They rolled out of the precinct in a matte-black surveillance van, tension thick as the silence between them. The streets of Queens blurred past, empty and hushed under the streetlamps. They parked half a block from Mr. Simon’s place, watching from the shadows.
Stephanie sat stiffly in the front seat, fingers tapping against her holster. “You think we can actually pull this off?”
Scott glanced at her, his voice low. “You nervous?”
She let out a breath, tried to laugh it off. “Yeah... kinda. You?”
Scott shrugged, eyes on the house. “Not yet. Ask me again when bullets start flying.”
Ray leaned forward from the back, squinting through the windshield. “We should’ve brought more units. If they bolt, we lose ‘em.”
Scott didn’t turn. “Relax. Backup’s set. One signal from me, they’ll close in from both ends of the block.”
Frank loaded a fresh clip into his sidearm and clicked the slide into place. “Then all that’s left is the waiting.”
Minutes crawled by. Then, the porch light flicked on.
“There,” Stephanie breathed. “That’s him.”
Mr. Simon stepped out, hunched under a brown coat. He limped toward a red container truck parked just down the curb. Another man followed—helmet on, face hidden—slipping into the back of the container like a ghost.
Scott grabbed his walkie. “Red container truck is hot. Do not engage until my mark.”
The truck rumbled to life, slowly pulling away.
They followed, headlights off, trailing the vehicle like a shadow. Just before the truck reached the corner, two unmarked cruisers roared out from side streets, cutting it off. Tires screeched. Red and blue lights ignited the night.
“Go!” Scott barked.
The container door burst open and the helmeted man leapt out—but Ray was already there. He met him mid-sprint, tackling him hard onto the pavement. The helmet rolled, revealing the young man’s bloodied face—Simon’s son, caught mid-escape.
Within seconds, both Simon and his son were cuffed and dragged into custody.
Scott and Stephanie rushed to the truck. Scott yanked open the container, and a foul, metallic stench rushed out—blood, oil, old sweat.
Stephanie gagged. “God... it smells like death in here.”
Inside, a desk stood in the corner with five gleaming kitchen knives arranged in a neat row. Cold. Sterile. Like surgical tools waiting for the next patient.
Scott narrowed his eyes. “There were supposed to be two. Why the hell are there five?”
“Which means... there are more victims. Ones we haven’t found. Or worse, ones still alive,” Stephanie murmured, her voice shaking.
Scott carefully slid the knives into an evidence case. Stephanie knelt by a pile of restaurant bags in the corner.
“This whole thing’s a mobile hideout,” she muttered, holding up a weathered Bible. “He’s been living out of this container.”
Scott tore through the small space, flipping open drawers, kicking aside storage crates. “There’s gotta be more. Phone. Laptop. Something.”
“Nothing,” Stephanie said, scanning the shadows. “No photos. No records. No names. They must’ve stalked these people. Planned it. But no digital trail?”
They both stepped out of the container, frustrated and empty-handed beyond the knives and bags.
Back at the station, Frank met them halfway into the hallway, breathless.
“We’ve got a problem, sir.”
Scott raised an eyebrow. “What now?”
Frank yanked the evidence box from his hands and motioned toward the observation room. “Just—come see.”
Inside, Ray stood watching the security feed. One of the suspects sat cuffed in the interrogation room, head hung low, but not defeated.
“That guy we arrested with Simon?” Ray said, turning.
Scott frowned. “Yeah?”
“That’s Mr. Allen.”
Scott blinked, frozen. “Allen? As in—”
Frank nodded grimly. “The husband of Ms. Allen. She and Peter were found butchered in that hotel room last month.”
Stephanie gasped. “You’re kidding.”
“No joke,” Ray said. “We just caught the grieving husband. Or maybe... the one we should’ve been watching all along.”
Scott didn’t hesitate. He stormed into the interrogation room and slammed a file on the metal table.
Allen looked up, lips curling into a smile. “Ah... the hero arrives.”
Scott dropped into the chair, leaning forward. “So. You’re in this with the old man?”
Allen stretched lazily, like a man waking from a nap. “What gave it away?”
Scott’s eyes narrowed. “You enjoying yourself?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Allen said, grinning. “This has been one hell of a game. You and your little team—running in circles.”
Scott gritted his teeth. “Where are the others? The missing victims.”
Allen chuckled. “Detective, detective... if I told you that, where’s the fun? I thought you were smarter than that.”
Scott leaned in, voice cold. “You’re a twisted son of a bitch. They begged for their lives, didn’t they?”
Allen’s eyes flashed. “Oh yeah. That’s when it gets real. When they realize no one’s coming.”
Scott stood. “Have fun rotting in here.”
He walked out without another word.
Outside, the team had watched the whole exchange. Stephanie’s hands were clenched into fists.
“That guy’s pure evil,” she said.
Ray shook his head. “And he’s not gonna crack. Not like that.”
Scott looked at each of them. “So... what do you think?”
Frank stepped forward. “Finding those missing people is top priority.”
Scott nodded. “Right. But think about what Allen didn’t say.”
Stephanie looked up. “What do you mean?”
Scott turned toward the whiteboard, eyes focused on Simon’s picture.
“Allen’s just a piece of it. He’s not the one pulling the strings.”
Ray blinked. “Wait... you saying—?”
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