I guess this is a long enough wait.
Spoiler
Nothing can be seen but white.
The view pulls back; now a half-circle of white, cutting through an empty black.
Further back; a single light bulb, glowing white, the round glass suspended in a surrounding darkness. Further again. The faint light cast by the white bulb illuminates some of the room, a dim halo in the dark. Four walls can be seen, dimly. Shelves cover two of them, packed and jammed full of ropes and white life preservers, the name 'CANDACE' written on the preservers. Under the bulb, directly in its glow, a chair rests. A man is tied to the chair; it's Nick. His head is slumped forward, slack arms bound behind his back with white plastic zip-ties, limp legs fastened to the chair's. His hair is ruffled, a few tufts caked in dried blood, his clothes in disarray. Nick's jacket is open, his trenchcoat in a heap on the floor. The cast on his nose is cracked, his bandages soaked with blood. Drops of the red liquid have gotten onto his shirt, staining the white fabric crimson.
Voice over: "42/12/15
Rough day."
Nick's head moves up slightly.
He spits out semi-congealed blood.
VO: "Really rough."
Nick's head slumps back down.
Exterior of the MPD HQ. Snow falls heavily, the snowflakes fat and thick. The sky is overcast, an almost uniform white.
Inside the OCS. Dana is staring wide-eyed at Dullea, disbelieving. Her expression is a mixture of confusion and excitement. He's matching her gaze. "You're having me lead the raid?"
Dullea swallows. "Yes. Even with your, uh, issues, I can't deny, you have the most knowledge of the Irish syndicate. So, it's, uh, my decision you're most qualified among us." Absentmindedly, he fiddles with his watch. "Detective Banai will fill you in on what we know." He coughs into his hand, turning fast and heading back into his office. He can be seen through the window to his office briefly before the glass polarizes.
Dana composes herself fast, her expression becoming much more professional. She turns to face Banai, still standing, arms crossed, leaning against the wall by the door to the OCS. "Detective. " Dana says.
"Detective."
"Well, that's outta the way now. Just give me the situation."
Banai stares at Dana for a moment. She stands up, no longer leaning against the wall. "Alright." She walks over to a large map on the wall, a map of the New York metropolitan area. She taps the map, and it zooms in, focusing on the water between Manhattan and Brooklyn. Dana is focused on it. "Like the Lieutenant said, arrest warrants have been issued for a few members of the Irish syndicate. Surveil AIs have tracked the majority on our arrest list to a small cargo ship in the East River, name of Candace, international registration. TRT will be making the raid; you'll be making the arrests." Banai stops talking and turns back to face Dana. She smiles. "Congratulations, Cohen. Looks like you'll be reaping whatever comes from JLC's work."
Dana ignores the jab, continues to look at the map. "Warrants, you said. How many? For who?"
"A couple dozen. Enforcers, low-level bosses mainly. Biggest is Colm Tracy. "
Dana looks at Banai. "Not McCloy?"
Banai pulls out her phone, making a show of scrolling through a list of warrants on the screen. "Surveil AIs pegged him at his apartment Midtown. He's not on the boat. Colm, however, seems to be on his way."
"I'm assuming Ian will be arrested?"
"Warrant's being processed still. Focus was on the people on the boat; took all night dealing with the jurisdictional nightmare between us and the Brooklyn PD. Boat's been drifting between US and UN waters."
"'Being processed?' You gotta be f**king kidding me..." Dana closes her eyes and rubs her temples with one hand, head tilting towards the ground. She rests her other hand on her waist. She looks back up at Banai. "Lieutenant said I'm in charge of the raid? Alright. We wait until all pertinent warrants have been issued."
Banai shrugs. "It's your call, Cohen. My advice, though; don't wait too long."
"Shove it up your ass, Banai."
"Heh, okay. Just some advice, one police to another." Banai walks away, towards her desk, leaving Dana alone by the map.
Dana pulls out her phone. A notice comes up on the screen; 'INCOMING CALL FROM RISHON'.
"Damnit, not now..." She taps the 'REJECT' button, and then works away on the phone. The screen reads 'CONTACTING JUDICIARY NETWORK.' She holds the phone up to her ear, and waits.
Through the partially-polarized window to his office, Dullea looks out. He's leaning against the window, forehead resting on his forearm. His other arm hangs loosely by his side, a glass of whiskey in his hand. Behind him, a half-empty bottle of whiskey is visible on his desk, a bottle of pills knocked over and spilt next to it.
