and rusted out train cars. The stench of iron, bleach, and rotting livestock hung heavy in the damp air.
Inside the cavernous loading bay, bathed in the sickly yellow glow of sodium vapor lights, Sheriff Arthur Pendleton was sweating profusely. Pendleton was a broadshouldered man in his late 50s, wearing his pristine tan sheriff's uniform, though his collar was completely soaked with nervous sweat. He was frantically pacing back and forth in front of three massive idling refrigerated semi-trucks. Beside him stood Richard Dawson, a sharply dressed enforcer for the East Coast Syndicate.
Dawson was calmly smoking a cigarette, watching Pendleton's meltdown with mild disgust. Dozens of armed syndicate thugs were rushing around them, tossing heavy canvas duffel bags, each packed with a million dollars in untraceable bills into the back of the trucks. We need to move faster, Rick. Pendleton barked, checking his gold Rolex for the fifth time in 3 minutes.
Unit 4 just went offline. Mitchell and the rookie got tied up with a drunk driver. The highway perimeter is blind. If the state troopers roll through, we have no warning.
Relax, Arty, Dawson said smoothly, flicking his cigarette onto the concrete floor. We have the local judge in our pocket. We have the mayor. Who is going to stop us?
The local cops. They work for you. I don't like it, Pendleton muttered. I got a bad feeling in my gut.
Washington has been sniffing around our accounts for weeks. I want this money over the Canadian border by sunrise or the deal is off. The money will be in Montreal by breakfast, Dawson assured him. He slammed the heavy steel doors of the first truck shut and locked the padlock.
That's the last of it. 50 million clean and ready to wash. All right, get the drivers in the cabs, Pendleton commanded, pulling his service weapon and resting his hand on it for comfort. Let's roll out.
Suddenly, the massive industrial fuse box on the far wall of the loading dock exploded in a shower of blue sparks. Every single light in the three-story warehouse instantly blew out, plunged into total suffocating darkness. The sound of the idling truck engines was deafening. "What the hell was that?" Pendleton screamed, pulling his gun and aiming blindly into the pitch black warehouse.
"Rick, did a generator blow?" There was no answer. "Rick!" Pendleton yelled again. Before he could take a step, a deafening crash shattered the silence. The massive corrugated steel rollup doors at the front of the loading bay were violently ripped off their tracks.
Two matte black armored BearCat tactical vehicles smashed through the metal, their heavy steel rams destroying the reinforced doors like tissue paper, blinding million candle power spotlights mounted on the bear. Cats flared to life, flooding the warehouse with an intense, agonizingly bright white light. Pendleton threw his hands over his eyes, blinded. FBI, Hostage Rescue Team, nobody move.
A voice thundered over a localized LRAD sonic weapon. The sound waves vibrating so intensely it rattled the teeth in Pendleton's skull. Dozens of flashbang grenades sailed through the air, detonating in a chaotic symphony of concussive blasts and blinding magnesium flashes. The syndicate thugs didn't even have time to raise their weapons.
Heavily armed federal agents descended from the catwalks, poured out of the BearCats, and breached the side doors simultaneously. It was a textbook. Overwhelming tactical assault. Within 45 seconds, every single syndicate member was face down on the concrete, stripped of their weapons, and zip tied.
Richard Dawson, the untouchable mob left tenant, was slammed against the side of a meat freezer by Agent Caldwell, his nose broken and bleeding freely down his expensive Italian suit. Sheriff Arthur Pendleton stood frozen in the center of the chaos, his gun trembling in his hand. He was surrounded by a dozen red laser dots painting a gruesome constellation across his chest. Drop it, Arthur.
A calm command commanding female voice echoed through the bay. The wall of tactical agents parted. Naomi Reynolds stepped forward into the harsh glare of the spotlights. She was no longer wearing her soaked trench coat.
She stood in her immaculate charcoal suit, holding the heavy leather briefcase by her side. Pendleton squinted through the blinding light. Who the hell are you? This is my county.
You have no jurisdiction here. My name is Director Naomi Reynolds, Department of Justice, she said, her heels clicking methodically on the concrete as she approached him. And as of this exact moment, your county is under federal receivership. You are relieved of your command, Sheriff.
Pendleton's hands shook wildly. He looked around at his dismantled empire, at the $50 million sitting uselessly in the trucks, at his men groveling in the dirt. You can't do this. I have friends in the capital.
I have judges. I will tie this up in court for 10 years. No, you won't, Naomi said, stopping exactly 5 feet from him. Because 20 minutes ago, your loyal highway attack dog, Todd Mitchell, pulled a loaded firearm on a federal director to protect your cartel shipments.
He triggered an emergency domestic terrorism mandate. The judges you bought, their homes are being raided right now by the IRS and the FBI. The mayor, he's currently in handcuffs at his country club. Your empire is gone, Arthur.
It vanished the second you let a thug with a badge pull me over. Pendleton let out a hollow, agonizing gasp. The fight completely drained from his body. The weapon slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the cold concrete floor.
He sank to his knees, staring blankly at the toes of Naomi's shoes. Naomi looked down at the broken, corrupt man who had terrorized an entire region for over a decade. She didn't feel triumph. She didn't feel joy.
She just felt the cold satisfaction of a surgeon who had successfully excised a tumor. Agent Caldwell stepped up behind Pendleton and slapped the heavy steel cuffs onto his wrists, hauling the former sheriff to his feet. What happens now?" Pendleton whispered, his voice cracking with despair as he was dragged toward the armored transport. Naomi opened her briefcase, pulling out a fresh manila folder.
She uncapped a heavy gold fountain pen. "Now," Naomi said, signing her name with a sharp, decisive flourish on the seizure manifest. "I do my audit.