CHAPTER 79: CHAPTER 79

At LAPD headquarters, the conference room buzzed with tension, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee and nervous sweat. Around the oval table sat the heavy hitters—LAPD brass, FBI honchos, and military top dogs, their starched uniforms and stern faces a testament to the gravity of the situation. The kidnapping of Avril Lavigne and Christine Vineyard had sent shockwaves through Los Angeles, leaving the city on edge. Ordinary citizens barricaded themselves indoors, Hollywood studios scrapped their shooting schedules, waiting for the suspects to be nabbed before resuming work. Even the party-hard celebrities, notorious for their late-night orgies and reckless escapades, stayed home, cowering behind armies of bodyguards if they dared venture out. The city’s thriving tourism industry took a hit, with iconic landmarks like the Hollywood Sign and Santa Monica Pier seeing a fraction of their usual crowds, tourists spooked by the specter of danger.

The pressure was crushing. The President himself had called the California governor, his voice cold as steel, demanding the hostages be rescued unharmed in record time. Under federal coordination, the LAPD, FBI, and military had pooled their best operatives, forming a joint task force to end the crisis. In the conference room, egos clashed as the big shots vied for control, each one eager to claim the glory of cracking the case. A successful rescue would be a golden ticket—a career-defining moment etched into their resumes. Their voices overlapped in a cacophony of ambition, each trying to outshine the other.

Then Major James Rhodes strode in, his military fatigues crisp, his presence cutting through the noise like a blade. He locked eyes with his commanding officer, a general with stars gleaming on his shoulders. "Sir, we’ve pinned down the suspects’ location," Rhodes said, his voice steady but carrying the weight of a bombshell.

The room fell silent, the bickering dying instantly. The general’s eyes lit up, his voice sharp with excitement. "Rhodes, Is it true?"

Rhodes nodded, cool as ice, and sat at the computer, punching in coordinates. The conference room’s massive screen flickered, displaying a satellite view of a derelict factory complex in South LA, its rusted rooftops and crumbling walls a stark contrast to the city’s glitz. "The dumbass kidnapper thought he could bleed Avril dry, but when that failed, he had her call Tony Stark to cough up the ransom," Rhodes explained, a smirk tugging at his lips.

The room erupted in mocking laughter, the tension breaking like a dam. Tony Stark? The billionaire genius running Stark Industries, the third-largest arms dealer in the States, with a lab full of cutting-edge tech? The kidnapper might as well have walked into a lion’s den with a steak around his neck. "Fucking idiot," One FBI agent muttered, shaking his head. They didn’t need Rhodes to spell it out—Stark’s tech would’ve traced the call in seconds, handing them the kidnapper’s hideout on a silver platter.

The weight of dread that had hung over the room lifted, replaced by a surge of confidence. A few small-time crooks were no match for the government’s war machine. The LAPD chief stepped forward, his finger jabbing at the screen as he outlined the factory’s terrain—abandoned warehouses, open lots, and narrow access roads. "The hideout’s exposed, which means the kidnappers are fucked," He said. "But our priority is getting Avril and Christine out alive."

He pointed to ten strategic spots on the map, his team marking them with red pins. "These are prime sniper positions," He said, his voice firm. "Here’s the plan: the military deploys armed choppers for long-range recon to pinpoint the kidnappers and hostages, confirming their numbers and gear. The FBI seals off surrounding roads to cut off any escape. Then our LAPD snipers disembark three kilometers out, hoof it to these points, and take up position."

"Bullshit," The FBI’s New York bureau chief snapped, slamming his fist on the table. "Why are we stuck with roadblocks? That’s your job, LAPD. You know the area best."

The general chimed in, backing the FBI. "Exactly. Your boys should handle the perimeter. The FBI can take the choppers for recon, and our military snipers—veterans of real combat—will handle the kill shots."

The LAPD chief bristled, his face reddening. "Your snipers are trained for open fields, not urban ops. Our SWAT team’s got the edge in city warfare."

"Oh, please," The FBI chief scoffed. "My agents have run hostage rescues ten times over. They’d wipe the floor with your SWAT clowns."

Rhodes leaned back, scrolling through his phone, tuning out the pissing contest. As a soldier driven by duty, he had no patience for their political posturing. The argument dragged on for ten minutes, egos clashing with no resolution. With time slipping away, the brass grudgingly agreed to split the duties—recon, roadblocks, and snipers would be handled by all three agencies, with Rhodes as field commander. Five minutes later, an armed helicopter roared off the precinct roof, its blades slicing the morning air, while a convoy of armored vans tore toward South LA, their sirens a grim promise of the coming storm.

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Meanwhile, a yellow taxi cruised through the suburbs, the city’s skyline fading into the distance. David sat in the back, his sharp eyes scanning the streets, cataloging every detail with a sniper’s precision. Three years in war zones had honed his instincts, and even in the relative safety of LA, he couldn’t shake the habit of mapping terrain—every alley, every rooftop, every potential kill zone. His duffel bag, heavy with concealed weapons, rested at his feet, the weight a familiar comfort.

The driver, a middle-aged man with a friendly grin, glanced at him in the rearview mirror. "Are you here for a vacation, man?"

David nodded silently, his focus on the passing streets.

The driver, bored by the quiet ride, kept talking. "Not the best time to visit LA, you know. You see the news? Two big stars got snatched last night—Christine Vineyard, that Oscar-winning bombshell, and Avril Lavigne, the punk-rock chick from Canada. The whole city’s freaking out. Rich folks, poor folks—everyone’s scared shitless, staying inside."

David’s eyes flicked to the driver, his voice low. "You’re out here, though."

The driver laughed, patting the armrest. "Gotta pay the bills, man. Plus, I’m packing heat." He tapped the glovebox with a proud grin. "If I run into those kidnappers, I’ll give ’em a taste of lead. I’m no rookie—hit the range all the time. With a pistol, I can nail a 50-meter moving target, 85 rings. Pretty badass, right?"

David’s lips twitched, a faint smile betraying his amusement. 85 rings at 50 meters? That was his level when he was nine, toying with his first BB gun. He let the driver brag, his mind elsewhere, until a convoy of LAPD armored vans roared past, their lights flashing, sirens blaring. A helicopter thundered overhead, its shadow sweeping across the road.

The driver’s eyes lit up. "Holy shit, look at that! Cops are moving in hard. Bet they’ve found those fuckers!" He craned his neck, nearly swerving the cab.

David’s gaze sharpened, his hand instinctively reaching for his phone. He pulled up the address Jason had sent, his gut tightening as he realized the road led straight to the abandoned factory. The cops weren’t just on the move—they were hunting Jason.

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