"Goddamnit, what the f**k is Hilson doing? What the f**k is Cohen doing? What the f**k is Fukuyama doing?" He closes his eyes.
"What the f**k is everyone doing?"
He brings the glass up to his lips, taking a long drink. Over his shoulder, Dana is visible, still on the phone, standing in front of the map. Off to the side, Banai is visible, staring directly at Dullea's office.
An art-deco styled wall is seen, a small shack flush against it. Snow falls lightly. Rays of sunlight penetrate from high above, illuminating the alleyway. Juan is standing behind his sales counter, his too-long metal arm resting on the plastic surface. He's bundled in a few layers of clothes, ratty old military fatigues making up his outer layer. His dog is lying in front of the shack, head resting on its front paw, shivering.
He looks up as a cab descends from the sky, jets of gas shooting out of the underbelly of the aircraft, sending snow into convective swirls through the air. Juan scratches his stubble-laden chin, watching the craft with mild interest. The door opens as the cab lands, Rishon getting out.
Juan's face splits into a grin. "Ah, Rish! Back already? Making up for all that time we never spent together, or just tryin' to gimme an early Christmas gift, heh? Ha ha!"
"Not now, Juan. I don't have time this."
"But the jokes are my charm, what keep me in business! I'm paid for my wit as much as my intel. You come for one, you get the other, no questions. Heh."
"Goddamnit, not f**king now, Juan! I need your help! Christ, can't you take f**king anything seriously?"
"Ah, fine, fine, Rish. Be that way." Juan scratches his cheek with his prosthetic hand. "Figures, no one ever comes to me to just talk. Always 'I need some info this' or 'You betrayed my trust' tha-"
Rishon leans over the counter. "Shut up!" He pauses for a few seconds, breathing deep. "Okay. Juan, listen. I need your help. Nick's gone."
"Again? Heh. You check Sato's? I'd start there, then work down to the OSL bars."
"I found his car in an alley full of bullets. I don't think he's getting drunk right now."
Juan stares absently at the overpass above his head, scratching his neck. "You seem confused. Sounds like police is what you're looking for. If only you had someone on MPD that you could ask for help, but alas..."
"Damnit, you know who has him!"
"I look like a newsfeed to you, Rish? Spouting out the breaking stories for all to see? Heh heh, you know me too well for that, man!"
"f**king Christ, here!" Rishon grabs a handful of bills from his pocket, slamming them down on the counter.
Juan picks up the bills and begins inspecting them, holding them up to the light, one by one.
"You hurry it up here? Nick could be dying right now. Horribly. I thought he was your number one customer."
"Believe me..." Juan says, putting one of the bills into his pocket, before holding up the next to the white light, extending his mechanical arm and squinting his eyes. "Nicky-boy ain't dead yet, despite his best efforts, heh." He puts the bill in his pocket, holding up the final one to the light. "I assume you're smart enough to've figured out who's taken him." Juan slips the final bill into his pocket. He begins picking grime out of his metal finger joints. "As to the where, my guess is you're in deep water concernin' that, judging by your little hissy-fit just now." Juan finally turns his gaze to Rishon, grinning widely. "Funny enough, deep water ain't far off the mark. Ha ha ha ha!" Juan arcs back his neck, teeth showing widely as he laughs to himself. He settles down, still giggling a bit.
Rishon is staring at Juan, mouth half-open, confusion on his face.
"Uh, heh heh. You'll, uh, you'll get it in a second. Heh heh." Juan leans forward on the counter. "McCloy et al have our mutual friend floating out in the harbor, some boat named Candace." He pauses, expectant. "You get it? Deep water? He's on a boat!"
Rishon glares at Juan. "That's a terrible f**king joke, Juan."
"Ah, you're gonna nick it for your inevitable story, I know. Heh heh. 'Nick.'"
"You think that's all I care about? Getting a f**king story?"
"Rishon, I've known you a long time. And knowing things, heh, it's what I do. Sure, you probably do care about Nick. But goddamn, the intrigue of a PI kidnapped by a crime syndicate while investigating a case he was legally obliged to drop? You're droolin' already, man. Ha ha!"
Rishon opens his mouth to say something, but no words form. He turns, and walks away from the shack, his mittened hand idly playing with his notebook.
Juan tosses a scrap of food to his dog. The dog eats it immediately. It sits down, balanced on its one front leg, looking up at him expectantly, tail swishing the pavement clear of snow.
