The old auto-body shop, Sam read standing up and walking over to the monitor. Jonathan hit enter. Another red pin dropped. A perfect match for a Navarro Syndicate drop point. Jenkins wasn't just shaking down local street dealers, Jonathan breathed, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face.
He thought he was hitting low-level gangs. But these addresses, they match the Navarro cartel's distribution nodes. Jenkins and his corrupt cops were blindly robbing the most dangerous drug cartel in the Southeast. Sam stared at the screen, the pieces rapidly falling into place. And they didn't get killed because they were hitting the locations in full APD tactical gear.
The cartel thought they were getting legitimately raided by local law enforcement. So they didn't shoot back. They just took the loss and moved locations. Exactly, Jonathan said, his heart pounding. Jenkins ruined our sting today.
But because he was so greedy, he kept a record of every location he surveiled. Look at the last entry in the notebook. Dated yesterday. Sam looked down at the open page. Target 14, 200 Industrial Boulevard, warehouse 9.
Heavy foot traffic. Smell of bleach. Moving in tonight. Jonathan grabbed his encrypted radio. Cole, this is Paul.
I need you back at the field office right now. Operation Glass House isn't dead. What are you talking about, Dave? Penhaligan rabbiting cost us the ledger and the money. Cole's voice crackled back over the radio, heavy with the exhaustion of the precinct raid.
Penhaligan is a money man. He doesn't hold the physical product, Jonathan said quickly. Jenkins just unknowingly handed us the address to the cartel's primary holding warehouse for the entire city. And according to his notes, Jenkins and his rogue crew were planning to rob it tonight. If we hit it first, we don't just get the 3 million Penhaligan walked away with.
We get the whole damn bank. Less than 3 hours later, the night sky over Atlanta was shattered by the rhythmic thumping of two FBI Black Hawk helicopters. Below, a convoy of heavily armored BearCat vehicles tore through the industrial district. Jonathan and Sam sat in the lead vehicle, clad in heavy tactical gear, night vision goggles resting on their helmets. The failure of the afternoon had been entirely eclipsed by the opportunity of the night.
They hit warehouse 9 with the force of a hurricane. Flashbangs lit up the dark, cavernous space like localized lightning strikes. The cartel guards inside, expecting a quiet night, were completely overwhelmed by the sheer, staggering volume of federal firepower. In