He has their looks. He has their meeting spot. Finding the Olson girl should be as easy as swatting a fly now.
For Officer Nelson, this is more than saving his neck. This is a golden ticket. A chance to not only survive this disaster but to climb into the good graces of the Olson family itself.
Nelson practically skips out of the interview room, his mind racing with deployment plans.
He stops at his office door, takes a deep breath, and knocks. The fearful, groveling subordinate is gone. In his place stands a man of grim, capable determination.
He enters.
"Miss Whitney," he announces, his voice brimming with confidence. "Through diligent investigation, cross-referencing multiple leads, and the tireless efforts of this department, we have preliminarily identified the perpetrators behind Miss Vanessa's disappearance and have located their rendezvous point."
He allows himself a tight, professional smile. "We are mobilizing our tactical units as we speak to apprehend the kidnappers and ensure your sister's safe return. The Olson family's trust in this department will not be misplaced."
"You've found them?" The beautiful young woman, Whitney looks up, genuine surprise flickering in her cold eyes.
The reaction is pure satisfaction for Nelson. She's been an ice statue since she arrived. This crack in her composure is a victory.
"Rest assured, Miss Whitney," he says, puffing out his chest. He makes no mention of the scrawny student in the holding room.
That credit… well, that's for the department's brilliant work, of course. It's not about stealing glory. It's about protecting the boy! Least that's the lie he's going with.
If these thugs are bold enough to snatch an Olson, what's to stop them from silencing a lone student witness? No, far safer for the boy if his role remains a secret.
"Very well," Whitney says, her surprise hardening back into cool resolve. "To ensure my sister's safety, I will be joining your operation."
Nelson's heart sings. Perfect.
"With you on site, Miss Whitney, success is guaranteed!" This was exactly his play. He wants the credit, sure, but he's not stupid.
Anyone crazy enough to kidnap an Olson is dangerous. Having an Olson powerhouse, especially one from that organization right there with them is the best bodyguard detail in the world.
The squad gears up.
Through the window of his secure room, Bertram watches the flurry of armored officers, the serious faces, the check of weapons.
A wave of fierce satisfaction washes over him. It's working. Everything is going exactly to plan.
Those bastard kidnappers.
They take little girls, they mark innocent bystanders for death. He won't feel guilty. This is self-defense, delivered by cop-shaped proxy.
A tiny part of him regrets not being there to see them get dragged out in cuffs… but that part is immediately smothered by overwhelming common sense.
Hell no. He's staying right here, safe and sound. Let the professionals handle the bloody work.
Once they're caught, his destiny reshapes. Another simulation reward.
---
The Blue Power Plant is a skeleton of crumbling concrete and rust.
Twisted rebar claws at the sky. The ground is littered with junk, some piles looking suspiciously fresh.
A crooked, faded sign creaks in the wind: Blue Power Plant.
Inside the cavernous main hall, a group of rough-looking men are gathered around a pot bubbling over a gas burner.
The air smells of cheap spices and something… other. Translucent, vaguely meat-like slices swirl in the broth.
"Boss," one of them grunts, ladling the stew. "Operation went smooth as silk. Only wrinkle was that kid who saw us. But did you see his face? Pissed himself and ran. No way he's talking."
Another chimes in, grinning. "Yeah, and we already moved the package to the real safehouse. Even if that coward did talk, he'd lead them to an empty shell. We're ghosts."
The scar-faced leader, stirring the pot, allows himself a thin smile. Victory tastes as good as this stew smells.
"The stars are aligned for us this time. Failure isn't even in the cards," the scar-faced man snorts, one boot propped up on an overturned crate.
His eyes are sharp, predatory. "As for that kid who stumbled into our business… he's a loose thread. We'll cut him once the heat dies down."
The crew of thugs basks in the afterglow of their success. Soon, someone cracks open a crate of cheap, frothing beers.
Bottles clink.
Laughter echoes in the hollow space. This is their fortress. No one knows about it. They can afford to let their guard down.
"Boss! We've got company! Cops!" A lookout stumbles in from a side corridor, his face ashen.
"Calm the hell down," the scar-faced boss growls, annoyed. "It's probably just a two-man patrol lost their way. We can handle a couple of bored beat cops."
"No, boss! There's a whole army of them! Nearly a hundred! They've got the place surrounded!" The lookout's voice cracks. "Did someone sell us out?!"
"Are you drunk?! Shut your mouth!" the boss barks.
But the sound of shattering glass cuts him off.
CRASH! CRASH! CRASH!
Armed officers in tactical gear are pouring in through every opening, shattered windows, the blown front doors, the breached rear entry. Black body armor, leveled rifles.
In this world of martial arts and supernatural abilities, guns haven't become obsolete. For anyone below the high ranks, a bullet is still a very real, very final argument.
The scar-faced man feels like he's been doused in ice water. His blood runs cold.
How?
How is this possible? We grabbed the girl yesterday! How did they find this place so fast?!
His mind races. His jaw clenches so hard his teeth ache. He leans toward his most trusted lieutenant, his voice a venomous whisper.
"You. You're the boss now. If I get out of this, I'll break you all out. I'll see to it your families are taken care of. Your kids will want for nothing."
He's confident. With his skills, if these cops can't pick out the real leader from the crowd, he can slip through the net.
Just then, a portly officer who looks like a well-fed mole waddles to the front of the police line. He squints into the gloom.
"Alright, listen up!" Officer Nelson's voice booms through the plant. "We're looking for one man! The one with a scar near his eye! He's the head of this operation! We might be able to… discuss terms for some of you others. But him? We are not letting him walk out of here!"
As if on a single string, the muzzles of every rifle in the room swing and lock onto the scar-faced man.
His face goes from pale to corpse-gray.
His eyes dart across the faces of his crew, men he's fought beside, shared loot with. A traitor. There has to be a traitor.
One of his own sold him out for a bigger cut.
A brutal, mocking sneer twists his lips. "You think your little pop-guns and your pathetic training can hold me?"
He stomps forward.
A visible wave of pressure erupts from him, a crushing, heavy aura that makes the nearest officers stagger back, their aim wavering.
The air grows thick, hard to breathe.
"D-level martial arts…" Nelson mutters, his own confidence cracking.
This guy is out of their weight class. He knew the kidnappers would be tough, but this…
This is why he brought backup.
A sudden, unnatural chill sweeps through the vast plant. The muggy June air vanishes, replaced by an arctic gale.
Frost spiderwebs across the concrete floor. Then, snow.. actual, delicate snowflakes begins to drift from the ceiling, swirling in the dead space.
And within the vortex of impossible snow, a stunning, slender figure steps into view.