Nick tied to the chair in the storage room, illuminated by a single light bulb. The blood on his shirt is a darker shade now, dried and crusty. Faint murmuring voices can be heard in the storage room. Nick's head perks up slightly. He turns his ear towards the door, towards the voices, trying to hear. He strains his neck forward, getting as close to the sound as he can, but he still can't hear. Nick pulls at his wrists, trying to free then; plastic ties cut into his hands, the skin underneath raw and bloody. The ties stay fast, the hands won't free. He stops struggling. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes.
VO: "Typing this hard. Wrists still hurt."
Nick rocks his weight back and forth in the chair. The momentum carries him over and he falls, smacking his head into the door. He comes to a rest, ear pressed against the alloy door, grimacing.
VO: "Head hurts more."
Nick can now hear the voices more clearly.
"Th' f**k was that?"
"f**k was what?"
"Nevermind. So, how long we keepin' this guy alive?"
"Dunno. Mul mentioned something about waitin' 'till Tracy gets here."
"Why we even keeping this f**ker alive, he been causing so much trouble?"
"Pal, you're asking well above my f**kin' paygrade. Cloy say he lives, then he's gonna f**kin' live 'till Cloy say otherwise."
VO: "Couldn't figure why I was alive. No one could."
Nick slowly slides down the door, his head dragging down the metal surface, before coming to a rest on his side on the floor.
VO: "Couldn't figure how I'd last much longer, though. Needed miracle to get out."
Nick turns his head, looking around the room. He spots something, just outside the dim white halo of the bare lightbulb above. He spots a bottle of dish soap on a bottom shelf, across the room.
VO: "Or just make my own."
Nick starts to move his shoulders and hips, managing to do an inching crawl along the floor, heading to the soap.
MPD HQ exterior; the skyline is hazy through thick snow and clouds, little more than vague building-shapes and bright lights.
Dana is walking down a hallway, passing by numerous uniformed cops milling about, sipping coffee, chatting with each other. She approaches a door marked 'ARMORY', and it slides open in front of her. She enters. The room is poorly lit, bulbs burnt out in the ceiling above. Dana walks towards the far wall; tactical vests hang off it in neat rows and columns, 'UNSEC POLICE' emblazoned on them in bold, white letters. She grabs one of the vests, slipping it on over her head.
"Hello, Dana."
Dana turns around. Standing in the corner is Gabriel, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, head tilted down, eyes on the floor. He's wearing his TRT armour, navy ceramic and metal plates encasing his chest and limbs. On a bench next to him rests his helmet, the tinted visor staring at Dana in lieu of his eyes. Against the wall leans a magazine-fed shotgun.
Dana perks up instantly. "Gabe. What're you doing here?"
He takes a drag from his cigarette. "Smokin'. Heh." White smoke rises from the tobacco tube, spreading as it hits the ceiling.
"Funny." Dana turns and stands square towards Gabe. "Do you always lurk in dark corners of locker rooms?"
Gabriel cracks a smile. "Ha ha. Yeah. Déjà vu. Heh." He drags on the cigarette. "I like it up here. Before a raid. Always quiet. Too much noise on the TRT floor. Detectives don't partake too often."
Dana regards him for a few moments. "Didn't know you were on the McCloy team."
He holds his cigarette out in front of him, looking at the ember. "Funny, that. Supposed to be off. Tonight. Deshpande couldn't come in. And now, I'm here. For the raid. The one that'll ruin Dullea's day. Kinda perfect, right? Heh. Seems planned..." He looks at Dana. "...almost."
"You think I did this?"
Gabe shrugs. "Maybe. I'm 'for you,' remember? Maybe, you thought it'd be good, having a man who'd do things the right way." He drops his cigarette butt, grinding it with the heel of his armoured boot. "Then again, maybe Dullea's got a plan, and I'm a part. Ha ha. Or someone higher. Hell, maybe there's no reason here, and sheer chance placed me first on the sub list on the day of a major police raid just as dear Deshpande catches stomach flu."
"You don't seem like you care much, either way."
"Oh, I don't? Heh. Depends, I guess. Long as I'm out there. In the field. Shooting guys. Good ol' Crazy Gabe, right?"
"Do you ever say anything, or do you just talk in circles?" Dana moves towards a rack filled with visors and headsets.
