"A 7-year-old girl called 911 at 2:17 a.m. because her mother hadn't returned home. When the police entered that dark apartment, the entire neighborhood stopped talking about child abandonment and started talking about terror. Rain hammered the apartment roof hard enough to rattle the dispatch center windows, and the emergency line carried a thin wash of static.

The abandoned railyard on 16th Street was a graveyard of rusted train cars and decaying industrial machinery. The bitter wind howled through the hollowed-out steel chassis, carrying the scent of old oil and frost.

Elena parked her unmarked cruiser at the edge of the yard, leaving the headlights on to cut through the gloom. She stepped out, her boots crunching loudly in the fresh snow. She wore no winter coat, her tactical vest and badge clearly visible. She held her hands out, showing she wasn't holding a weapon, though her Glock was securely holstered at her hip.

“I’m here, Thorne!” Elena shouted, her voice echoing across the desolate yard. “Make the trade!”

From the shadows of a massive freight car, the dark sedan emerged. It rolled forward silently, coming to a halt twenty yards from Elena. The headlights flicked on, temporarily blinding her.

Four men stepped out of the vehicle. Three were heavily armed mercenaries, their assault rifles resting casually but dangerously in their hands. The fourth man was Marcus Thorne.

He wore a tailored wool overcoat, looking utterly pristine and out of place in the industrial ruin. He snapped his fingers.

Two more men dragged Sarah Jennings out from behind a rusted shipping container. She could barely stand, shivering violently in a torn sweater, her face a canvas of dark bruises. But when she saw Elena, she didn't look terrified. She looked desperate.

“My kids,” Sarah choked out, her voice raspy and weak. “Are they safe?”

“They are safe, Sarah,” Elena called back, projecting confidence she didn't entirely feel. “Maya gave me the code. She was incredibly brave.”

Thorne stepped forward, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. “Heartwarming. Truly. But I’m running out of patience, Officer Rostova. Toss the drive onto the snow and step back. Then, you both get to walk away.”