"Yes, sir—they're all criminals. Their records and affiliations mark them as robbers, killers, drug dealers, or gang members who've done every evil in the book."
"Also, we believe the killer is a single offender. He's skilled in counter-surveillance, infiltration, and murder. His strength, speed, firearms handling, and hand-to-hand ability are all top-tier."
"His tradecraft has evolved fast. In the earliest murders, he left a mix of useful and useless traces. In later cases, he left nothing at all."
"Two months ago, on a rainy night, he infiltrated a small gang's base—about thirty members. In that apartment, he quietly eliminated the outer sentries first. All died from broken necks or crushed throats—suffocation in seconds."
"Then he moved inward, layer by layer—took out their surveillance, penetrated to the core, and killed the leadership, including the boss. No shots fired. No resistance. All dead."
"Based on prior patterns, if there hadn't been a few prostitutes inside, he might've opened the gas lines, triggered an explosion, and burned the place to destroy evidence—just like he did in some cases before and after."
The precinct chief laid out the task force's findings.
Simon leaned back, incredulous. "What is this—Batman? Robin?"
"He thinks he can wipe out every 'bad guy' he targets? Who does he think he is?"
New York had seen this before. Where there's money, there's crime. Where there's crime, there are vigilantes—victims or crusaders who snap and deal out their own justice. But vigilantism collapses fast, and it never ends well. The world isn't black and white—mostly a very fine gray.
When it happens, both sides usually play their parts—someone gets arrested, or somebody ends up dead.
Now it was happening again, but this time the methods were cleaner and far more professional.
"Frankly, we're looking at a top-tier killer who believes he's punishing criminals," the middle-aged chief said, expression flat.
Privately, he respected the murderer—he only targeted criminals and spared civilians. But he was NYPD, and that meant doing everything possible to catch him.
"Okay. Do you have an investigative direction?" Simon asked, tired of theorizing.
"We suspect a former special-operations soldier," the chief said. "Likely with financial pressure. He consistently skims cash off the victims. We're building datasets around that."
Simon nodded. "I don't care what it takes—bring him in within a month. You can pull any resources you need. If you hit roadblocks, come to me. I'll clear them."
His tone hardened. He stared around the room. "I want results. I want him in custody. I want these incidents to stop. Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
Just then, the landline on Simon's desk rang. He waved the chiefs out, picked up the receiver.
"Simon."
"FBI? They want in on the case? Got it."
He hung up, frowning.
The police and the FBI are separate systems, often parallel, sometimes at odds. There's no formal hierarchy between them in practice, and turf fights weren't rare. Normally, NYPD wouldn't need the Bureau on a case like this. But the body count was too high and the trail too cold.
The FBI wasn't stupid. If they joined now and solved it, they'd share the win. If they didn't, they'd share the blame. A gamble—with iffy odds.
For Simon, it was a relief. If the Bureau wanted to step in, he'd welcome it—shared responsibility, either way.
He picked up the phone again. "Send George in."
"Yes, sir."
A knock. A thirty-something white precinct chief entered. "Chief."
"George, the FBI will be here soon to embed with the task force. You'll be their liaison."
"Sir, about authority…"
"Equal footing," Simon said. "Cooperation, not command. You supervise the work."
Clear enough.
George understood: don't let the Bureau run roughshod over the precinct.
"Yes, sir."
"Go."
After George left, Simon thought a moment, then made another call. "It's Simon…"
…
An hour later, a black Chevrolet SUV rolled to a stop outside the Queens precinct. Four people got out—three men and one woman.
George was waiting at the entrance. They shook hands one by one.
The lead, a mild-mannered middle-aged white man, spoke first. "Captain George? I'm Phil Coulson."
"Agent Phil Coulson—I'll be your point of contact," George replied.
"Thank you. I hope we have a smooth cooperation," Coulson said.