Undercover

 

Under Cover 23 Year old Deputy Sheriff Ryan Miller has been with this drug gang for over 3 months. He had been accepted as a dealer and a big transfer to him was about to occur. Waiting by the river, cowboy hat, wife beater, blue jeans and boots he had forgo any wires... too risky. The van pulled up backwards and he waited for the doors to open. His heart jumped through his chest...the drug dealers were pointing guns at him. "Hello Deputy!" They jumped miller and pulled his badge hidden under his belt. His hands were duct taped behind him, his eyes and moth circled half dozen times. He was dumped into the van. A syringe was pushed into his shoulder. His last thought was, "I'm fucked!"

Chapter 1

The van's engine rumbled as it backed toward the riverbank, its headlights cutting through the darkness. Deputy Ryan Miller adjusted his cowboy hat and checked his watch—11:47 PM. Right on time.

This is it. Three months of work comes down to this moment.

The van stopped twenty feet away, exhaust fumes mixing with the humid night air. Miller's hand instinctively moved toward his hip, then stopped—no gun tonight. Too risky for a buy this big. His heart hammered against his ribs as the engine shut off.

Something's wrong.

The rear doors should have opened by now. Instead, silence stretched between him and the van, broken only by the gentle lapping of water against the muddy bank.

They're taking too long. Way too long.

The doors finally swung open with a metallic screech. But instead of Carlos stepping out with the duffel bag, three men emerged—all pointing guns directly at him.

"Hello, Deputy!"

Miller's blood turned ice-cold. The voice belonged to Ramirez, the gang's enforcer. In his peripheral vision, he caught movement—more men flanking him from both sides.

They know. Jesus Christ, they know.

"Hands where we can see them, Officer Miller!"Miller's hands shot up, his mind racing. How? How did they find out?

"Real slow now, Deputy. Carlos, get his badge."

A fourth man stepped around the van—Carlos, the dealer Miller had been working with for weeks. The betrayal hit like a physical blow.

"Sorry, man," Carlos muttered, not meeting his eyes. "But you cops... you all look the same when you're trying too hard."

Run. I should run. But the guns were trained on him from three directions. I'm dead either way.

Carlos's hands moved quickly, finding the badge hidden beneath Miller's belt. He held it up like a trophy.

"Bingo. Deputy Ryan Miller, Riverside County Sheriff's Department."

Ramirez stepped closer, his gold teeth gleaming in the van's headlights. "You been playing us for months, haven't you, Deputy? Three months of our hospitality, our trust..."

Don't say anything. Don't give them anything.

"Nothing to say? That's okay. You'll be talking plenty soon enough." Ramirez nodded to his men. "Tie him up."

Rough hands grabbed Miller from behind. Duct tape circled his wrists, yanking them tight behind his back. The adhesive bit into his skin.

This is really happening. This is really fucking happening.

More tape wound around his head, covering his mouth and nose except for small gaps to breathe. The world went partially dark as they wrapped his eyes.

"Load him up."

They dragged him toward the van. Miller's boots scraped against gravel, then he was lifted and thrown inside. His shoulder hit the metal floor hard.

They're going to kill me. Slowly. They're going to make me talk first, then kill me.

The van doors slammed shut with a final, echoing bang.

Chapter 2

The van lurched forward, tires spinning on loose gravel before finding purchase. Miller's body slid across the metal floor, his bound hands trapped beneath him. Every bump and turn sent fresh waves of pain through his shoulders.

How long have we been driving? Ten minutes? An hour?

"You comfortable back there, Deputy?" Ramirez's voice drifted from the front seat, casual as if they were discussing the weather. "Don't worry, we got a nice place picked out for you. Real private. Nobody gonna hear you scream."

Miller's breathing quickened against the tape. The small gaps they'd left weren't enough. His chest burned with each shallow breath.

They're going to torture me. They're going to want names, locations, everything about the operation.

"You know what I think, Deputy?" Carlos spoke up from somewhere near the driver's seat. "I think you been lying to us from day one. All them stories about your cousin in Bakersfield, your girlfriend who left you... all bullshit, right?"

