Marcus Vega stared at the burner phone in his hand for a full minute before dialing. It was 4:37 AM, and he hadn't slept since Vancouver had left six hours ago. He'd spent that time thinking about his wife, his two daughters, the life he'd built and the life he was about to destroy.
Twenty-four hours, Vancouver had said. But Vega had already made his decision.
He dialed the number that every HTBB operative was given during training—the emergency line that connected directly to DEA headquarters, the one you only used if you were ready to burn everything down and hope the federal government would protect you from the ashes.
Three rings. Then a professional female voice: "This is the Drug Enforcement Administration. How may I direct your call?"
"I need to speak to someone about..." Vega's voice caught. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I have information about the murder of Agent Benjamin Perez."
There was a pause, then the tone changed completely. "Please hold. I'm transferring you immediately."
Fifteen seconds of silence. Then a new voice, male, alert despite the early hour. "This is Supervisory Agent Noah Jogensen. Who am I speaking with?"
Vega closed his eyes. This was it. The moment where he either committed completely or hung up and lived with the consequences of loyalty.
"My name is Marcus Vega. I was part of the team that killed your agent."
Noah was in his office when the call came through. He'd been there since midnight, working through evidence reports from the raids, when the night supervisor had burst in and told him someone was calling about Benjamin's murder.
Now he sat perfectly still, phone pressed to his ear, forcing himself to breathe slowly and maintain his professional demeanor even as his pulse hammered.
"Go on," he said, his voice calm.
"I can give you everything," Vega said. "The organization, the operations, who killed Perez, all of it. But I need protection. For me and my family. And I need it now, before they realize I'm talking to you."
"Where are you?"
Vega gave an address in the Bronx. Noah was already signaling to Coe, who'd appeared in his doorway at the sound of "Benjamin Perez." Coe immediately started mobilizing a team.
"Stay where you are," Noah said. "I'm sending people to bring you in. Don't open the door for anyone except federal agents who identify themselves properly. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Marcus—if you're lying, if this is some kind of setup, you need to know that it won't end well for you."
"It's not a setup. I'm done. I saw what they did to Perez, and I..." Vega's voice broke slightly. "I have daughters. I can't keep doing this."
Noah heard genuine emotion there, the sound of a man who'd reached his breaking point. It could still be an act, but his instincts said it wasn't.
"My people will be there in twenty minutes. Stay on the line with me until they arrive."
For the next eighteen minutes, Noah kept Vega talking—establishing basic facts, getting preliminary information about HTBB's structure, confirming details from Benjamin's intelligence. Every word was being recorded, and every word suggested this was legitimate.
At 5:03 AM, Coe's tactical team arrived at the Bronx safe house. "Federal agents!" The call was clear through Vega's phone. "Marcus Vega, we're here to bring you in safely."
"They're here," Vega said to Noah. "I'm opening the door."
Noah heard movement, voices confirming identities, the professional efficiency of experienced operators securing a cooperating witness. Then Coe's voice came through: "We have him. He's secure. No signs of HTBB surveillance on the location."
"Bring him directly to the office. Protective custody protocols. I want him isolated from general population, no contact with anyone except assigned handlers."
"Copy that. ETA thirty minutes."
Noah hung up and sat back in his chair, processing what had just happened. One of the men who'd helped kill Benjamin was about to walk into DEA headquarters and provide testimony that could dismantle HTBB completely.