Starting from South America, speeding through the world

Chapter 132 I Want to Complain About You

Noah Barnes sat in the car, his index finger pressed against the edge of his helmet, his left leg shaking involuntarily.

The information is clear—the sniper position has been identified: the west wing rooftop of the Halil Hotel, approximately 1100 meters from the scene of the kill.

The shooter may still be on the scene.

It's also possible that they've already broken away.

The alarm lights were flashing but did not sound; the entire process involved a silent entry procedure.

Noah sat up half an inch from his seat, adjusted the quick-release mechanism of his chest strap, and glanced out the window.

The upper half of the building's facade, white marble, can be seen from afar, gleaming in the sunlight.

However, there was no cordon outside the hotel as expected.

Instead, it's chaotic.

Crowds, fire trucks, loudspeakers, makeshift yellow tape, and media reporters running frantically with cameras in their faces.

"This is fucking damn bad." His teammate muttered under his breath, "It feels like we were the last to get the news."

Noah nodded.

The facts are before our eyes.

The fire truck was the first to arrive.

Outside the main gate, a supervisor wearing a helmet was having a heated argument with the hotel manager.

Two DCPD officers stood at the edge of the crowd, holding megaphones and repeatedly shouting:

"Please remain calm! Immediately follow instructions to leave the scene! Do not linger, and do not return to the building!"

Unfortunately, no one listened.

Some people were still trying to break in.

A middle-aged man in a suit, carrying a laptop bag, rushed across the temporary police cordon and pointed at the hotel security guards, shouting:
"My room is on the twelfth floor, and my documents are still inside. What the hell are you doing stopping me? I'm going to file a complaint against you, you son of a bitch!"

The firefighters completely ignored him.

They were adjusting the water pressure over there; someone was lying under the pump truck checking the joints, their face flushed from the heat.

Media organizations quickly gathered across the street.

Two photographers had already positioned themselves outside the cordon, their telephoto lenses mounted on tripods, firmly fixed on the direction of the hotel.

A brown-haired female reporter faced the camera and spoke rapidly, providing a live report of the situation:
"The nature of this attack is currently unclear."

Her words suddenly stopped, her gaze sweeping over the Hummer parked in the distance, before she continued:
"--A suspected Federation tactical unit has just arrived at the scene, but they have not yet presented any official identification."

"Should we go in?" a teammate asked.

The captain didn't speak, but raised his wrist to check the time, then pressed the microphone button on his headset:
"The Alpha team has arrived at the perimeter, but the area has not been completely sealed off, and people are still spilling out."

"Request to initiate independent entry process."

There was a few seconds of silence on the channel.

The dispatcher at JOC quickly issued the instructions:

"Permission granted."

“The transfer of control over the periphery has not yet been completed, and local authorities still retain control.”

"Maintain information convergence and avoid tactical exposure."

"clear."

Noah caught up with the group.

Sweat slid down my forehead, only to be blocked by the edge of my goggles.

He looked around and noticed that the emergency exit door on the left was not closed.

"This way," he whispered to the captain.

The man squinted and observed for a few seconds, then nodded, signaling to proceed.

The team immediately regrouped, bypassed the main road, and moved quickly forward behind the fire hose.

On the roadside, a policeman glanced at them several times, but didn't dare to stop them.

The crowd was still kept five meters away behind the police line.

Some people shouted, "Who's that?" while others took out their phones and started recording.

Nobody bothered to explain.

As I approached the side door, a hotel security guard tried to strike up a conversation: "This is—"

"FBI."

The other party was stunned for a moment, and before they could ask anything else, the captain had already raised his hand and opened the side door.

The hallway was empty and somewhat dimly lit.

Only the red light in the corner was still flashing.

"Alpha team is ready to enter; the entrance to the north passage of the target building is now open," the team leader reported.

"confirm."

"You are the first unit to enter the site. Subsequent support is expected to arrive in five minutes."

Noah looked back one last time before stepping into the hotel.

The street was bustling with noise. CNN's cameras were tilting, their lenses pointed in this direction.

He raised his hand and pressed it firmly against the rifle in front of his chest to make sure it was safe, then slowly exhaled.

However, just a second before I was about to move forward, I suddenly felt a muscle in my back tighten.

It's not visual.

It's not a sound.

Rather, it's instinct—animals in the wild sense the movement of predators.

He turned his head sharply.

Nothing at all.

The crowd was still arguing, the camera was still panning, and the firefighters were still dawdling over setting up the water hoses.

Nobody was looking at him.

"What's wrong?" his teammate asked.

Noah didn't move, but cautiously scanned the four sides to confirm again.

“It’s alright,” he replied softly, his finger resting on the trigger guard. “I’m ready.”

at the same time--

Tampa, Florida.

The blue light from the laptop shone on Officer Alyssa Randall's face.

She sat upright at the dining table, still wearing her uniform.

A photocopy of a check lay beside me.

Provided by the deceased's mother.

The amount is a full 100,000.

The transfer was made through a business account in Miami, with the payee being a company she had never seen before.

"GLM Holding Services, LLC."

She tried to check the company using the official system, but found nothing.

It's not that there's no information, it's that I don't have enough permissions.

This database is only accessible to law enforcement agencies dealing with financial fraud, anti-money laundering, or those under federal jurisdiction.
Alisa closed the webpage and opened her private email, scrolling through her contact list to find a few names.

Most of them were fellow students at the police academy, and the others were bank risk control liaisons they had met while patrolling the jurisdiction.

—"Have you ever heard of GLM Holding Services? It's registered in Miami."

— "Two months ago, I initiated a payment of 100 to Linda Moraes."

"Could these be off-balance-sheet funds related to real estate projects?"

She hesitated for a moment, then added:
"Reply when you have time, but don't mention this name publicly."

After sending it, Alisa glanced at the time: 10:24.

She thought for a moment, then opened another window and entered Linda's name into the social media search bar.

Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn.

The information is all there, but it's hardly ever updated.

The only information she has on LinkedIn is that she recently participated in a consulting project called "Carrington Real Property Fund".

The advisory team consists of only three people, and their registered address is in St. Petersburg, but their office address is not listed.

Following this name, Alisa went to the Sunbiz website to search.

Of the five similar names, two went into liquidation, one was deregistered, and the rest had nothing to do with real estate.

Just as she was about to close the window, she noticed a name in one of the lists of parallel legal entities:
W. Grant

Her mouse stopped.

It's not because the name is anything special.

It was the following email address that caught my attention:
[email protected]
She sat up abruptly.

She had seen this domain name before.

It is a kind of federal legal counsel platform, which is usually only open to external staff of the Department of Justice and the court system.

Alisa returned to social media and searched again for "W. Grant" + "Carrington".

On the third page, she found a link.

A short article based on a public interview on "The Relationship Between Real Estate Financial Compliance and Judicial Influence in South Florida".

The article mentions a guest at the end—Wilson Grant.

"Asset liquidation, compliance transaction and audit advisor, and has served as coordinator for several independent real estate projects."

Alisa stared at that passage for several seconds.

A $100,000 transfer, unmentioned work pressure, and clients with complex backgrounds.

A few minutes later, she closed her laptop and slowly exhaled.

Things seem to be looking up.

(End of this chapter)