Jake was bouncing his knee like he couldn't keep the energy bottled up. Boyle clutched the binder so tightly that the edges bent under his finger
Jake was bouncing his knee like he couldn't keep the energy bottled up. Boyle clutched the binder so tightly the edges bent under his fingers. And Ray, steady as ever, steered with one hand, his eyes locked on the road like nothing else existed.
Jake finally leaned forward, unable to keep quiet. His voice cut through the hum of the engine. "Okay. We're racing toward an Illuminati eye-clinic death cult, cool, no problem, but what's the actual plan? Because if we're improvising once we get there, I'd like to mentally prepare. You know, stretch, loosen up the old cardio, maybe work on my intimidation stance." He tried to puff his chest but it came off like a kid pretending to be Batman.
Ray didn't glance at him. "The plan is simple. We lockpick the door. We sneak inside. First priority is finding the children. That means we look for the usual places—attic, basement, or hidden rooms. Cults always build their ritual sites away from the eyes. If the Mason siblings are inside, we neutralize them quietly."
Boyle gulped. "Neutralize?"
Ray's tone stayed flat. "Knock them out quietly. We don't want the kids caught in crossfire."
Jake blinked. "Wait, hold on. You're suggesting we break into private property, knock out suspects, and then wander around looking for secret passages like it's Scooby-Doo. Isn't that, you know, illegal?"
Ray's hands tightened on the wheel. He replied with his usual confidence. "As long as we find the kids... legal, illegal, none of it matters."
Silence sat heavy for a beat. Then Jake leaned back, his grin spreading slow. "This. This right here. This is exactly why I became a cop. Undercover mission, creepy cult, fifty-fifty chance of making it out alive. If we pull it off, no one will even know Jake Peralta and Charles Boyle were there. It's like Mission Impossible. Saving lives from the shadows. Oh man, this is the dream."
Boyle nodded. "It's the coolest thing we've ever done, Jake. Cooler than the marshmallow stakeout. Cooler than the burrito bust. Cooler than—"
Jake interrupted, "Careful, Charles. Don't jinx us by ranking burritos above cult rescues. It's bad karma."
But then Boyle's excitement faltered. He hugged the binder tighter and asked in a smaller voice, "But what if… what if the kids aren't there? What if it's just a normal clinic with eye charts and old magazines about retinal health?"
Ray finally glanced back at them in the mirror. His eyes were dark, unwavering. "If we don't find the kids, I'll interrogate the Masons or whoever is inside. They'll talk. And if they don't, we'll search their houses. Every corner, every hidden closet. If the clinic's empty, then it's a dead end. Nothing we can do. But we're not walking away until we know for sure."
Jake broke the silence with a weak laugh. "Cool, cool, cool, cool, cool. Interrogation, house raids, secret rooms. Totally normal Saturday night stuff. You know what, Charles? We should have brought disguises. Fake mustaches and matching trench coats. If we're going full black ops, we need the look."
Boyle shook his head quickly. "No, Jake. Stealth means blending in. No trench coats. No mustaches. Just shadows." He glanced at Ray. "Right? Just shadows?"
...
[1 PM]
The cruiser slowed, headlights dimmed as Ray steered into a side street two blocks from the clinic. He cut the engine. The sudden silence made Boyle jump like someone had shut the world off.
Ray reached forward, snapped the glove box open, and pulled out a small black pouch. He laid it across his lap and unzipped it. Inside were slim tools of the trade—lockpicks, a small flashlight, disposable gloves, needles, thin wires, a couple of tiny round gadgets, and something that looked suspiciously like a collapsible baton.
Jake's eyes went wide. "Whoa. Okay. I've raided a lot of glove boxes in my day looking for old gum or emergency Funyuns, but this? This is… this is like spy gear. Are you James Bond, Ray? Or Batman? Or Batman's cooler, more emotionally stable older brother?"
"Quiet," Ray said simply, inspecting the tools.
Boyle leaned over the seat, whispering even though no one was around. "Ray, where did you even get all this? Is this department issue? Because if it is, the Nine-Nine's glove box inventory is seriously lacking."
Ray closed the pouch. "It's mine."
Jake raised a finger. "Okay, pause. Just for the record. When a man says the words 'It's mine' about a pouch full of lockpicks, I think we're all supposed to be at least mildly concerned. Charles, back me up."
Boyle hugged the binder closer to his chest. "I mean, I'm… I'm a little concerned. But I also think it's the coolest thing I've ever seen."
Ray finally looked at them, his eyes unreadable in the dim glow of the streetlight. "Do you want the kids alive or not?"
