The night is heavy with tension as you stand in the dimly lit basement of your mansion, the air thick with the scent of damp concrete and the faint metallic tang of blood. The single hanging bulb casts a harsh light on the room's only occupants besides yourself and one of your bodyguards: the bound and battered guard you had captured earlier. He's slumped in the chair, hands tied behind his back, head hanging low, blood trickling from his split lip.
You walk around him slowly, the echo of your footsteps adding to the oppressive atmosphere. "So," you begin, your voice cold and calculated, "what's your name?"
The guard groans, barely able to lift his head. Before he can muster a response, you cut him off.
"Never mind," you say with a cruel smile. "I'll just call you Bill. Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
Your bodyguard chuckles, standing off to the side, arms crossed. "Yeah, Bill. Suits him."
You lean in close, your face inches from Bill's. "Listen, Bill, I need information. And I'm not in the mood for games. You're going to tell me everything I want to know about the Sentinel, or this is going to get very unpleasant for you."
Bill's eyes flicker with defiance. "Go to hell," he spits, blood spraying from his mouth.
You straighten up, a dark grin spreading across your face. "Alright then, have it your way." You signal to your bodyguard, who steps forward with a tool bag, placing it on the table next to you.
You pull out a pair of pliers, turning them over in your hands. "You see these?" you ask, your voice almost conversational. "They can do a lot of damage. But we're just getting started."
Bill's eyes widen as he struggles against his restraints. You move behind him, grabbing a fistful of his hair and yanking his head back. "You're going to tell me about the Sentinel. Everything. Or I'll make sure you wish you had."
You don't give him a chance to respond. Instead, you apply the pliers to his fingers, the crunch of bone and muffled scream filling the room. The sound is gruesome, a testament to the brutality of the situation.
"Talk, Bill!" you shout, twisting the pliers.
Bill's scream intensifies, his body convulsing in the chair. "I don't know anything!" he cries, desperation in his voice.
"Wrong answer," you say, moving the pliers to his other hand. "Let's try this again."
The process repeats, the room filled with the sickening sounds of torture. Your bodyguard watches impassively, a grim reminder of the lengths you're willing to go to.
After what feels like an eternity, Bill's defiance begins to wane. His breathing is ragged, his body broken. You step back, wiping the blood from your hands with a cloth.
"Last chance, Bill," you say, your voice low and deadly. "Who is the Sentinel?"
Bill's head lolls to the side, his eyes barely open. "She's…she's a reporter," he gasps. "A woman. She hangs out at the Washington Beach police station. Please…no more."
You nod slowly, a cold satisfaction settling in. "See, that wasn't so hard, was it?"
You signal to your bodyguard to untie him. "Get him out of here," you say, turning your back on the broken man. "He's no use to us anymore."
As your bodyguard drags Bill away, you pull out your phone and dial Lance's number. "We've got a new lead," you say as soon as he picks up. "The Sentinel is a woman, hangs out at the Washington Beach police station. We're going to pay her a visit."
"Understood," Lance replies. "What do you want to do with her?"
"We'll find out what she knows," you say, a dark determination in your voice. "And then we'll decide her fate. Also, meet me at the mansion. We've got work to do."
A short while later, Lance arrives at the mansion. You find him in the lounge, nursing his shoulder from the previous scuffle.
"So, what's the plan?" Lance asks, looking up at you.
You both sit down, tossing around ideas. Lance suggests posing as delivery men, but you point out the heavy police presence at the station. "We'll be frisked and probably end up in cuffs before we can even blink."
"Alright, what about bribing one of the officers to get us inside?" Lance proposes next.
You shake your head. "Too risky. If they're already in bed with the Sentinel, they might tip her off. Plus, the officers there are too loyal. We'd need to find someone really desperate, and that's too much of a wildcard."
Frustration begins to build as plan after plan falls apart under scrutiny. The stakes are high, and one wrong move could blow your cover or worse, get you killed.
"Maybe we could create a diversion," you suggest, though even as you say it, you can see the flaws. "But what kind of distraction would be enough to pull her out without alerting the entire police force?"
Lance sighs. "Damn, this is tougher than I thought. We need to get close to her without raising any alarms."
You sit in silence for a moment, then a thought strikes you. "What if we just keep it simple? Stake out the place, watch for anyone fitting her description."
Lance nods slowly. "Yeah, that could work. Low profile, just observation. Once we spot her, we can decide the next move."
"Exactly," you agree. "We'll need to blend in, though. Can't have anyone recognizing us."
You both head to your wardrobes. You pick out a plain, inconspicuous outfit: a grey t-shirt, jeans, and white sneakers. It's a far cry from your usual flashy attire, designed to make you look like just another guy on the street.
Lance follows suit, literally. He chooses a light brown suit jacket over a white shirt, paired with beige pants and brown loafers. It's a clean look, making him appear more like a businessman than a gangster.
"Alright," you say, glancing at the mirror. "We look the part. Now, let's head out and see what we can find."
Lance grins, adjusting his jacket. "Let's do this."
You and Lance arrive near the Washington Beach police station. The building is a stark, imposing structure, designed to project authority and control. It's a large, concrete edifice with narrow windows and a wide set of steps leading up to the entrance. The police station's emblem is prominently displayed above the door, glinting in the sunlight.
The area around the station is a mixture of palm trees and neatly trimmed hedges, providing a deceptive sense of tranquility. Police cars are parked in neat rows outside, and officers occasionally come and go, their presence a constant reminder of the law and order they enforce.
You park your car a few blocks away and find a suitable vantage point across the street from the station. It's a small, inconspicuous spot behind a row of hedges that offers a clear view of the station's entrance. You settle in, your eyes scanning the area for any sign of the Sentinel.
Hours pass, and the midday heat starts to wear you down. Lance, sitting next to you, begins to fidget. He leans back against the hedge, letting out a bored sigh.
"This is taking forever," he mutters, stretching his legs. "How much longer are we going to sit here, Tommy?"
You grit your teeth, trying to keep your focus. "As long as it takes. Keep your eyes open, Lance. We need to find this woman."
Lance yawns, clearly uninterested. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. But man, this is boring. We should've brought some beers or something."
You shoot him a sharp look. "We're not here to relax, Lance. Stay focused. We miss her, and this whole thing goes to shit."
Lance rolls his eyes but nods, albeit reluctantly. He shifts his position, trying to find a comfortable spot, but his impatience is palpable. You return your gaze to the police station, determined to catch any sign of the Sentinel.
The minutes crawl by, feeling like hours. The sun climbs higher in the sky, casting long shadows and intensifying the heat. The bustling activity of the police station continues uninterrupted, officers going about their duties, civilians coming in and out.
Lance leans back, shading his eyes with his hand. "You think she's even going to show up today?"
"She will," you say firmly. "And when she does, we'll be ready."