"Open the door, quick!" The seemingly sturdy iron door was easily ripped open by the hydraulic clamps in less than two seconds. Jack and his two companions filed into the warehouse through the side door, following a SWAT team, followed by three teams of six.
"Enter the target building, follow."
"Team B, clear the left side, Team A, proceed."
Feeling Hannah tap him on the shoulder, Jack patted the shoulder of a SWAT team member in front of him, signaling them to take their positions and continue forward.
Aubrey and another SWAT team followed their pre-planned route down the corridor to the second-floor stairwell.
The warehouse complex was so vast that even with a hundred or two hundred officers, a tight perimeter wouldn't be possible. Therefore, the regular NYPD officers who arrived to provide support were simply stationed on the perimeter.
Because one of their own officers had been killed, Commissioner Frank Reagan mobilized the NYPD's own special forces, the ESU, to assist. After the FBI raid was successful, they would search the surrounding warehouses.
They were primarily responsible for the two east-west subsidiary warehouse areas. This arrangement was a necessary evil. After all, while the FBI-SWAT and ESU frequently communicated, they were not part of the same unit, so they could only employ this simple division to prevent friendly fire.
Sometimes having more people isn't always a good thing. For example, the commander of a US military task force of around 100 men must be at least a major, with a number of lieutenants and sergeants below him to ensure the team's basic organization.
Even in the most common Army structure, a company-sized unit of 100 or 200 men would be commanded by a captain, a lieutenant, several platoon leaders, and a number of veteran sergeants.
The idea of casually combining two independent SWAT units and commanding them with ease could only happen in video games.
Jack followed the SWAT team, hugging the wall. As they passed a stack of shelves, the team automatically split into two columns, then merged into a single column as they entered the final aisle. Before they knew it, they were at the front of the group.
He'd worked with SWAT numerous times, and they'd developed a certain tacit understanding. Perhaps it's the kind of person who commands respect wherever they go, especially in a frontline unit like this, where they face danger at all times.
He could knock the supposedly best fighters out of the ring, outperform the best marksman at the shooting range, and always come out on top in CQB drills with a smile on his face. When
such a person charged forward, no one would think he was trying to steal the credit; instead, he felt a sense of security.
Gazing at the dim light filtering through the room ahead, separated by plastic sheeting, Jack paused, pulled up his night vision goggles, and gestured to stop.
The others behind him followed suit, all pulling up their goggles, holding their breath slightly, and straining their eyes to adjust to the change in light.
Feeling another tap on his shoulder, Jack leaned halfway out and carefully lifted the plastic curtain hanging from the doorway with the muzzle of his HK416.
The room held a metal desk. Two men sat facing each other, looking over something they looked like they were reviewing accounts. Facing him was the Latino driver who had shot the motorcycle police officer in the previous video.
Facing Jack was a stocky, middle-aged man with thinning hair, but managed a slicked-back comb. Both men wore expensive, handmade Italian suits, resembling the typical wealthy New Yorkers.
The difference was, wealthy capitalists wouldn't keep a Beretta 92 handy while reviewing accounts. It seemed they had found the right person.
"FBI! Hold still!"
Jack shouted, charging into the room. The Latino driver, facing him, reacted quickly, reaching for his pistol at the sound of the plastic door curtain.
"Puff, puff, puff!" However, he was facing the FBI's current top tier. Jack's reactions were faster than his, and he unhesitatingly pulled the trigger repeatedly. The silenced HK416's shots were muffled, instantly puncturing the man's chest with several bloody holes.
Although Jack didn't know whether this guy was Anthony Wagner's driver and bodyguard, or his most trusted subordinate or deputy, he would not hesitate at all.
A dead drug lord is a good one. He doesn't care whether his superiors want to capture him alive. After all, no one would force an order to take him alive in a raid like this.
So, he watched Anthony Vargas, his back to him, instinctively reaching for the pistol on the table, remaining silent. A SWAT agent wearing night vision would have spotted the invisible infrared laser beam, a steady beam shining steadily on the slicked-back hair.
"Federal agents! Put your hands up!" If Jack didn't warn, someone else would. Behind him, the SWAT team filed in, shouting, and took positions along the wall. Hannah, bent over, holding the HK416, stood beside Jack, also silent.
The muffled thud of the deputy's body caused Vargas, who had his back to the others, to tremble slightly. As if sensing murderous intent, his hand, reaching for the pistol, abruptly stopped and slowly withdrew.
"Don't shoot, my hands are up." He raised his hands, slowly turning around. Seeing the muzzles of two FBI agents pointed at his forehead, his face twitched involuntarily.
Vargas hadn't experienced anything like this in years—either being held at gunpoint or being stared at like a dead man.
Jack had no chance now. While he wasn't particularly interested in capturing a suspect alive, and as an FBI agent, he didn't need to carry a body camera on the job, the SWAT team members following him were equipped with both night vision goggles and individual image transmission cameras on their helmets.
In the command vehicle outside and in the operations center of the federal building, countless eyes were watching the scene unfold.
Jack had no personal grudge against the man. Although Jubal had previously mentioned that an FBI agent had died at Vargas's hands, that had happened seven years ago and had nothing to do with him. There was no need to avenge him by shooting him on the spot.
In reality, everyone, including Jubal and Dana Moger, preferred to capture Vargas alive and convict him through legal proceedings, perhaps even forcing him to confess to the FBI agent's murder and then publicly announce it through the media.
After all, seven years had passed. The crime wouldn't diminish with the passage of time, but public awareness would.
Years later, suddenly, news broke that the FBI had killed the suspect who murdered their own agent. It was like a thrilling novel: a sudden thriller without any foreshadowing. Readers wouldn't buy it, and neither would the public.
"Turn around, keep your head up, and your hands up," Hannah commanded, slinging her assault rifle behind her back and pulling out the handcuffs as if she were a common suspect.
Jack also took a half step forward, the silencer of his HK416 nearly poking Vargas' ear. "Don't do anything dangerous, even though I was hoping to see you holding that Beretta 92,"
Vargas snorted. Even though Hannah's handcuffs were so tight that he couldn't help but cry out in pain, he still managed to maintain his bossy demeanor. The information said he was of Italian descent, and Italians were indeed quite good at pretending.
"One killed, the primary target is contained, the other two are missing. Aubrey, be careful, they might be on your side," Jack warned over the comms.
"Roger, we'll continue the search," Aubrey replied from upstairs.
"Jack, confirm that you've arrested Vargas." Although Jubal was watching everything from the operations center, the room was still dimly lit, and the live feed from the individual soldiers' image transmission cameras was rather poor, so he still followed the procedure to confirm again.
"Confirmed," Jack had barely finished his words when he heard a suppressed murmur of joy over the comms.
Jubal's voice also became noticeably more relaxed. "Bring this son of a bitch back immediately!"
Jack was a little surprised. "Send him back to headquarters?"
"Yes, bring this bastard to 26 Federal Plaza. I want to interrogate him personally." Dana Moger's order came from the channel.
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(End of this chapter)