Bang!
The bullet whistled past Rick Forsyth's temple, leaving a deep hole in the wall behind him.
"In three seconds, I'll be dead," Rick thought grimly, rolling behind the bar counter. Crystal glasses shattered in the gunfire, expensive whiskey mixing with blood as it flowed across the marble floor of Club 21.
"Rick Forsyth, you think you can hide?" The killer in the black fedora approached slowly, his Thompson submachine gun still smoking. "Your father begged for mercy the same way back then."
A flash of pain crossed Rick's eyes—fifteen years, and he could never forget that night when his father fell in a pool of blood. That killer was the brother of this very demon before him.
"The Burton brothers..." Rick whispered the name that haunted his nightmares.
Gunfire erupted again. Rick lunged to one side, his .45 caliber pistol firing instantly—
Bang!
The killer fell, but Rick knew this was only the beginning.
24 Hours Earlier
"Rick! Wake up!"
His partner, Scott, roughly shook Rick awake from where he lay slumped over his office desk. The smell of whiskey emanated from Rick's body, his eyes bloodshot, his face unshaven.
"Drunk again?" Scott frowned. "Do you know what day it is?"
Rick lifted his head with difficulty, looking at the calendar on the wall—January 25th. The anniversary of his father's death.
"I'm fine." Rick shook his head, forcing himself to sober up. As the youngest gold-star agent in the ATF (Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives), he possessed photographic memory and mind-reading observational skills, but he alone couldn't forget the look in his father's eyes before he died.
"The fourth one." Scott threw a bloody photograph onto the desk. "Last night, at Club 21, another ATF agent was killed."
Rick's drunkenness vanished instantly. In the photo, a young agent lay in a luxurious private booth, a precise cut across his throat—this was the Burton brothers' signature killing method.
"What did the killer leave behind?" Rick asked.
"A symbol." Scott handed over another photo. "Drawn in the victim's blood."
Rick looked at the photo, his pupils contracting sharply. It was an inverted pentagram, surrounded by ancient Latin text—this wasn't an ordinary gang revenge killing, but some kind of ritualistic murder.
"Also," Scott lowered his voice, "the director wants us to solve this case within 48 hours. The big shots in Washington are getting restless."
Rick stood up, his mind rapidly recalling the four murders from the past month. Every detail, every clue, remained crystal clear in his memory.
First case: Tom Anderson, 11.43mm caliber bullet, fatal wound to the heart. Second case: Mike Williams, 16-gauge shotgun, chest wound. Third case: John Smith, Thompson submachine gun, head wound. Fourth case: Jack Brown, knife wound, throat slashed.
"The weapons are becoming more primitive," Rick murmured. "From guns to knives, this isn't coincidence."
Suddenly, the office door burst open, and a woman in a black trench coat stormed in. She had chestnut curls, green eyes as dangerous and alluring as a cat's.
"You're Rick Forsyth?" the woman spoke, her voice silk-smooth yet carrying a chill.
"Who are you?" Rick asked alertly.
"Catherine Dupré, Washington Post reporter." The woman showed her press credentials. "I have news that will interest you."
"What news?"
Catherine walked up to Rick, lowering her voice: "The Burton brothers are holding a 'feast' tonight at Club 21. They're going to kill the fifth ATF agent."
Rick's heart pounded. "How do you know?"
"Because..." Catherine's lips curved into a mysterious smile, "I'm the one they're going to kill."
"What?!" Rick and Scott exclaimed simultaneously.
"I'm undercover, Agent Forsyth." Catherine flashed an ATF badge. "Codename 'Black Swan.' I've been infiltrating the Burton brothers' organization for three months."
Rick's mind raced. A female undercover agent, three months of infiltration, the Burton brothers' trust—what did all this mean?
"What did you discover?" Rick asked.
"They're not just killing ATF agents." Catherine's expression grew grave. "They're going to bomb the Federal Building, tonight at midnight."
"What?!"
"They have military explosives, enough to level the entire block." Catherine continued, "And... they have an inside man in the government."
Rick felt dizzy. This was no longer a simple serial killer case, but a terrorist attack against the U.S. government.
"We have to stop them," Rick said firmly.
"But we only have 12 hours." Scott checked his watch. "It's noon now."
"Twelve hours is enough." Rick's eyes flashed with dangerous light. "I'm going to face the Burton brothers myself."
"Too dangerous!" Scott protested. "They've already killed four agents. You'd be walking into certain death!"
"No," Rick shook his head, "I'm going for revenge."
He walked to his desk, opened a drawer, and took out a silver revolver—his father's relic, with "Justice Endures" engraved on the handle.
"Wait." Catherine suddenly spoke. "I have a plan."