The NYPD headquarters was a smoldering ruin, black smoke curling into the sky like the breath of some apocalyptic beast. Flames still licked at the upper floors, charring the once-pristine gray walls into a sooty, crumbling mess. Below, a crowd of gawkers—locals, reporters, and rubberneckers—clustered like vultures, their phones raised, capturing the carnage. The air was thick with the stench of burnt metal and flesh, a grim reminder of the hell that had erupted hours ago.
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder as a fleet of fire trucks roared in from every direction. Firefighters leapt out, gripping massive hoses, spraying torrents of water at the inferno. It took hours of grueling work, but the flames were finally beaten into submission, leaving behind a gutted shell of what used to be the city's proudest law enforcement hub.
The police commissioner stormed onto the scene, fresh from a tense visit to Long Island Prison. Dressed in a bulky hazmat suit, flanked by a squad of heavily armed SWAT officers, he waded through the waterlogged wreckage. The lobby was unrecognizable—a graveyard of charred corpses and twisted debris, the air heavy with the reek of death. His stomach churned, but his face was a mask of barely contained fury. "Two fucking hours since this shit went down," He growled, his voice tight with rage. "Tell me we've got something on the explosives or the bastard who did this."
His deputy, sweating despite the morning chill, stepped forward. "We've got prelims from the scene, surveillance, and survivor interviews. The bomb was hidden in a delivery package stacked in the corner. We checked with FedEx—they say the delivery guy wasn't one of theirs, and the van was a fake."
"A fucking delivery?" The commissioner roared, his face reddening. "What the hell were the checkpoint scanners doing? How did this slip through?"
The deputy wiped his brow, his voice shaky. "The package passed the explosive detectors, sir. Clean. No flags."
The commissioner's eyes narrowed, his fists clenching. "How the fuck does that happen?"
"These guys planned this down to the wire," The deputy said. "They used some high-tech shit—probably coated the explosives to dodge the scanners. We're dealing with pros."
"Goddamn it!" The commissioner bellowed, slamming his fist against a scorched wall. "I want every cop in New York on this. Cancel all leave, pull every badge off their ass, and hunt this fucker down. I don't care if they don't sleep for a week." The bombing wasn't just a terrorist attack—it was a middle finger to the NYPD, to the government, to him. If he didn't catch this bastard fast, his career was as good as ash.
A young officer rushed in, holding an evidence bag. "Sir, we found the van. Burned to a crisp in an alley. No prints, no DNA, nothing but this." He handed over a note.
The commissioner snatched it, his eyes scanning the scrawled words. His blood boiled.
"This was for Jason Walter. Release him now, or in ten days, we'll blow something else to hell. We don't fuck around."
---
Stan pulled up to the safehouse, his knuckles white on the steering wheel after dropping Harleen off in South Manhattan. Inside, Franklin was sprawled on the couch, a beer in hand, grinning like a kid at the TV. The news was in full hysteria mode, reporters tripping over themselves to cover the bombing.
"Check this shit out!" Franklin crowed, pointing at the screen. "NYPD sources say the bombing suspect is a hardcore Jason Walter fanboy. Left a note threatening to blow up more shit unless the feds let him go. NYPD's losing their minds."
The anchor's voice droned on: "New York's governor has issued a statement refusing the suspect's demands. 'The government will never negotiate with terrorists,' he declared. 'No matter where you hide, our brave officers will bring you to justice.' All NYPD officers have canceled leave to join the manhunt, vowing to prevent another attack."
Franklin laughed, slapping his thigh. "Man, I've got those pigs running in circles. They're pissed as hell!"
Stan grunted, sinking onto the couch, his mind elsewhere. Franklin noticed the tension in his posture and killed the TV. "Yo, what's wrong? They're onto me or what?"
Stan shook his head, his voice low. "It's not that. I ran into some chick named Harleen Quinzel. Says she's with Jason."
Franklin's jaw dropped. "The fuck? Does the boss have people in the prison? Talking to him with the cameras off? In fucking Long Island? That place is a fortress!"
Stan nodded, his face grim. "Yeah. She knew about the bombing. Knew it was us. Dropped our names like it was nothing. Either she's legit, or we're fucked."
Franklin leaned back, processing. "You buy her story?"
"I don't have a choice," Stan said, rubbing his temples. "She had details nobody else could know. She's in deep with Jason."
"So what's the play?"
Stan's eyes hardened. "We follow Jason's orders. We're breaking him out."
Franklin's brow furrowed. "You're shitting me. Long Island's got a thousand armed guards. How the hell are we pulling that off?"
Stan pointed at the TV, now dark. "Thanks to your little stunt, the city's in lockdown. Every department's bleeding manpower to hunt you down. Long Island's sending 300 guards to help. That leaves, what, 700?"
Franklin scoffed. "Still a fucking army. We're dead meat."
Stan smirked, a glint of madness in his eyes. "Not if we've got backup. I hit up the dark web, hired a crew—400 professional mercenaries."
Franklin's eyes bulged. "Four hundred? How much does that set you back?"
Stan clutched his chest, wincing like he'd been stabbed. "Twenty grand a head. Eight fucking million. Wiped out every dirty dollar I've scraped together over the years."
Franklin whistled, torn between shock at the price tag and awe at Stan's corrupt fortune. "Man, that's some next-level embezzlement. But the note I left said ten days till the next bomb. Cops'll be scouring every crowded spot in the city. We hit the prison nine nights from now, late, when they're stretched thin."
Stan nodded, his mind racing. "Smart. We'll have the mercs set up an ambush outside. I'll get word to Jason through Harleen. Inside job, outside muscle—best shot we've got."
They split the workload. Stan, too high-profile to be seen, would stay at DEA headquarters, feeding Franklin real-time intel on police movements. Franklin would handle the mercs—meeting them, securing hideouts, distributing weapons, and nailing down the breakout plan. With the strategy set, they moved out, adrenaline pumping.
Stan dialed Harleen's number, his voice clipped as he relayed the prison break details. "Tell Jason. Nine nights. We're coming for him."
---
Next Morning, Long Island Prison
Harleen strode into the prison, a bouquet of flowers from Daniel tucked under her arm. The warden's puppy-dog devotion was almost cute, if not for the fact that he was a sadistic prick. She entered the interrogation room, her laser detector already in hand, sweeping for hidden cameras. Satisfied the room was clean, she sat across from Jason, her smile radiant but edged with danger.
Jason leaned forward, his cuffs clinking. "Morning, Dr. Quinzel. Got any good news for me today?"
Her grin widened, playful yet wicked. "Oh, honey, you're gonna love this. Eight nights from now, your boys are coming to bust you out. Four hundred hired guns, ready to tear this place apart."
Jason's smile grew, his eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction. "You mean our boys, Harleen."
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