Chapter 17: Don’t Worry, I Have a Stun Grenade

On a highway in the outskirts of Greenwich.

Sitting in Ryder’s SUV, Roan studied the documents in his hands, his brow tightly furrowed.

According to the report from the emergency response team at the scene where the bodies were discovered, the three female victims had all been weighted down and submerged at the bottom of the lake. There were no items at the scene that could provide any clues to their identities; in the end, their identities were confirmed by cross-referencing the local missing persons files.

Furthermore, the autopsy report revealed that all four victims had been strangled with a rope. There were marks of binding on their wrists and ankles, bruises on their upper bodies, and lacerations in their lower bodies, suggesting the killer had tortured each of them for a prolonged period.

But because the bodies had been soaked in the lake for so long, the medical examiner couldn’t find any of the killer’s genetic material—no skin fragments, no hair, nothing to test for DNA.

“What a headache.”

Finishing the files, Roan closed his eyes and rubbed his temples.

The United States is vast, its people remarkable and resourceful—not only spawning all manner of cults, but also producing serial killers, bank robbers, drug dealers, extremists, and countless other high-level talents who relish outsmarting the police.

“You’ve worked hard, Roan.”

Seeing Roan sitting in the car with a troubled expression, Ryder hurriedly pulled a few bags of still-warm burgers and fried chicken from the trunk, handing them to Roan with a fawning smile.

“If you can’t figure it out, eat something first.”

“I’d rather not,” Roan replied, his mouth twitching as he declined the suggestion that would accelerate his baldness. After tidying up the documents, he turned to Ryder and said,

“The killer’s hunting intervals are getting shorter. If we want to catch him, we must find the connection between the four female victims. I can’t leave here—go back to the office immediately and find a technical agent. Visit the families of the four victims, ask when they last contacted them before the disappearance, and check the criminal records of their parents, relatives, friends, husbands, and so on.”

“What?”

Faced with such a complex task, Ryder’s head spun. He instinctively grabbed a burger and tried to push it into Roan’s hands.

“Can I get a different job? Or let someone else do this? What about Mona?”

Roan shook his head firmly.

“No, Mona still has to help me investigate this missing persons case.”

“…Alright.”

Seeing Roan wouldn’t budge, Ryder remembered how the investigation team leader, August, had repeatedly stressed that he must follow Roan’s instructions. Depressed, Ryder trudged back to his car, preparing to return to headquarters to round up help.

Back in his own SUV, Roan watched as Ryder’s car disappeared into the distance. He never expected that this bear-like man would have such a soft side.

As he pondered clues to the serial murders, Roan’s Nokia suddenly rang. He picked up the call—it was Lacey.

“Roan, Darren has started moving.”

“Huh?” Roan instantly perked up. “Which car is he driving? What’s the license plate?”

“He didn’t take the Cadillac from the garage—he’s driving the latest BMW, license plate is ***,” Lacey replied breezily from the other end. “Relax, I’m tailing him. His counter-surveillance skills are no better than a child’s in kindergarten—I could follow him blindfolded and not lose him.”

Roan was silent for two seconds. “My car is in the Greenwich suburbs—where did you get a vehicle to follow Darren?”

“Uh, I borrowed one from Darren’s neighbor’s garage.”

“You didn’t tell the neighbor, did you?”

“Of course not.”

Roan hung up, finally understanding why Lacey said August was just there to take the blame.

“It’s really nice having someone higher up taking the heat.”

Roan smiled, then called Mona and gave her the BMW’s license plate, instructing her to track the target. He floored the accelerator and sped off.

Ten minutes later, at a parking lot along the eastern coastline of New York, Roan’s SUV came to a halt.

Diagonal behind his SUV was the Jaguar Lacey had borrowed from the villa’s neighbor; diagonal behind the Jaguar was Darren’s new BMW.

Hearing the crash of waves nearby and surveying the nearly deserted parking lot, Roan spoke to Lacey on the phone.

“This place is perfect for a ransom drop, and equally perfect for someone to drive off if things go south.”

Lacey watched the anxious Darren through her rear-view mirror and asked,

“What do we do if he tries to run?”

“No worries—I’ve got a flashbang.”

Roan pulled a flashbang from his waistband and tossed it up and down in his hand, grinning.

“I’ve always had a good throwing arm.”

Imagining the aftermath—shattered windows from dozens of cars littering the parking lot—Lacey shuddered.

She never expected Roan to be even more ruthless than herself. If all the car windows broke, how much would August have to pay?

Beep beep—

Just as Lacey was about to persuade Roan not to use the flashbang, a nondescript Buick sedan pulled in and parked beside Darren’s BMW.

Darren got out, opened the Buick’s passenger door, and slid in.

“Move!” Roan shouted.

Lacey threw the Jaguar into reverse and blocked the front of both cars in an instant, while Roan sped his SUV to block the rear.

Both agents jumped out, taking cover behind their vehicles, guns drawn and trained on the Buick. Roan called out,

“FBI! Everyone in the car, come out now or I’ll open fire!”

After a brief pause, Darren slowly stepped out from the passenger side, hands raised. The driver’s door opened, and a thin, nervous-looking white youth emerged, hands up.

After handcuffing the two, Roan and Lacey searched both cars—but found no sign of the expected ransom.

—

Interrogation Room, Team Five.

Unlike local police stations, the FBI—whether Homeland Security, Intelligence, Criminal Cyber Response and Services, or Science and Technology, Information and Data Processing—all have their own dedicated interrogation rooms.

The Criminal Cyber Response and Services Division’s Criminal Investigation Department is no exception, with thirteen investigation teams, each equipped with two interrogation rooms.

These rooms are nothing like the ones at police stations, with permanently active, crystal-clear body cameras, where suspects can remain silent or have a lawyer advocate for them.

The FBI’s interrogation rooms do have body cameras, but these are old, frequently malfunctioning, and prone to shutting off. Often, if a suspect refuses to answer an agent’s questions, the cameras start acting up.

Some suspects claim they can’t respond without their lawyer present, only to be immediately found guilty of tax evasion, shooting at federal agents, and other major offenses, resulting in the immediate loss of their right to counsel.

Some even dream of being beaten up.

By the time the lawyer arrives, there’s no evidence of injury—after all, the technology has developed to a mature stage.

Want to see the interrogation footage? Sorry, the equipment malfunctioned and nothing was recorded.

Is there anyone who can control the FBI?

Of course—but would anyone who can control the FBI ever be summoned to the FBI’s interrogation room?

Would criminals able to hire the kind of super lawyers the FBI fears most ever be caught by the FBI?

Most importantly, the year is 2005. Those messy organizations from later years haven’t even appeared.