Chapter 3 - The Federal Raid That Wasn’tAgent Vance stood in the doorway, but he wasn’t alone. Three masked men in heavy tactical gear flanked him—except their uniforms lacked standard federal insignia, and their weapons were outfitted with custom suppressors.
Miller instinctively reached for his gun, but cold steel pressed against the back of his neck before his fingers cleared the holster. One of the "federal agents" had drawn a sidearm and pressed it firmly against the detective's spine.
"Drop it, Miller," Vance said, his previous stern demeanor replaced by a chilling, predatory grin. He reached into his coat and pulled out a digital tablet. "You really think the Feds didn't know about Tony's offshore accounts? You really think I care about organized crime turf wars?"
Tony didn't flinch. He slowly turned his head on the pillow, staring at Vance with dead, empty eyes. "The federal pension plan must be terrible if you're whoring yourself out to the syndicate."
"Call it an early retirement, Tony," Vance chuckled, walking closer to the bed. "The board wanted you gone. You got too ambitious, too independent, and you started asking questions about the missing shipments from the shipping docks last month. Marco took the fall as the scapegoat, but you? You were supposed to die in that alley."
Bruno stood up fully on the mattress. Every muscle in the dog's scarred body tensed. His lips curled back to reveal yellowed, powerful teeth, a sound building in his throat that sounded less like a dog growling and more like an engine revving for destruction.
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"Shoot the damn dog," Vance ordered, gesturing dismissively.
The fake agent raised his silenced rifle, aiming directly at Bruno's head.