"I didn't plan this meeting, this time. Nothing really to add from the last one. What I wanted to say, I've said."
Dana grabs a headset and HUD visor off of the rack, holding it in her hand. She regards Gabe again. "What else do you want?"
"A blaze of glory? A whimper into obscurity? Heh. Could ask you the same."
"What I want is pretty clear, I think."
"Heh. Yeah. It is. That's the problem." Dana's phone beeps. She looks at it: 'MCCLOY WARRANT PROCESSED.' She puts the phone away then moves towards the ammo locker, grabbing a couple pistol magazines. She looks back at Gabe as she places them in her vest pockets. He stops leaning against the wall, standing up straight, grabbing his shotgun with one hand. "Don't be expecting things to go how either of us want, tonight." Gabe smiles, grabbing his helmet off the bench, placing it on his head, the ceramic and plastic hiding his expression. He leaves the room.
Dana stands still for a few moments, staring at the now-closed door. She slips the headset onto her ear and the HUD visor over her eyes, and then follows.
The Manhattan skyline is silhouetted against a white haze. The sun is low in the sky, nearing sunset. Buildings are reflected shimmering on the water of the harbour, the imposing width of the seawall rising up between the liquid and the steel. The warped mirror image is broken sporadically by numerous vessels of various sizes floating on the surface of the water. The air, as always, is filled with aircraft.
Closer in now. A V-formation of three VTOL aircraft can be seen, flying low over the water. They're painted in black and white, 'MPD' emblazoned on the side. Beneath them, in a similar formation, six black and white boats travel in the same direction.
The view has changed again. A lone police VTOL can be seen, hovering above the cityscape. Below, the spire of the Empire State Building can be seen rising out of the snowy haze, dwarfed by the edifices around it.
Inside the passenger compartment of the aircraft. Dana is staring out the window, headset over her ear, visor over her eyes. Small projections can be seen on the surface of the visor. Her eyes are set, her mouth a thin line. A thick winter coat covers her tactical vest. Around her, other officers are seated, all in vests, none in full TRT armour. One of them holds a scoped rifle by her side, a wire connecting her temple to the scope.
Banai is seated across from Dana, visor and headset on her head.
The co-pilot leans out from the cockpit, head covered by her flight helmet. "In position above McCloy's apartment, ma'am. TRT-12 in position on the ground, waiting on your word."
"Copy that." Dana's eyes draw away from the view, scanning over the data projecting on her visor. A schematic of the harbour can be made out, nine points converging on a tenth one. "We'll go when TRTs 9 and 13 are in position in the harbor."
The co-pilot nods, then returns to the cockpit.
Banai speaks. "You feeling ready for this, Cohen?"
"Are you?"
Banai smirks.
Colm Tracy climbs up a ladder, disembarking a small boat. He gets to the top, standing on the deck of a larger ship, the name Candace visible on a bulkhead behind him. He's wearing a thick winter coat overtop of his suit. He stays on the deck for a moment before rushing inside.
Inside the Candace, on the bridge. Colm is standing in front of numerous controls and computers, an old-style ship's wheel beside him. He's leaning on the throttle control. His coat is open now. He's rubbing his hands together, stomping snow off of his shoes. Colm pulls a headset out of his pocket, placing the small device over his ear.
"Okay, Ian, I'm on the ship. Now, why'd ya send me the f**k out here?"
"Nick f**k's onboard wit' ya. Make sure he gets f**kin' dead."
"Okay. Why'd I hafta be out here fer this?"
There's a pause before Ian responds. "Th' Jap half-breed c**tbreath's been a nuisance so long, seems f**kin' fittin' t' use th' personal touch on his slant-eyed arse."
"Uh. Alright, Ian. I'll get it done."
"Aye, Colm. I know ya will." The line goes dead.
Colm stands there a moment before taking the headset off his ear. He looks uneasy. A man with a white goatee and dark leather jacket walks into the room, looking expectantly at Colm.
Colm speaks finally, not looking at the man. "Make sure the PI's killed. Dump his body in US waters. Make sure he's not drifting back to Manhattan."
In Ian's apartment, Ian sits on his couch, taking in his view. He holds a half-empty bottle of whiskey in his hand, a full glass of whiskey in the other. A cigar sits in the ashtray on his coffeetable, smouldering and forgotten. He's surrounded by sculptures and art, paying attention to none of it.
"Forgive me, my friend."
He drinks the entire glass straight. He fills it again.