Sarah. They don't know about Sarah. Please God, don't let them find out about Sarah.

The van hit a pothole hard. Miller's head bounced against the floor, stars exploding behind his taped eyelids.

They're going to cut me. Start with fingers, work their way up. I've seen what Ramirez does to people who cross him.

"Here's what's gonna happen," Ramirez continued, his voice taking on a sing-song quality. "We're gonna ask you some questions. Real polite-like. And you're gonna tell us everything we want to know. Names, dates, who sent you, what operations are running..."

I can't tell them. I won't tell them. Marcus is counting on me. The whole task force is counting on me.

"And if you don't want to talk... well, we got ways of making conversation more interesting."

The van began to slow, gravel crunching under the tires again.

This is it. Whatever happens next, I'm probably not walking out alive.

The van stopped with a final jolt. Miller's body rolled against the wheel well, his ribs screaming in protest. The engine died, leaving only the sound of his ragged breathing through the tape.

"We're here, Deputy," Ramirez announced cheerfully. "Home sweet home."

Car doors slammed. Footsteps crunched on gravel, circling the van. Miller's heart hammered so hard he thought it might burst.

Where are we? How far from the river? Miles? Hours?

The rear doors creaked open. Cool night air rushed in, carrying the scent of pine and something else—something rotting.

Bodies. They've done this before. Right here.

"Look at him," Carlos said, his voice closer now. "Tough guy's shaking like a leaf."

Hands grabbed Miller's ankles, dragging him toward the doors. His bound wrists scraped against the metal floor, sending fire up his arms.

They're going to hang me upside down. Cut me while I'm hanging. Watch me bleed out slowly.

"Easy now, boys," Ramirez cautioned. "Don't damage the merchandise before we get our money's worth."

They hauled Miller out of the van. His knees buckled as his boots hit the ground, but rough hands kept him upright. Through the gaps in the tape over his eyes, he caught glimpses of flickering light—a cabin, maybe, with lanterns burning in the windows.

No electricity. No neighbors. No one's going to find me here.

"Welcome to your new home, Deputy Miller," Ramirez whispered in his ear. "Population: you, us, and all the rats that are gonna eat what's left of you when we're done."

They half-dragged, half-carried him toward the cabin. A door creaked open on rusty hinges.

This is where I die. This is where it all ends.

The floorboards groaned under their feet as they dragged Miller inside. The air was thick with the smell of mold, cigarette smoke, and something metallic that made his stomach lurch.

Blood. Old blood soaked into the wood.

They threw him into a wooden chair, the impact jarring his spine. Someone cut the duct tape from his wrists, only to immediately bind them behind his back with rough rope. The coarse fibers bit into his already raw wrists.

"Hold him steady," Ramirez ordered, pulling out more rope.

Two men gripped Miller's shoulders as Ramirez began wrapping rope around his upper arms, binding them tight against the sides of the chair. The rope circled his biceps again and again, each wrap cinching tighter.

"This is gonna get real uncomfortable, Deputy," Ramirez said, pulling the rope tighter with each loop. "But that's the point."

More rope wrapped around his chest, securing him to the chair back. His ankles were bound to the chair legs with methodical precision.

Jesus Christ, they're going to dislocate my shoulders.

"Frapping time," Carlos announced, threading rope between the coils around Miller's arms and pulling hard. The rope compressed like a tourniquet, cutting deep into the muscle.

Miller's biceps bulged grotesquely against the restraints, the rope acting like a vise. His veins began to pop through the skin of his forearms, dark lines snaking down to his bound wrists.

They're cutting off my circulation. My arms are going to die.

Sweat beaded on his forehead and began trickling down his arms. Where it mixed with the rope burns, it stung like acid. The coarse fibers were already beginning to saw through his skin, tiny drops of blood matting the dark hair on his forearms.

"There we go," Ramirez said, stepping back to admire their work. "Nice and secure. Can't have you running off before we've had our little chat."

Miller tested the bonds. The rope was tight, professional. His hands were already going numb behind the chair back.

They've done this before. Many times.

