It was one of the largest illegal DNA busts the TFPD had made. A criminal gang were running their operation out of a tower block where they were manufacturing and distributing celebrity status - cells stolen, grown, and pumped back into anyone who could pay for it.
The SWAT team entered through the parking garage at the base, heading up, sweeping floor by floor, room by room, past vats of bubbling flesh-coloured goop.
“Watch you dont get that shit on you, rookie,” Daniels growled behind his respiratory. “Unless you want to spend your career as Anne Hathaway.”
The patients and low level technicians administering the treatments were fleeing. The real criminals were fighting back, gunshots echoing down the concrete corridors. The radio channels erupted as resistance was encountered.
“-got a Downey Junior heading for the roof with-”
“Kardashians have sealed the stairwell. I need gas grenades.”
“Oprah is armed. I repeat, Oprah is armed.”
I kicked in a door and swept the room. Empty, oversized IV bags dangled above a chair in the center of the room.
A half-clothed figure darted past me from the shadows, sprinting for the elevator, trailing an IV drip behind her. She must not have realized we cut the power. I found her desperately thumping at the buttons. She cowered back at the business end of my rifle.
“Miss Rossum, I presume. Hands where I can see them.”
She doesn’t resist as I push her against the wall, patting her pockets until I locate a wallet. One hand pressing her face against cold steel, I flip it open to her driver's license.
Poor guy. Men’s prison wouldn’t be kind to him. He sniffed miserably. “I just wanted to be someone…”
Two floors up, the roar of a machine gun turned my blood to ice. The radio chatter became screams. Shit. Our intel hadn’t mentioned that level of firepower.
“Don’t be here when I get back,” I hissed, shoving the ID back into his hands and sprinting back into the fight.
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