Dana is sitting in the police aircraft. An indicator pops up on her visor. She pulls out her pistol, cocking a round into the chamber. Dana's phone rings. She pulls it out, looking at the screen. 'INCOMING CALL FROM RISHON'. She taps 'REJECT'.
Dana speaks into her headset. "All teams go."
VO: "Miracles sure to come when you make your own."
A chair is laying on its side in a nautical storage room, the same one as before. The chair has crossed the room, by the bottle of soap. The bottle is lying on its side, open, the slick liquid poured out on the floor. In the puddle of soap, a pair of bloody zip-ties lies. Cut open zip-ties remain attached to the front legs of the chair. Nick is leaning against the wall by the door, sitting up, his legs stretched out in front of him. The door opens.
"Shit. Where'd he go..."
The man with the goatee leans around the door, his arm outstretched, a pistol in his hand. He looks down and sees Nick sitting on the floor. Nick lunges at him, grabbing at the man's legs. The man reaches down with his free hand, tossing Nick aside with ease. He levels the pistol, taking aim at Nick's head.
The man's eyes go vacant. Blood begins to stream out of his nostrils and mouth, staining his white facial hair. He falls to his knees, then onto his face. There's a hole in the back of his head. Nick looks down at the body, confused.
A shadow walks into the room, clad head-to-toe in form-fitting black armour, a small pack fastened to her back. The armour looks like it may be powered; unquestionably high-tech regardless. In her hand is a silenced pistol, white smoke drifting out of the barrel. Nick stares at his own reflection in the dark visor of the helmet.
VO: "Sometimes, just come anyway. Can't always pick between the two"
She holds out her encased hand to Nick.
VO: "Just take them as they come."
Nick reaches up and grabs it.
Above the harbour, two of the police aircraft descend towards Candace. The third circles above, a pair of snipers leaning out the opened passenger doors. Below, the six boats have surrounded the ship. White spotlights turn on, illuminating the cargo vessel. A short distance away, towards the Brooklyn side of the water, a few ships can be seen, the words 'US COAST GUARD' on their hulls. They keep their distance.
The two aircraft drop off their payloads onto the deck of the ship; a TRT each. Gunfire erupts through portholes. It gets returned. An officer falls to the deck motionless.
On the bridge, Colm looks out over the deck, now swarming with tactical police. "So... that's the plan then." He squeezes his fist tightly by his side, his knuckles turning white. "Ian, you f**kin' bastard." Colm reaches into his coat, pulling out a pistol. He throws it aside, disarming himself. "I'll f**kin' kill you." He rushes off of the bridge, through the hatch, into the interior of the ship.
A closed hatch is seen at the end of a well-lit corridor. The walls are all steel, undecorated and functional, freshly covered in a coat of white paint. Two men are in the corridor, holding rifles, their sights trained on the door. One of them is leaning out of a compartment on the left side of the corridor; the other is crouched behind a crate.
There's a blinding-white flash of light. The men are stunned and blinded. They grab at their heads and ears, guns dropped to the floor. Their vision comes back; a TRT has moved into the corridor, guns trained on the men. Two of the officers move forward, handcuffs out. Gabe is standing at point, his shotgun pointed at one of the men's faces. His name can be seen on the breast of his armour: 'G. ELLIOT'.
"Elliot, Chan, move to the upper decks. Meet up with TRT-13. Rest of you, on me; moving down to cargo hold."
"Yes sergeant." Gabe and one of the other officers break off from the others, moving down the corridor, getting to a ladder. They go up.
Ian is sitting in his apartment. The bottle in his hand is empty. His glass is generously filled. On the table in front of him, the forgotten cigar still smoulders. His eyes are teary and red, a little dribble of snot running from his nose.
A goon rushes into the room, a pistol in his hands. "Boss! Cops're swarmin' the buildin'! Gotta get you out!"
"Christ Mulholland, put tha' f**kin' thin' away, ya shit-brained robo-c**t." Ian wipes his eyes and nose quickly with a handkerchief. "Get yerself cut th' f**k in half, those blue motherf**kers see ya flashin' tha' cannon at 'em."
"Er... yeah, boss." He puts the gun into a shoulder holster. "Er, it's Muloney, boss."
"Shut th' f**k up! D' I f**kin' look like I give a f**kin' chink's prick what th' f**k yer name is? Get outta th' f**kin' room!" Muloney leaves quickly. "An don't shoot any f**kin' cops! f**k." He gulps down the whiskey. "An' now I'm outta f**kin' whiskey." He drops the bottle and glass to the floor.