Someone ripped the tape from his eyes in one brutal motion. Miller blinked against the sudden light—three kerosene lanterns cast dancing shadows on the cabin walls. What he saw made his blood freeze.

Chains hung from the ceiling beams. Dark stains covered the floor. A table in the corner held tools—pliers, knives, a car battery with jumper cables.

They're going to electrocute me. Burn me from the inside out.

"Like our little workshop?" Ramirez grinned, following Miller's gaze. "We've entertained a lot of guests here over the years. Some real talkers, some... not so much." He picked up a pair of bolt cutters. "Guess which ones went home happy?"

None of them went home. None of them ever left here alive.

Carlos pulled up another chair, sitting directly in front of Miller. "Now, Deputy, we're gonna remove that tape from your mouth. But if you start screaming, we're gonna hurt you real bad, real quick. Understand?"

Miller nodded, his throat dry as sand.

Maybe I can reason with them. Buy some time. Someone has to be looking for me by now.

The tape came off like fire across his lips.

"Perfect," Ramirez stepped back, admiring his work. "Those ropes are gonna cut deeper every time you struggle. And trust me, Deputy—you're gonna struggle."

Miller's hands were already tingling, going numb. The rope was like a hacksaw against his flesh with every breath.

I can't feel my fingers. How long before permanent damage?

"Now then," Ramirez said, settling into his chair. "Let's have that chat."

Chapter 3

"Let's start simple," Ramirez said, lighting a cigarette. The flame from his lighter cast dancing shadows across his face. "How long you been a cop, Deputy Miller?"

Miller's mouth felt like sandpaper. "Five years."

Keep it simple. Stick to basics. Don't give them anything they can use.

"Five years," Ramirez repeated, taking a long drag. "And how long you been working undercover?"

"This was my first time."

They're going to know that's a lie. My file's probably been pulled by now.

Carlos leaned forward. "Bullshit. Nobody gets this deep on their first rodeo. You're too smooth, too comfortable with the role."

Miller's arms were screaming now. The rope had already cut through the first layer of skin on his biceps. Every slight movement sent fire through his shoulders.

How long have I been tied up? An hour? Two hours?

"You wanna try again?" Ramirez asked, exhaling smoke in Miller's direction. "Or do we need to help you remember?"

He walked over to the table and picked up a pair of pliers, opening and closing them with deliberate clicks.

They're going to start with my fingernails. Pull them out one by one.

"This is my first undercover assignment," Miller repeated, his voice hoarse. "I swear."

Ramirez backhanded him across the face. Miller's head snapped to the side, blood filling his mouth from his split lip.

"Wrong answer, Deputy."

The metallic taste made Miller's stomach lurch. I'm going to throw up. If I throw up...

"Let me tell you what we know," Carlos said, settling back in his chair. "We know you've been Ryan Kowalski for three months. Perfect fake ID, perfect backstory. But your file shows three different undercover assignments in the last two years."

How much do they know? How deep have they dug?

"You worked the meth labs in Riverside County. Then the gun runners in San Bernardino. Now us."

Miller's blood went cold. They had his real file.

They've got someone inside. Someone feeding them information.

"So let's try this again. How many undercover operations have you been part of?"

Miller remained silent. The rope was sawing deeper into his arms with each breath. He could feel warm blood trickling down to his wrists.

I can't tell them about Operation Blackout. If they find out about the other deputies...

Ramirez moved behind him. Miller couldn't see what he was doing, but he heard the scrape of metal on metal.

Knife. He's got a knife.

"You know what I think?" Ramirez's voice was right next to his ear. "I think you're part of something bigger. A whole network of cops pretending to be dealers, users, suppliers."

The cold blade pressed against Miller's neck, just below his ear.

This is it. He's going to cut my throat.

"So here's the deal, Deputy. You start talking, or I start cutting. And I promise you—I won't start with anything vital."

The blade moved from his neck to his shoulder, slicing through the thin fabric of his tank top. The shirt fell away in ribbons, exposing his muscled chest and the rope burns already forming on his arms.

"Look at that," Carlos whistled. "Boy's been hitting the gym. All that muscle's not gonna help you now, Deputy."

They're going to carve me up piece by piece.

