Chapter 649
Search Warrant!
He wasn't dreaming.
The alarm clock went off at 3:45 a.m.
He dressed in the dark—black tactical pants, a black turtleneck, a bulletproof vest, and tactical boots. He checked the Glock 19 twice—magazine full, chamber empty, safety off. Two spare magazines were in the magazine pouch on the left side of the vest. A flashlight was clipped to the sling buckle on his right shoulder. A pair of handcuffs and four cable ties were tucked into a small pouch on his lower back. The FBI badge hung on the chest outside the bulletproof vest—law enforcement must clearly identify them during a search warrant operation.
The living room lights were already on. Jason, dressed in almost identical gear, stood beside the coffee table, holding a folded document—a search warrant.
"Judge Monica Ramirez signed the order at 1 a.m. The search covers the entire building at 68 Mott Street, including all floors, ancillary spaces, and vehicles parked within ten meters of the building. It authorizes a search of electronic devices, communications equipment, documents, financial records, and any evidence related to interstate organized crime activity."
"pretty."
Pedro and Mike got up from their respective makeshift bunks. Pedro's movements as he put on his bulletproof vest were fluid and effortless—he'd been in the narcotics unit for almost ten years, and a midnight raid was as natural to him as brushing his teeth in the morning; it was muscle memory. Mike quietly inspected the mechanical parts of his M4 carbine—magazine release, charging handle, bolt return—each movement producing a precise metallic click, like a minimalist percussion piece.
The other two people were waiting downstairs.
When Lynn went downstairs, he saw two people standing on the sidewalk in front of the apartment building. One was a white woman in her early thirties with short blonde hair, a muscular build, and wearing standard FBI tactical gear, with an arm patch on her left arm that read "HRT"—Hostage Rescue Team. The other was a black man, about forty years old, bald, with a neatly trimmed goatee, and a build as large as a door.
“Kayla Morrison.” The woman extended her hand to Lynn. “Jason sent me. A sniper for the hostage rescue team, but no sniping needed today—I'm in charge of the outer perimeter cordon and backup support.”
“Dant Washington.” The bald man’s handshake was proportional to his size. “On secondment to SWAT. Jason said you need someone who can break down any door in twenty seconds.”
"He's right. Welcome to the team."
The six people split into three cars and set off. Jason and Lynn were in Jason's Accord, Pedro and Mike were in the Highlander, and Kayla and Dante were in a black Ford Explorer. The three cars headed towards Chinatown along different routes.
Manhattan at four in the morning is at its quietest point of the day—but even then, it's never truly quiet. Yellow taxis still weave through the empty streets, their headlights casting blurry golden shadows on the wet pavement. Several large trucks are parked in front of the loading docks in the meatpacking area, where workers unload white refrigerated containers under the glow of steam lamps. A 24-hour Korean BBQ restaurant still displays its red "OPEN" sign; inside the window, two men in suits can be seen asleep at a table, a pile of half-eaten pork belly and several empty bottles of soju in front of them.
They met at the north entrance of Mott Street.
At four in the morning, Chinatown is truly quiet—not the feigned quiet of other parts of Manhattan, but a complete, utter silence belonging to the old town at night. All the shops have their metal shutters down, the chains hanging on them occasionally jingling softly in the breeze. Streetlights illuminate the empty sidewalks and the black garbage bags piled up along the roadside. A stray cat peeks out from between the garbage bags, something in its mouth, its green eyes flashing twice in the light before disappearing into the depths of the alley. There's a lingering smell of cooking oil and musty newspaper in the air—the true smell of Chinatown after it sheds all its pretense at night.
The six people met at the entrance of a small alley opposite Yonghe Tea House.
Lynn gave the search warrant one last check, then folded it and put it in the inner pocket of his bulletproof vest. His gaze swept over everyone's face—Jason, Pedro, Mike, Kayla, Dante—six pairs of eyes that shone brightly in the darkness due to their dilated pupils.