A half-dozen TRT members enter the room, doing a quick tactical sweep. Two of them train their rifles on McCloy. "All clear!"
Dana walks into the room, pistol drawn. She holsters it. She crosses the room swiftly, pulling a pair of handcuffs out of her vest as she does so.
McCloy stands up slowly. He turns towards Dana, arms outstretched, wrists together. "Jus' put th' f**kin' f**k-rings on m' arms a'ready."
VO: "Something tells me didn't take this miracle. More the other way around."
Nick and the woman are moving down a white-painted steel corridor. He's hobbling behind, his head swollen, his nose-cast cracked, blood matting his hair and shirt and jacket. He's put his trenchcoat back on, over the jacket. She holds her silenced pistol in one hand, pointed down at the floor. Her other hand is firmly gripping Nick's upper arm, pulling him along. Gunfire can be heard echoing through the vessel.
He speaks. "Who-?"
"Not now."
VO: "Miracle spoke less than me."
They approach a ladder. The woman holsters her pistol and quickly climbs, almost dragging Nick up behind her. At the top, she stops. She looks to the left, down the corridor. Some TRT officers can be seen rounding a corner. She pulls out her pistol, flipping a switch on the side as she does so. The silencer disengages. She fires three deafening rounds down the corridor. The officers pull back, around the corner, into cover. She pulls Nick up the ladder, then runs the opposite direction from the TRT, this time actually dragging Nick, rounding another corner before the officers return.
VO: "Miracle was professional. No doubt."
The woman and Nick enter a compartment. It's on the side of the ship, one of the walls curving with the shape of the hull. A porthole is in the white steel, the circular glass open. Through it, white haze and snow can be seen, the sun's light getting very low in the sky.
VO: "Professional on my side seems. Grateful for that."
"Jump." She points at the porthole. Nick hesitates a moment before struggling through the opening. He falls, landing on his back in a small craft, floating in the water, fastened to the hull of the ship. The woman lands next to him in a crouch a moment later.
VO: "A professional willing to shoot police. Not sure if grateful for that."
She unfastens the craft, and begins motoring it towards Manhattan. The haze over the water gets thicker, the snow falling fat and heavy now. The white spotlights from the police boats serve as a screen, rendering their small craft invisible on the water.
Back on the ship, in one of the white steel corridors. Gabe and the other officer, Chan, are moving forwards, going from cover to cover, keeping each other under cover. Ahead of them is an open hatch. Gabe and Chan form up against the wall next to the opening, Gabe closer to the doorway. Chan nods.
Gabe leaps around the corner, turning, levelling his shotgun into the compartment. Colm is inside. He sees Gabe. He raises his hands in the air instantly, getting onto his knees. "I'm unarmed, officer!"
Gabe lowers his shotgun slightly. He cocks his head to the side a little. His expression is unreadable through his visor. "Colm Tracy. Right?"
"That's right."
"Yeah." Gabe raises the shotgun and pulls the trigger. Colm is struck in the chest. He falls backwards.
Chan rounds the corner, his rifle level. He aims it down at the floor. "Jesus, Elliot. You killed him."
Gabe turns around, exiting back into the corridor. "Come. Gotta rendezvous with TRT-13."
A landing pad is seen, a circle of concrete and steel, jutting off of the side of the MPD HQ. The skyscrapers of the city can be dimly made out through the white haze; the sun continuously lowering in towards the horizon. On the landing pad, a dark-skinned figure is seen standing, bundled up in a fashionable winter coat.
A police aircraft comes in, landing vertically on the pad. It powers down and the passenger doors open; Dana steps out, leading the handcuffed McCloy in front of her. He appears distant, as though his thoughts are elsewhere. Banai follows at a discrete distance. The other officers follow.
The figure steps forward, approaching Dana and McCloy; it's Captain Hilson. "Detective Cohen, please wait."
Dana stops, still holding onto McCloy. "Captain?"
"Unhand Mr. McCloy. He's being released."
Dana just stares at Hilson. "Sir?"
"Unhand him, detective." Dana lets go of McCloy. "Remove the handcuffs." Banai approaches from behind and takes the handcuffs off of McCloy's wrists.
"Excuse me, captain, but there's a warrant for this man's arrest."
"That warrant was issued in error, detective."
