Noah downloaded the report and forwarded it to Reeves for analysis. Every piece of evidence was another small addition to the growing case against HTBB. Individually, they might not be sufficient for prosecution. But collectively, they were building a picture of what had happened to Benjamin, who was involved, how they'd done it.
At 6:00 PM, Noah received confirmation that all twelve search warrants had been signed by Judge Paish. They were legally authorized to proceed.
At 8:00 PM, the tactical briefing concluded, and teams began final equipment checks and staging preparations.
At 10:00 PM, Noah drove to the command post that would coordinate the raids—a mobile unit positioned centrally to all twelve locations, equipped with communications systems that would allow him to monitor every team simultaneously.
At 11:00 PM, twelve tactical teams reported ready and in position.
At 11:59 PM, Noah looked at the communications specialist and nodded. "All teams, you are cleared to execute. Go, go, go."
On twelve different screens, he watched as teams breached doors, cleared rooms, established security. The operations unfolded with practiced precision—no resistance at any location, no suspects encountered, just empty buildings and warehouses that had clearly been recently cleared.
Which was exactly what Noah had expected.
"Team Alpha, warehouse on Meserole Street," Coe's voice came through the radio. "Building is empty. No inventory, no equipment, but there are fresh cleaning marks on the concrete floor—recent, within the past twenty-four hours. Someone scrubbed this place thoroughly."
"Document everything," Noah ordered. "Get forensics in there. If they cleaned it, maybe they missed something."
Similar reports came in from the other locations. Empty offices with signs of recent occupancy. Warehouses that had been hastily cleared. A safe house in Queens where furniture remained but all personal items and electronics had been removed.
HTBB had moved fast, clearing their locations within hours of Benjamin's death. But speed meant mistakes, oversights, traces left behind.
"Team Delta, location seven," another voice reported. "We've got something. File cabinet in the back office, looks like someone tried to burn documents but didn't finish the job. Partial pages recovered."
"Secure them for analysis," Noah said immediately. "Careful handling—they're fragile."
Team by team, small discoveries accumulated. A laptop hard drive that hadn't been properly destroyed. Financial records partially shredded but potentially recoverable. Security camera footage that hadn't been erased. Nothing dramatic, nothing immediately damning, but pieces of evidence that could be analyzed, cross-referenced, built into a larger case.
At 1:30 AM, all twelve teams completed their searches and began the careful process of evidence collection and documentation. Noah compiled preliminary reports and forwarded them to Assistant Director Corso with a summary: Twelve locations secured. No arrests. Evidence collection ongoing. HTBB had cleared locations but left recoverable traces. Analysis to follow.
Her response came back quickly: Good work. Keep the pressure on.
Noah left the command post and drove back to the main office. Despite the late hour, the building was still active—analysts processing the evidence from the raids, technicians working on recovered electronics, forensics examining trace materials.
He found Reeves in her office, surrounded by laptop screens displaying various data streams. She looked up as he entered, her expression tired but focused.
"Initial assessment?" Noah asked.
"They're good," she said bluntly. "They moved fast, cleaned thoroughly, left minimal evidence. But they're not perfect. We've got enough to work with—partial financial records, communication logs, forensic traces. The laptop hard drive that wasn't properly destroyed? Our tech people think they can recover data from it. Could be months of communications, transaction records, operational details."
"How long to recover?"
"Days, maybe weeks. The drive was damaged, and they'll need to work carefully to avoid destroying what's there."
Noah nodded. "What about the burned documents?"
"Being analyzed now. Our people are using advanced imaging techniques to recover text from partial pages. It's slow work, but preliminary results show these were operational plans—location lists, personnel schedules, transaction protocols. Exactly the kind of thing they'd want destroyed."
"So we hurt them," Noah said. "Maybe not a knockout blow, but we disrupted their restructure, recovered evidence they thought was destroyed, demonstrated that we're actively pursuing them."
"And we've probably made Vancouver Sell very nervous," Reeves added. "He's the one responsible for operational security. These raids prove their security was compromised, that Perez got deeper than they realized. Sell will have to answer to King for that."
That was an interesting angle—creating tension within HTBB's leadership. If King blamed Sell for security failures, if trust eroded between them, it could create opportunities for the investigation to exploit.
Noah's phone rang—Lewis, still working the Benjamin Perez murder investigation despite the late hour. "Boss, the rental company provided full records on that Suburban. It was rented at 9 PM yesterday evening, returned at 2 AM this morning. Renter was listed as Marcus Vega, corporate account tied to one of HTBB's shell companies."
"Do we know who Marcus Vega is?"
"Working on it. Name doesn't appear in any of Perez's intelligence, so he might be lower level or recently recruited. But we've got a credit card transaction from when he filled up gas at 10:30 PM—Atlantic Avenue station in Brooklyn. I'm pulling security footage from that station now."
"Good. Get me everything you can on Vega—background, criminal record if any, known associates. He might be a weak link we can pressure."
"On it."
Noah ended the call and looked at Reeves. "We're making progress. Slower than I'd like, but progress. Every piece of evidence, every identified suspect, every disrupted operation moves us closer."
"How long do you think this will take?" Reeves asked. "To actually bring charges, get arrests, dismantle HTBB?"
Noah considered the question. In his twenty years at the DEA, he'd learned that complex investigations couldn't be rushed. You had to be patient, methodical, build an overwhelming case that could survive courtroom scrutiny. But you also had to maintain pressure, keep the targets off balance, prevent them from regrouping.
"Months," he said finally. "Maybe six, maybe twelve. King and Sell are smart, careful, well-resourced. They'll fight every step of the way. But we'll get them. Eventually, they'll make a mistake, or one of their people will decide cooperation is better than prison, or we'll find the one piece of evidence that ties everything together."
He paused, thinking about Benjamin lying in that storm drain. "And when we do, I'm going to make sure every single person involved in Benjamin's death faces justice. Not just the ones who pulled triggers or gave orders, but everyone who enabled it, everyone who looked the other way, everyone who profited from the organization that killed him."
Reeves studied him carefully. "You know there's a risk of making this too personal. King will exploit that if he can—claim harassment, prosecutorial overreach, personal vendetta. Good defense attorneys can turn righteous anger into reasonable doubt."
"I know," Noah said. "Which is why everything we do will be by the book, legally sound, properly documented. They won't be able to claim harassment because every action we take will be justified by evidence and proper procedure."
"And if that's not enough? If we do everything right and they still walk?"
Noah's expression hardened. "Then we try again. And again. And however many times it takes. Because the alternative—letting them get away with murdering a federal agent—is unacceptable."
He left Reeves' office and walked through the building, observing his people at work. Analysts, technicians, investigators, all working past midnight on a Saturday, driven by the same commitment he felt. Benjamin Perez had been one of their own, and his death demanded a response.
In the War Room, Benjamin's photograph still occupied the central position on the whiteboard, surrounded now by the growing web of evidence, suspects, connections. Noah stood before it for a long moment, making a silent promise to the young man who'd given two years of his life to this investigation.
We'll get them. All of them. I swear it.
Then he turned and walked to his office to begin writing the reports that would keep the investigation moving forward.
Across the city, in locations unknown to Noah and his team, Eliot King and Vancouver Sell were receiving reports about the midnight raids, assessing the damage, adjusting their strategies.
The war continued.
And neither side had any intention of surrendering.