For fifteen years, Police Chief Marcus Vance had worn a city badge and thought he knew what sheer panic felt like.

The abandoned textile mill loomed in the darkness, a monument to urban decay. The rusted doors were chained shut, except for a small side entrance illuminated by a single flickering bulb.

Marcus walked in alone. Huck was positioned on a nearby rooftop with a high-powered sniper rifle.

Inside, the warehouse smelled of stagnant water and old blood. Miller stood in the center of the massive room, surrounded by ten heavily armed cartel mercenaries. Beatrice stood beside him, clutching her tablet like a shield.

And in a chair in the middle of the room, tied with the exact same heavy zip-ties, was Leo.

"Dad!" Leo cried out, his voice hoarse.

"I'm here, buddy. Look at me, don't look at them," Marcus said, throwing the heavy duffel bag onto the concrete floor. "There's your money, Beatrice. There's your ledger, Tom. Now let the boy go."

Miller signaled one of his men, who unzipped the bag and nodded.

"You've been a thorn in my side for five years, Marcus," Miller said, raising his service weapon and pointing it directly at Marcus's chest. "You were too clean. Too righteous. It makes me sick."

"The money is yours. Just let Leo walk out that door," Marcus pleaded, keeping his hands visible.

Beatrice laughed. "No loose ends, Chief Vance. That's the first rule of the HOA."