Story code: ST-000538
Part 2: Priority Target
Arthur stared at the heavy metal deadbolt as it engaged with a sickening, final thud. On the monitor, the solid crimson bar vanished, replaced by stark white numbers that immediately began to count backward: *09:59*. The blaring alarm cut off abruptly, leaving a ringing silence that was instantly broken by a synthetic, monotone female voice echoing from the room’s overhead speaker.
*”Federal detainer locked. Target secured. Transport dispatched.”*
Mateo bolted out of his chair. The metal legs screeched violently against the linoleum. He slammed both hands into the reinforced wooden door, jiggling the brass handle with frantic, jerky movements. It didn’t budge. He spun around, his chest heaving, his dark eyes wide with an animalistic panic.
“You lied!” Mateo’s voice cracked, thick with terror. “You said no immigration! You called them!”
“I didn’t call anyone,” Arthur said, keeping his hands flat and visible on the metal desk. He glared at the flashing blue ring on the Lexicon microphone. The AI had done this on its own. The precinct’s new cloud-based software was tied directly into federal databases, silently scanning audio biometrics against ICE registries in real-time. “The machine did it, Mateo. It’s an automated protocol.”
“Open the door!” Mateo yelled, backing away from the desk until his shoulders hit the pale cinderblock wall. “They will send me back. If I go back, the men from the warehouse… their cousins will find me. They will kill me!”
Arthur looked from the trembling day laborer to the countdown timer on his screen. *08:42*.
“Listen to me,” Arthur said, keeping his tone measured, actively burying the spike of adrenaline in his own chest. “We have eight minutes. If you give me the shooter’s name and description right now, on the record, I can lock this in as a closed cartel homicide. That gives you federal witness protection status. It supersedes a basic immigration hold.”
It was a desperate bluff, a half-truth cobbled together from outdated inter-agency policies. Arthur wasn’t even sure if the new Lexicon system honored witness protection overrides. But he knew one thing for absolute certain: if he didn’t get a recorded confession closing this case, the HR algorithm would terminate him in less than forty-eight hours. His pension-twenty-eight years of blood, stress, and missed holidays-would vanish into a bureaucratic void.
Mateo shook his head violently, pressing his palms flat against the wall as if trying to push himself through the concrete. “No! No more talking! Every time I talk, the machine traps me!”
“Mateo, sit down and look at the mic,” Arthur ordered, his voice dropping into the harsh, authoritative gravel he used on hardened suspects. “Give me the name.”
“You just want your case closed,” Mateo spat, his chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths. “You don’t care what happens to me when that clock hits zero.”
Arthur’s jaw tightened. He broke eye contact, his gaze drifting back to the flashing screen. The timer ticked down mercilessly. *06:15*.
He grabbed his computer mouse, relieved to find the cursor had finally unfrozen. He clicked frantically on the small gear icon in the bottom right corner of the Lexicon interface, pulling up the precinct’s local override menu. The screen populated with a dizzying array of administrative options. Arthur scrolled down to *Emergency Door Release*.
He clicked it.
A new gray dialogue box appeared, dominating the center of the screen.
*WARNING: Engaging manual override on an active Federal Detainer will result in immediate voiding of all current local files. Case clearance metrics will be aborted. Officer will be cited for Federal Non-Compliance.*
Below the warning were two buttons: *ABORT OVERRIDE* and *CONFIRM RELEASE*.
Arthur’s finger hovered over the left mouse button. If he clicked *CONFIRM RELEASE*, the electronic deadbolt would disengage. Mateo could run out the back stairwell, disappearing into the city before the ICE transport team arrived. But the prompt was brutally clear. The system would wipe the interview. The cartel case would remain open. The HR algorithm would log a federal violation on Arthur’s file, sealing his fate. He would be fired in disgrace, stripped of his remaining pension, and tossed out onto the street.
He stared at Mateo. The man was practically hyperventilating, sliding down the cinderblock wall to crouch on the scuffed floorboards. He hugged his knees, his paint-stained jacket rustling in the quiet room. He was just a guy trying to make a living, caught in the wrong alley at the wrong time.
*04:30*.
“I saw the shooter’s face,” Mateo whispered, his voice trembling in the cold room. He wasn’t looking at Arthur; he was staring blankly at the floor. “He had a spider tattoo on his neck. He looked right at me before I ran. If they put me on a bus to the border, I am a dead man. My daughters… they have no one else.”
Arthur felt a cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. He looked back at his monitor. He could save his career right now. All he had to do was let the timer run out. The feds were taking full jurisdiction, meaning Arthur wouldn’t even get partial credit unless the cartel statement was on the record before the timer hit zero.
“Mateo, I can’t open that door unless you give me the full statement,” Arthur lied, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. “Talk to the mic. Tell me about the spider tattoo.”
Mateo looked up, his dark eyes narrowing with a sharp, sudden clarity. He saw right through the veteran detective. “You are just a machine, too,” Mateo said softly. “You do whatever the screen tells you.”
*01:45*.
The heavy, rhythmic thud of combat boots echoed through the hallway outside. Someone was approaching Interrogation Room B. The ICE transport team was already here, moving faster than Arthur had ever seen a federal unit move.
A loud, metallic buzz vibrated against the outside of the door, followed by a heavy fist pounding on the reinforced wood.
“Federal agents!” a muffled voice barked from the corridor. “Open the door, Vance! System shows you’re holding a Priority One undocumented asset.”
On Arthur’s screen, the countdown timer vanished, replaced by a flashing green prompt:
*Federal Transport Team Present. Click SUBMIT to authorize asset transfer and log partial case credit. Failure to submit within 60 seconds will result in immediate termination of employment.*
Arthur stared at the glowing green button, the weight of twenty-eight years pressing down on his chest as the heavy pounding on the door grew louder, rattling the hinges.