The morning after the rain, the air was filled with the scent of damp earth and a lingering smell of blood.
Long Island, outside the Hammer estate.
Three layers of yellow caution tape had been strung up, and dozens of Police cars with flashing red and blue lights completely blocked the private road leading to the estate.
There were even two black-painted Federal Bureau of Investigation mobile command vehicles parked in a nearby open space.
Camera flashes went off one after another; reporters from major media outlets, like sharks smelling blood, pointed their long lenses and cameras at every Police Officer entering or leaving the estate, snapping away frantically.
"This is the New York Police Department, unauthorized personnel please move back!"
Director George Stacy took off his Police cap, which was dampened by the dew, and rubbed his brow tiredly.
His dark circles were heavy, and the collar of his uniform was soaked with sweat.
This case was too big.
A senior advisor to the Department of Defense, the CEO of Hammer Industries, had been shot in the head in his own private fortress, which was supposedly so secure that not even a mosquito could fly in.
This was not just a murder case; it was a slap in the face to the New York Police Department, and even the entire U.S. security system.
"Director, the situation is very strange."
A veteran detective from the major crimes unit walked over, pale-faced, holding a preliminary investigation report, his voice lowered.
"How is it strange?" George frowned.
"It's too clean." The detective swallowed, a hint of fear in his eyes. "No fingerprints, no footprints, no hair, not even a shell casing was found. The killer used hollow-point bullets; the bullet fragmented inside the victim's skull, making ballistic comparison impossible."
"What about the surveillance? Isn't that place supposed to have the most advanced security system in all of New York City?"
"That's the most hellish part." The detective pointed to the cameras being dismantled by technicians not far away. "The technical department just checked; all the surveillance footage during that time last night had been replaced with looped recordings."
The detective paused, seemingly racking his brain to find words to describe the absurdity.
"There were forty or fifty heavily armed mercenaries on the scene, as well as twelve trained Dobermans. But when we interrogated them, everyone's testimony was shockingly consistent: they didn't see anything, they didn't hear anything. It was as if they had collectively gone blind, allowing the killer to walk into the study openly, kill a billionaire, and then vanish into thin air."
"That's impossible." Director George shook his head. "Unless the killer is an invisible man."
Just then, a low engine roar was heard.
A black Chevrolet Suburban with no markings glided silently past the caution tape and parked arrogantly at the very front of the Police cars.
The door opened, and a middle-aged man with a slightly high hairline, wearing a cheap suit and a gentle smile on his face, stepped out.
He looked like an ordinary insurance salesman, but when the surrounding Federal Bureau of Investigation Agents saw the ID he produced, they immediately stepped aside respectfully.
"Good morning, Director George." Agent Phil Coulson put away the black ID, glanced at the mansion that looked lifeless in the morning light, and said, "From now on, this place is under the jurisdiction of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division."
Coulson's voice was gentle, but his actions were assertive.
The two Agents behind him had already begun to skillfully drive away the New York Police Department forensics personnel who were collecting evidence.
"Wait a minute."
A rough, large hand slammed down on the caution tape Coulson had lifted.
Director George Stacy stepped forward, his bloodshot eyes staring fixedly at Coulson, the pressure characteristic of an old veteran detective erupting instantly.
"Agent Coulson, if you think this is some kind of open-sesame spell, you're mistaken."
George pointed at the mansion behind him, his tone as stiff as a stone.
"This is a murder case that happened in our Queens, and the victim is a New York City citizen. My detectives have been working in the rain for three hours; we found clues, we opened a file. You can't just walk in like a tourist at a supermarket, flash an ID, and take over a first-degree murder case."
"This is my city, Agent. I don't like people playing these vanishing corpse games here."
The surrounding Federal Bureau of Investigation Agents and Police stopped what they were doing, and the atmosphere instantly became tense.
Coulson stopped, looking at this stubborn old Director, a hint of helpless respect flashing in his eyes behind his sunglasses.
He knew George Stacy's reputation.
This lion never bowed to the powerful.
"I understand how you feel, Director."
Coulson lowered his voice, speaking in a volume only the two of them could hear.
"But you should know better than I do who died in this house. Justin Hammer, one of the Department of Defense's biggest contractors; he holds the keys to the U.S. Military's next-generation missiles."
Coulson pointed upward.
"The Pentagon called the White House ten minutes ago. This is no longer a civil case; this is a national security crisis. If you insist on investigating, what you will face next is not the killer, but Military tribunal confidentiality agreements and endless political vetting."
George Stacy's jaw muscles suddenly tightened.
He knew, of course, that Coulson was right.
But he just wasn't willing to let it go.
The feeling of knowing the killer was mocking the law from some shadow, while he himself was forced to shut up because of so-called national security, made him feel deeply powerless.
They stood in a stalemate for a full ten seconds.
George Stacy snorted heavily and suddenly let go.
"Fine, since it's a game for big shots."
He turned around, waved to his Officers, his voice laced with suppressed anger.
"Pack up, leave this place to these guys in suits."
But before leaving, George Stacy suddenly stopped, his back to Coulson, and threw out a cold remark.
"But I'm warning you, Coulson. No matter who that killer is, if he dares to turn the streets of my city into a battlefield again, I don't care who he is, and I don't care whose asset he is, I will personally lock him up in Ryker's Island prison."
"And when that time comes, don't try to use that black book of yours to pressure me."
Having said that, George Stacy got into his Police car without looking back, and the sirens blared instantly, as if venting his dissatisfaction.
"Truly a stubborn good cop."
Coulson watched the Police cars drive away, smiled faintly, put on his latex gloves, and walked toward the study where the crime occurred.
The study remained as it was last night.
Hammer's body had already been removed, and the large pool of dried blood on the carpet was shocking.
Coulson squatted down, carefully observing the remains of the mobile phone shattered by the bullet, then looked at the intact door lock nearby, and the tight security perimeter outside the window.
He reached up and pressed his earpiece.
"Officer, target confirmed dead, one-shot kill. Site assessment level: Level 7."
"What's the situation?" The gravelly voice unique to Nick Fury came through the earpiece, devoid of emotion.
"Very professional, and very arrogant."
Coulson stood up, his gaze sweeping over every corner of the study.
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