“One last check.” He lowered his voice to a whisper, loud enough for only six people to hear. “Jason and I will come in through the front door. Dent will break down the doors—the doors on the ground floor might be locked, you open them for us. Pedro and Mike will come in through the back door in the alley. Kayla will stand by under the fire escape on the east side—if anyone comes out of the window, you intercept them from below. After Dent breaks down the doors, he'll retreat to the front door and guard it, making sure no one runs out from the ground floor. Got it?”
The five people nodded.
"My signal was three taps on the walkie-talkie—'click-click-click'—that meant the operation was starting. From that moment on, everyone entered simultaneously."
They split up and acted separately.
Lynn and Jason approached the main entrance of Yonghe Tea House by hugging the exterior wall of the building on the left side of Mott Street. Dante followed behind them, his figure casting a broad shadow in the dim streetlights. Pedro and Mike went around to the back of the building—the back alley was less than two meters wide, piled with cardboard boxes, plastic buckets, and several wrecked bicycles, the ground slippery and smelling of decay. Kayla moved silently to the foot of the fire escape on the east side of the building, leaning against the wall of the adjacent building, her Glock under her right leg.
Lynn arrived at a position two meters in front of the main entrance of Yonghe Tea House.
The door was a thick wooden door, painted a dark red, the paint already cracked in several layers. There was an old-fashioned brass lock on it—not an electronic lock, but the kind that required a key. Above the door hung a faded sign in traditional Chinese characters, the couplets on either side blurred and illegible by wind and rain.
Dante pulled an L-shaped metal tool—a hydraulic pry bar—from his pocket and inserted it into the gap between the door frame and the door panel. Instead of using brute force, he precisely aligned the wedge-shaped end of the pry bar with the latch with almost surgical precision.
Lynn picked up the walkie-talkie.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Three soft sounds faded into the night sky over Chinatown at 4:15 a.m.
Dante exerted force with his arm. The crowbar twisted at an angle in the door frame—the latch was pushed out of the keyhole by hydraulic pressure, the wooden edge of the door frame creaked under pressure—and then the door sprang open.
It didn't swung open with a bang—Dant controlled the force, and the door only moved inward by about thirty centimeters, just enough for a person to squeeze in sideways.
Lynn was the first to enter.
The air inside the tea shop had a stuffy, confined feel, as if hours of night had accumulated—the stale aroma of tea mingled with the musty smell of the wooden shelves and the lingering chlorine odor of cleaning agents on the floor. Streetlights seeped in through the cracks in the doors and windows, casting pale streaks on the floor. His flashlight remained off—a flashlight is a double-edged sword in the dark; it illuminates your vision but also your own presence.
He waited three seconds to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness.
The shelves gradually emerged from the darkness—two rows of wooden shelves against the wall, densely packed with tea canisters and tea boxes of various sizes. The counter was at the back of the room, on which sat an old-fashioned cash register and a small box containing business cards. Behind the counter was a door leading to the back space—half-open.
The stairs are to the left of the counter.
Lynn raised the Glock and moved toward the stairs. Jason followed a step and a half behind him, the muzzle of his gun covering Lynn's flank and rear.
The stairs were made of wood. Each step creaked slightly underfoot—a common problem with old houses. Lynn slowed his pace, testing the weight of each step with his toes first—steps closer to the wall were usually sturdier and made less noise. The door to the second floor was at the top of the stairs.
A gray fire door, without a handle—it can only be pushed open from the stairwell side, not pulled open. A thin slit of light shines through the edge of the door—the lights on the second floor are still on.
Lynn stopped in front of the door. He pressed his ear against the door and listened for a few seconds.
There was sound inside. Very faint. The sound of typing—someone was typing. Occasionally, there was the creak of a chair sliding on the floor.
One person is awake. The other—if Jane's information is accurate—should be asleep in the rest area.
Lynn made a gesture to Jason—two fingers first pointing to the door, then to the left and right. The meaning was: I'll push the door open and go in to the right, you follow and go in to the left.
Jason nodded.
At the same moment, two very soft knocks came through Lynn's walkie-talkie—Pedro's signal. The back door team had reached the other end of the internal staircase on the second floor.
