A voice boomed over a portable bullhorn. Officers in the bullpen froze, their hands hovering over keyboards and holsters. The sheer overwhelming force of the federal raid paralyzed them. Two tactical agents immediately flanked the armory, slapping a heavy federal padlock onto the reinforced door.
Three more agents stormed the server room, immediately pulling the power cables and securing the precinct's internal hard drives into antistatic evidence bags. Upstairs, the door to Captain Harrison's office didn't just open. It was kicked off its hinges. Supervisory Special Agent Richard Cole stepped through the splintered doorway, flanked by two agents carrying heavy breaching shotguns.
Cole didn't blink. He walked straight to Harrison's desk and slammed a 50-page federal search warrant down on the wood.
"Captain Harrison, you are relieved of your command," Cole said, his voice cold and flat.
"Step away from the desk and keep your hands where I can see them."
Harrison stood up, his face flushed purple with outrage.
"What the hell is the meaning of this? You can't just storm a city police precinct. I'll have the mayor and the police commissioner on the phone in two minutes. You're out of your jurisdiction."
"The Department of Justice has authorized a complete takeover of Zone 5 under the federal racketeering statute," Cole replied, stepping closer until he was inches from the captain. "And you are not calling anyone. We have sworn testimony, GPS data, and physical evidence that a robbery ring is being operated out of this building using city resources. Five of your officers are currently being handcuffed in the bullpen. Your patrol commander is being pulled over on Interstate 75 as we speak."
Harrison's bravado completely evaporated.
"Robbery ring. Who? Who gave you this?"
"Officer Brian Jenkins," Cole said smoothly, watching the blood drain from the captain's face.
"He had a very talkative afternoon. Turn around and put your hands behind your back, Thomas."
You're going to federal holding. As the precinct was systematically dismantled, Jonathan Paul and Samuel Hayes were back at the FBI field office, sitting in a secure evidence processing room. The chaos of the botched sting at Centennial Olympic Park still stung. But the adrenaline of Jenkins's arrest had sharpened their focus.
Spread out across a massive aluminum table were the contents of the hidden compartment in Jenkins's patrol car. the brick of cash, the heroin, the unregistered glocks, and most importantly, a small black Moleskine notebook Jenkins had kept meticulously updated.
"I can't believe this guy," Sam muttered, wearing blue latex gloves as he carefully turned the pages of the notebook.
"He actually kept a ledger of his own crimes, dates, addresses, estimated cash seized."