The hum of the basement lights cut out instantly.
A split second later, the backup emergency siren on the main floor began its shrill, deafening wail—a continuous, high-pitched mechanical shriek that automatically tripped the fail-safe magnetic locks across every door in the precinct.
The heavy steel bolt on the basement door retracted with a loud, pneumatic thunk.
Marcus stepped through the doorway into the darkened hall, holding the red folder under his arm, his briefcase in hand. The emergency red halogen lights were already flashing along the ceiling, bathing the gray concrete in sharp pulses of crimson.
Upstairs, the sound of boots running across the linoleum sounded like an invading army.
Marcus climbed the iron steps two at a time. When he reached the heavy fire doors leading into the main squad room, he threw them wide.
The scene in the squad room was pure chaos. Officers were standing near their desks, looking around in bewilderment as the emergency klaxon continued to howl. Red lights flickered across their faces.
At the far end of the room, near the glass doors of the front entrance, Detective Vance was moving fast toward the parking lot, his coat flapping open, his keys jingling in his hand.Advertisement
Marcus didn't run. He walked with a swift, predatory purpose, cutting diagonally across the room toward the main watch commander's desk.
"Officer Nichols!" Marcus shouted over the screech of the alarm.
Nichols, who was standing by the reception gate with a look of utter panic, snapped her head toward him.
"Lock the outer glass doors," Marcus commanded. "Deploy the emergency riot gates now."
Nichols didn't hesitate this time. The hesitation that had paralyzed her during Caldwell's assault was gone; she slapped the large red rocker switch beneath the dispatch counter.
A set of heavy, steel-slotted security shutters descended from the lobby ceiling with a terrifying mechanical roar, slamming into the concrete sill with a shower of sparks just as Vance reached the front glass.
Vance spun around, trapped in the lobby vestibule, his face pale in the flashing red light. He pulled his service weapon, his eyes darting frantically from Nichols to the barricade, and finally settling on Marcus Reed walking calmly down the central hallway toward him.
Chapter 5: THE SIEGE IN THE SQUAD ROOM
The squad room went completely still, save for the mechanical shriek of the siren. Ten patrol officers stood frozen between their metal desks, their hands instinctively dropping toward their holsters, their eyes locked on Detective Vance.
Vance stood with his back pressed against the iron slats of the riot gate. His service weapon—a standard black Glock—was drawn, his barrel wandering between Marcus and the ceiling. Sweat dripped from his temple, carving a clear track through the dust on his cheek.Advertisement
"Tom, put the weapon down," Marcus said. He didn't draw his own gun. He didn't reach for his belt. He kept his hands in plain sight at his sides, stepping past the reception counter until he was twenty feet from the barricaded doors.
"You don't understand how this works, Reed!" Vance yelled, his voice cracking beneath the pressure. "This isn't about some missing cash from an evidence locker. The people my uncle dealt with—they aren't street hoods. They own the construction contracts on the new highway. They own the shipping terminals. If that red folder walks out of this building, they won't just ruin careers. They'll bury everyone who ever signed an operational report in this town!"Advertisement
Marcus stopped. He held the red folder up with his left hand so every officer in the room could see the frayed cardboard cover.
"The man who was buried," Marcus said, his voice cutting through the space with absolute clarity, "was David Morris. He was twenty-eight years old. He had a wife and a five-month-old daughter. And your uncle put a hollow-point bullet through his vest because he wouldn't look the other way when three shipping containers of illegal arms cleared Dock Four."Advertisement