"You just burned active federal orders."
The words hung in the stale, cigar-scented air. It was not a warning; it was a finalized verdict. Behind the thick steel bars in the background, the Inmate in the stained white tank top slowly lowered his arms, stepping back into the deeper shadows of the cell. The trap had been sprung.
For three agonizing seconds, the Corrupt Boss stared at the Rookie. He opened his mouth to deliver another insult, to reassert his dominance, but the words never materialized.
It started as a low vibration, a deep, rhythmic rumble that shook the heavy oak desk and rattled the ice in the Boss’s crystal glass. Dust drifted down from the mahogany ceiling panels. Above them, the unmistakable screech of heavy tires and the slamming of reinforced steel doors echoed through the foundation of the building. The syndicate’s perimeter had been breached.
The Boss pushed his heavy frame out of his chair, his eyes darting frantically toward the reinforced wooden door of the interrogation room. The heavy gold watch on his wrist felt suddenly like an anchor. He reached for the communication radio on his desk, but the line was completely dead—jammed by military-grade signal blockers.