"And the warrant?"
"Judge Miller signed it electronically eight minutes ago," Garrison said. "Every terminal, hard drive, filing cabinet, and lockbox tied to Vance Concincaid or Blue Shield Consulting is fair game. We have federal preemption under the Hobbs Act and Title 18. But Elias, tread carefully. This isn't an abandoned warehouse in Queens. This is city-owned property leased to an active precinct fraternal club. If one of their patrolmen pulls a weapon in panic, this turns into an interstate disaster on the evening news."
"Concincaid drew down on my daughter, Marcus," I said, my voice dead and quiet. "He gave up the courtesy of a polite knock."
The radio went silent for two beats before Garrison exhaled. "Breach on your call. We’re right behind you."
We cut west across 65th Street, tires hissing against the slick blacktop, before turning north onto Lexington and cutting east onto 67th. The street was quiet, framed by high limestone townhouses, private specialist clinics, and discreet residential lobbies with polished brass canopies. Halfway down the block stood a narrow four-story brick building, its ground floor fitted with frosted security glass and a heavy steel door painted dark hunter green. To the casual passerby, it looked like a nondescript municipal records office.
In reality, it was the Nineteenth Precinct’s private administrative annex—an off-the-books retreat where shift commanders ran unofficial rosters, held private disciplinary sessions, and, if Garrison’s intel held true, laundered hundreds of thousands in extorted cash.
At the curb directly in front of the green door sat Concincaid’s black Cadillac Escalade, hazards blinking, its exhaust pluming white into the damp chill.
"Driver's door is slightly ajar," Miller observed, leaning forward. "He didn't even bother to lock it. He’s in a hurry."
"Stack on the threshold," I told Miller and Henderson. "Dynamic entry. Miller takes point with the ram, Henderson holds the long angle. Clear the front office first, move straight to the secure lockers in the back. Watch their hands. If they go for the waistline, put them into the floor."
Our Suburban mounted the curb, bumper kissing the rear quarter panel of the Escalade, blocking it from rolling forward. A second FBI vehicle slammed down behind it, sealing the street lane.
I hit the pavement, boots gripping the wet concrete. The rain was falling faster now, soaking through the shoulders of my tactical vest, but the cold barely registered. Miller was already on the top step, his pneumatic entry ram resting against his hip like a miniature iron girder. Henderson stood beside him, muzzle pointed at a forty-five-degree depressed angle, gloved hand steady on the foregrip.
Through the frosted wire-glass panel beside the handle, shadows were thrashing. We could hear the rhythmic, mechanical whine of a commercial shredder through the steel.
"Hit it," I said.
Miller swung the ram with the fluid, devastating leverage of a trained breacher. The hardened steel head struck the lock box with a sound like a small mortar exploding. The reinforced frame buckled with an ear-splitting groan of tearing metal, and the heavy door slammed inward, rebounding hard against the interior drywall.