"In error?"
McCloy speaks finally, being oddly quiet this whole time. "Aye, yeah, f**kin' travesty. Wrongfully f**kin' arrested. Some Jew lawyers o' mine, be havin' a f**kin' word wit' ya soon." He directs the last words towards Hilson.
Hilson turns his gaze on McCloy. His eyes are harsh. "Now, Mr. McCloy, I don't think there's any need for legal action here. Do you?"
McCloy shifts uncomfortably on his feet. "Er, yeah. Suppose yer f**kin' right."
"Good. I apologize for any inconvenience this evening." Hilson turns back towards Dana. McCloy is escorted inside by a uniformed cop. "Now you, Detective Cohen, you and I will be having a chat. What was this delay in mobilizing the raid?"
"Captain, sir, warrants still had to be issued, I was waiting to make sure we got them a-"
"Your delay allowed the crew of the Candace to prepare, and there were no less than three police casualties as a result."
"Sir, McCloy was the-"
"The evidence we have on McCloy is marginal. We have no grounds to hold him, let alone try him."
"Damnit, captain, we can use him to-"
"'Damnit, captain'? Did you just say that to me, detective?"
"Sir, I-"
"No! You don't get to talk anymore! You got your men injured, and you got Colm Tracy killed. We could've used him."
"We could've used McCloy!"
"Shut the f**k up about McCloy! You f**ked up, Cohen." Hilson turns away. "You should prepare for the consequences." Hilson walks away, entering the MPD HQ.
Dana is standing on the landing pad. Her jaw is hanging open slightly. She squeezes the bridge of her nose with her hand, tilting her head forwards, eyes tightly shut, resting her elbow on the palm of her other hand.
Banai walks up to her from behind. "Should've taken my advice, Cohen."
"Go f**k yourself sideways, Banai."
Banai smiles. "Be seeing you." She walks away.
A dock is seen, sticking out of the side of the seawall. In the background, a warehouse is visible, 'McCloy Shipping' written on a sign on its roof. Through the thick of buildings and snow, the sun is beginning to set.
VO: "Miracle apparently couldn't walk on water."
A small craft pulls up to the dock, coming out of the white mist. Two figures depart the craft, standing on the dock, the seawall rising behind them.
VO: "Not sure I'd be surprised if could."
The two figures are Nick and the woman. He's leaning against the top of a handrail, legs unsteady beneath him. She's standing erect in front of him. Both are in the white halo of a lamp. They regard each other for a few seconds.
Nick speaks. "Who are you? Friend?"
The woman's head tilts back slightly; her expression is unreadable beneath her helmet. "Not quite. Let's say... I've got an interest in you. And that interest needs you alive." She walks over beside Nick, leaning forwards over the handrail, resting her elbows on the top of the surface. It looks like she's taking in the view.
"Hm. Thanks for that."
"Don't mention it, Nick." The visor turns towards him.
"So. Know my name. What's yours?"
"Call me Jane."
"What's your interest in me, Jane?"
She lifts up her hand, wagging her index finger back and forth. "Not so fast, Nick." Her helmet tilts down, like she's looking Nick up and down. "Got more than one interest in you. But don't need you just yet. Gotta take things slow. You'll find out."
VO: "Second thought, miracle bit more chatty than me."
"When?"
"Be patient." She stands up, turning away from Nick, heading back towards the small watercraft. She stops, half-turning back towards Nick. She reaches into the small pack on her back. "Here." She tosses something towards Nick. He catches it, barely, grimacing at the effort. "Thought you'd want this back." Nick looks down at the object in his hands. It's his journal.
"Thanks." He looks back up.
The woman is perched on the edge of the handrail now, back towards Nick. Her visor looks towards him over her shoulder. She raises her hand in a small wave. "See you around, Nicolas Fukuyama." She leaps off the handrail, landing in the craft below.
Nick moves down the handrail, leaning over. He watches her sail into the mist. He starts writing in the journal.
VO: "Wonder if cops got McCloy. Find out soon enough, suppose."
The sun is below the horizon now, hidden by towers across the water. The snow has stopped falling.
VO: "Wonder more about the woman. Guardian angel? Probably not. Another kind of angel, more like."
Rishon is standing by the seawall, in shadows. He can see Nick leaning on the dock. His hand reaches instinctively towards his notebook.
VO: "Guess I've finished the case today. Case #13."
In the growing twilight, the white mist has turned grey.
