The scene of terrified children on the bus caused Jubal's expression to falter as he stood in front of the large monitor. It was no surprise—any father would have trouble maintaining composure after witnessing such a horrifying sight.
He quickly lowered his head, took a deep breath, and adjusted his emotions before turning back to the 20 or 30 analysts seated behind him. He raised his voice to give orders as he always did.
"Alright, everyone, we've all seen the footage now. We have at least two gunmen. The speaker's accent is distinctly American. What else do we see? This video has been sent to each of your stations. Start analyzing it frame by frame, we need to extract every possible clue."
"The first guy is tall—at least six foot three or six foot four," said a technician from IT, using comparison software to calculate the height of the gunman walking down the bus aisle. "That's about 190 to 192 centimeters."
"White male," Hannah added. "Judging by his handling of the firearm, he has basic training—possibly military or police experience." Although the gunman wore a black ski mask, the areas around his eyes and mouth were exposed, revealing pale skin.
"Can we slow down the footage to the last few frames, just before the camera cuts out?" Jack requested.
A technician tapped a few keys, reversing the footage to the point where the lens went dark and then playing it frame by frame. A gloved hand reached toward the camera in slow motion.
Jack leaned closer, scrutinizing the screen. "The glove is missing a segment—this guy's left pinky finger is gone."
It was a distinctive feature, but unfortunately, it was only helpful for eliminating suspects, not identifying them. They still didn't have a single name on their suspect list.
The analysts dove back into their work, combing through the footage and cross-referencing any potential leads. For now, the field agents had done all they could. Jack walked over to the break room and poured two cups of coffee—one for himself and one for Hannah. On his way back, he grabbed another for Jubal, who was still glued to the monitor.
"Tail surveillance, ski masks, assault rifles… This whole thing screams premeditation," Jubal said, his worry etched deeply into his face.
"At least we're looking for 26 missing kids and not 26 corpses," Jack quipped, his usual optimism intact.
Hannah gave him a disapproving nudge. "Jack, that's not funny," she said, letting out a sigh. "Let's just hope we're waiting for a ransom demand and not someone claiming responsibility for an act of terrorism."
"Let's hope for the former," Jubal agreed with another sigh. A ransom situation was bad, but it at least meant the children were likely still alive. A terrorist attack, on the other hand, could mean something far worse.
"Jubal, we found something!" a female analyst called out excitedly. "The road surveillance has results—there's a green Chevrolet Cruze that followed the school bus for two days straight."
Jubal's posture straightened immediately, and he hurried over to her desk. Waving a hand to summon the liaison officers from NYPD and other agencies stationed nearby, he asked, "Can we get a clear look at the driver? We'll need to issue a BOLO."
The analyst enhanced the footage and shook her head regretfully. "The resolution isn't great, but we got a license plate."
Within moments, the database pulled up the registered owner: Carl Stubbs, a New Yorker with a laundry list of offenses including assault, burglary, and drug possession.
"Find him!" Jubal exclaimed, clenching his fists in determination. "It's time to get our friends at the NYPD involved."
The NYPD responded to the BOLO with remarkable speed. Beyond their strong working relationship with the FBI, the abduction case had shaken the entire state of New York. Every news channel was broadcasting the story on a continuous loop.
Forty minutes later, in the Bronx, six silent SUVs with flashing lights arrived at an old factory. Jack and Hannah exited their vehicle, drawing their Glock pistols. Two six-man SWAT teams fanned out behind them, securing the perimeter.
According to information from the NYPD, Carl Stubbs wasn't at his registered address. A patrol officer had spoken with the building's superintendent, who revealed that Stubbs had left early that morning. His last known location was his workplace.
The workplace turned out to be a secondhand clothing factory—a facility that sorted, washed, and repackaged used clothing for resale. While it seemed mundane, the factory's large, open floor space made it an ideal location for hiding hostages. Given the stakes, the FBI had deployed two SWAT teams alongside Jack and Hannah.
But as soon as they breached the factory doors, Jack had a sinking feeling. The workers inside weren't armed militants but rather ordinary employees sorting used clothes. Among them, bent over a table, was their suspect, Carl Stubbs.
The factory floor was lined with racks and piles of old clothing. Stubbs and several workers were busy at their stations, oblivious to the armed agents entering the building. Startled by the sight of FBI agents and heavily armed SWAT officers, they froze. Before Stubbs could react further, Jack and Hannah aimed their weapons at him.
"Carl Stubbs! Hands in the air!" Jack barked.
Stubbs—a scrawny, disheveled white man with unkempt hair, patchy facial stubble, and pockmarked skin—jumped like a startled monkey. Without hesitation, he bolted toward the back of the factory, where a row of industrial washing machines hummed loudly.
Since Stubbs hadn't drawn a weapon, Jack held his fire. He sighed, stopping Hannah from giving chase. Turning to a bewildered female worker nearby, he offered an apologetic smile and borrowed a stapler from her workstation.
With a practiced motion, Jack hurled the stapler through the air. The weighty object spun end-over-end before striking Stubbs squarely in the back of the knee. With a yelp, Stubbs crashed to the floor face-first, sliding across the linoleum.
"My leg! You broke my leg! Help! Somebody help me!" Stubbs wailed like a wounded animal. Rolling her eyes, Hannah cuffed him and hauled him to his feet.
"All ten fingers intact," she noted dryly, stepping on his back to keep him pinned. She retrieved an old T-shirt from the floor to wipe her hands, visibly annoyed by Stubbs' unkempt and grimy state.
Stubbs' protests escalated as two SWAT officers aimed their rifles at him. "What the hell is this about? My toes might be broken, but I didn't do anything to deserve this!"
Jack grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out of the factory as the SWAT team finished their search. Their leader shook his head as he approached Jack, signaling that the factory was clear—no hostages, no weapons, no evidence.
"Where are the kids, Carl?" Jack asked, staring Stubbs down.
"What kids?" Stubbs looked genuinely confused.
"The 26 kids abducted from the school bus," Hannah added.
"I have no idea what you're talking about!" Stubbs' voice climbed several octaves in panic.
Jack sighed. "Your green Chevrolet Cruze was seen tailing the school bus two days before the abduction."
"Oh, my baby!" Stubbs groaned dramatically. "The bank repossessed it last week! Look at me—do I look like I can afford a car? I've been bankrupt for months! I'm stuck working in this hellhole just to scrape by."
Jack cut him off, tired of the excuses. "Where were you around 7:40 this morning?"
"Here! I clocked in at 6:58 AM and haven't left since. Everyone here can vouch for me," Stubbs said, his voice rising with indignation.
After cross-referencing his alibi with the factory's timekeeping records, Jack had to admit that Stubbs' story seemed legitimate. The man was a magnet for bad luck, but he wasn't their kidnapper.
As NYPD officers arrived to take Stubbs into custody for further questioning, Jack pulled Hannah aside. "If the repo company isn't legit, and the car was low on gas, it couldn't have gone far. Let's check the nearest gas stations."
Jack quickly used his phone to pinpoint the closest station and showed it to Hannah. "Lucky for us, there's only one nearby."
Hannah let out a breath of relief, clearly drained from Stubbs' endless whining. "Let's go check the footage—and maybe grab something to eat while we're at it."
Half an hour later, Jack and Hannah arrived at the gas station. There was no dramatic standoff or resistance—the manager immediately cooperated upon seeing their FBI badges. Within minutes, they were reviewing surveillance footage.
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American TV Writer (Chapter 1402)
I Am Hades, The Supreme GOD of the Underworld! (Chapter 570)
Reborn as Humanity's Emperor Across the Multiverse (Chapter 660)
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