That shut them up.
Ray slipped on the gloves, then reached for the door handle. "We move on foot from here." He looked at Jake directly. "No jokes."
Jake held a hand over his heart. "I solemnly swear to be the sneakiest sneak that ever sneaked."
Ray raised an eyebrow.
Jake sighed. "Okay. No jokes. Got it."
"You two wearing your vests?" Ray asked.
"Yep! Came all prepared," Jake said as he pulled out his gun and removed the safety. "We are ready on your mark, Mr. Ghost."
...
The street was silent except for the occasional car gliding past. A lone streetlight flickered on the corner, its light cutting across the darkened block in pale stripes. The sign above the clinic read New Dawn Vision in sleek silver letters, the kind meant to inspire trust. In the dead of night, it looked more like a tombstone.
The three of them climbed out of the cruiser, the doors shutting softly behind them. The night air smelled faintly of rain and asphalt. Ray adjusted his gloves, his eyes flicking across the empty street, scanning the rooftops, alleys, and windows like a man who had done this hundreds of times before.
"Phones silent," he said quietly.
Jake pulled his from his pocket, fumbled with the settings, and gave Ray a thumbs up. "Muted. Ninety percent chance Boyle forgot to do his already though."
"I didn't forget," Boyle whispered indignantly, shoving his phone deep into his jacket.
Ray ignored the banter and crouched near the edge of the sidewalk, his gaze fixed on the clinic. "Main entrance is glass. Too exposed. Side door will have less visibility. We approach from the alley."
Jake nodded seriously, though his whisper still carried that spark of nervous excitement. "Copy that. Stealth mode. Think shadows. Think assassins. Think… Batman."
Ray gave him a look but said nothing.
They moved single file down the narrow side street. The neighborhood was quiet, storefronts shuttered, windows dark. The only sound was the soft tread of their shoes on the pavement. Jake's heart thudded louder than he expected, and Boyle's breathing came shallow. Ray's steps, though, were steady and soundless.
The clinic was just ahead. Its glass front reflected the sickly glow of the streetlights. A small security camera blinked above the main entrance. Ray stopped them at the corner and pointed. "Blind spot. Side door."
They cut through the alley. Trash bins lined one wall, their shadows jagged against the brick. A fire escape rattled faintly in the breeze. At the far end, a steel service door sat beneath a second security camera.
Ray knelt, unzipping the black pouch again. He pulled out a thin tool, pressed it against the camera housing, and with a quiet snap the feed went dead. Then he was at the lock. His hands moved quickly, as if he had done this hundreds of times before. Within seconds, the latch clicked.
Jake's eyes widened. He leaned close to Boyle, whispering, "You seeing this? That wasn't just practice. That was pro. Like Ocean's Eleven pro."
Boyle whispered back, "More like Ocean's Thirteen."
Ray opened the door and gave a nod. They slipped inside.
...
[Clinic Interior]
The hallway swallowed them in silence. The lights were off, but the faint glow from the exit sign cast the walls in dim green. Posters of smiling families and slogans about "clearer vision for a brighter tomorrow" looked grotesque in the half-light.
Ray signaled for them to stay close. He led them down the corridor, sweeping his flashlight low, careful to keep the beam narrow. The clinic smelled faintly of disinfectant and something else—stale, metallic, like old pennies.
They passed the waiting area. Rows of empty chairs, tables stacked with outdated magazines, and a fish tank with cloudy water and no fish. Boyle shivered. "Creepiest eye clinic ever. Even creepier than the one in Queens that had a two-headed turtle."
Jake shot him a look. "Not the time, Charles."
Ray stopped at a door labeled Examination Room A. He tested the handle. Locked. Another few seconds with the picks and it swung open. Inside, the room looked ordinary: reclining chair, phoropter, bright lamp, jars of tongue depressors and gauze.
But the exam table had fresh gouges in the wood. Deep lines, carved deliberately. Jake stepped closer, his flashlight beam catching the edges of the marks. Symbols. Circles intersected with triangles, lines crisscrossing in unnatural patterns.
Ray's jaw tightened. "Ritual carvings."
Boyle whispered, "So this isn't just a cover. They're actually doing it here."
Ray closed the door quietly and moved them further down the hall. The deeper they went, the colder the air seemed to grow. The hum of a vent rattled overhead.
They reached a stairwell door. Ray pushed it open slowly. Concrete steps descended into darkness. A faint draft of damp air drifted up.
Jake swallowed. "Basement. Called it. Classic cult move."
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[26 advance chs] [No double billing.]
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