Lynn took a deep breath.
Then he rammed the door open with his left shoulder.
The moment the door swung open, the second-floor space unfolded before him like a folded map suddenly revealed—
An open-plan space of about sixty square meters. The floor was covered with old, dark brown wood flooring, with several corners warped. To the left, against the wall, stood a row of filing cabinets—at least eight gray metal cabinets, each labeled with a number. To the right was a work area—two large desks pushed together, upon which sat three laptops, a large-screen monitor, and a communications terminal that looked unmistakably military-grade—its gray metal casing bearing a brand logo Lynn didn't recognize—along with scattered documents, coffee cups, and several takeout containers.
A man is sitting at his desk.
He was around fifty-five years old, his hair gray but meticulously combed and styled with hair gel. His face was thin, with sharply defined cheekbones, and his deep-set gray eyes gleamed with a calm, almost mineral-like light under the desk lamp. He wore a well-tailored dark blue shirt and gray trousers—even working alone in a secluded room in Chinatown at four in the morning, his attire suggested he was ready to step into a Wall Street conference room at any moment.
His fingers stopped on the keyboard.
The two looked at each other.
Time seemed to slow down and become viscous in that instant.
“FBI.” Lynn’s voice filled the room. “Take your hands off the keyboard and keep them where I can see them. Don’t touch any electronic devices.”
The man didn't move. His expression—or rather, the absence of expression on his face—reminded Lynn of Jane's description: "Like a finely tuned clock." There was no panic, no fear, not even anger. His eyes held only a cold, rapidly calculating quality—like a supercomputer processing all possible options and outcomes in fractions of a second.
“Both hands,” Lynn repeated.
The man slowly raised his hands. His fingers were long and dry, his nails were neatly trimmed, and he wore a plain platinum ring on the ring finger of his left hand.
Jason had already moved to the left side of the room, his gun pointed at an inner door next to the filing cabinet area—the lounge area should be behind that. He gestured to Lynn—should they go in?
Lynn nodded.
Jason pushed open the inner door. Behind the door was a small room—a folding cot, a clothes rack, and a plastic storage box. Lying on the cot was another person—a short, bald man in his forties, wearing a white tank top and shorts. He had clearly just been awakened by the sound of the door opening and was lifting his head from the pillow, looking bewildered.
"Federal agent! Lie face down on the bed and don't move! Put your hands behind your head!"
The short man trembled at Jason's roar, then obediently lay back down, putting his hands behind his head.
At the same moment, the internal staircase door on the other side of the room was pushed open from the inside—Pedro and Mike appeared in the doorway. Pedro's Remington swept across the entire work area, and after confirming that no one else was there, he lowered the muzzle slightly.
“Clear,” Pedro said.
"Second floor under control. Two suspects—one in the work area, one in the rest area," Lynn said into the walkie-talkie. "Kayla, Dante, maintain the perimeter cordon."
"Received. No movement outside," Kayla's voice came through the walkie-talkie.
Lynn walked to the desk and stood in front of the gray-haired man.
“My name is Lynn Carter. Detective Inspector, FBI New York Field Office. Based on the search warrant issued by the U.S. District Court for the Southern District of New York—” He pulled the document from the inside pocket of his bulletproof vest, “we have the right to search this building and all items and electronic equipment within it. You have the right to remain silent, and anything you say may be used against you in court. You have the right to hire an attorney, and if you cannot afford one—”
“I know what Miranda told me.” The man spoke for the first time.
His voice confirmed Jane's description—precise, restrained, without any superfluous emotional tremor. His English was flawless, with a subtle, indistinct accent—not from any particular region, but rather a faint trace of someone who had grown up in a multilingual environment.
“Then you know your current situation,” Lynn said.
“I know you entered a private premises with a search warrant. I also know the legality of a search warrant depends on the accuracy of the facts stated in the affidavit.” His gray eyes moved from Lynn’s face to the FBI badge on his chest, then back again. “Detective Carter—that name has been coming up a bit too often lately.” (End of Chapter)