Ramirez traced the knife lightly across Miller's chest, not cutting but marking territory. "You see this scar here?" He pointed to a thin white line across Miller's ribs. "Looks like knife work. Someone's tried to kill you before."

Bar fight three years ago. Drunk with a broken bottle.

"Makes me think you're tougher than you look. Which means this is gonna take longer." Ramirez's gold teeth gleamed in the lantern light. "I like it when they fight back."

The knife pressed deeper, drawing a thin line of blood across Miller's pectoral muscle. Miller bit back a grunt of pain.

Don't give him the satisfaction. Don't make a sound.

"Still nothing to say?" Ramirez asked, wiping the bloody knife on Miller's shoulder. "That's okay. We got all night."

Miller's vision was starting to blur. The ropes around his arms were cutting off circulation, and the pain was becoming constant white noise.

How long can I hold out? How long before I pass out?

"Maybe we need to try a different approach," Carlos suggested. He walked to the table and returned with a car battery and jumper cables. "Electricity has a way of loosening tongues."

They're going to electrocute me. Attach those cables to...

"Oh, don't worry," Ramirez laughed, seeing the terror in Miller's eyes. "We're not gonna kill you with it. Just gonna wake up all those nerve endings. Make everything nice and sensitive."

Carlos attached the cables to the battery terminals. The other ends sparked as he touched them together.

"Now, where should we start?" Ramirez mused, holding the cables. "Chest? Stomach? Or maybe somewhere more... personal?"

Miller's breathing came in short, desperate gasps. Sweat poured down his face, mixing with the blood from the knife cut.

I'm going to break. I can't take this. I'm going to tell them everything.

"Last chance, Deputy," Carlos said, bringing the cables closer. "Tell us about Operation Blackout."

Miller's eyes went wide. How do they know that name?

"Surprise!" Ramirez grinned. "We know more than you think. But we want details. Names, locations, when it goes down."

They know about the operation. They know everything.

The cables touched Miller's chest. Electricity shot through his body like liquid fire. Every muscle contracted at once, his back arching against the chair. His scream echoed off the cabin walls.

I'm going to die. This is how I die.

Chapter 4

Twelve hours. Maybe more. The ropes have cut so deep I can't feel my arms anymore. The electricity... Jesus, the electricity...

Miller's head lolled forward, chin against his chest. His body was a map of pain—knife cuts across his torso, burn marks from the cables, rope burns that had sawed down to muscle. Blood had dried in dark streaks down his arms and chest.

They know about Blackout. They know about the other operations. How much have I told them? Did I break? I can't remember...

The cabin door creaked open. Fresh night air mixed with the stench of blood and sweat.

"Got a present for you, Deputy," Ramirez announced cheerfully.

Miller forced his head up. Through swollen, half-closed eyes, he saw them dragging someone else inside. Someone bound and gagged, struggling against his captors.

No. Please, no.

The figure was thrown to the floor in front of Miller's chair. Even with the duct tape covering most of his face, Miller recognized him instantly.

Tommy. Jesus Christ, they got Tommy.

Detective Tommy Rodriguez—his partner, his best friend for three years. The man who'd stood up at Miller's graduation from the academy. The guy who'd talked him through his first undercover assignment.

How did they find him? How did they know?

"You remember Detective Rodriguez, don't you?" Carlos asked, yanking Tommy to his knees by his hair. "Your partner. Your backup. The guy who's been feeding you information this whole time."

Tommy's eyes met Miller's over the gag. Even through the tape, Miller could see the terror there.

They're going to kill him. They're going to kill him because of me.

"Now here's how this is gonna work," Ramirez said, pulling out a length of rope. "Your friend here is gonna help us finish our little conversation."

He cut Tommy's bonds and forced the rope into his shaking hands.

"You're gonna put this around your partner's neck, Detective Rodriguez. And you're gonna pull it tight every time he gives us a wrong answer." Ramirez pressed his gun against Miller's temple. "If you don't squeeze hard enough, or if you refuse... I put a bullet in his brain right now."

No. They can't make him do this. They can't make Tommy choke me.

"Tommy, don't," Miller croaked, his voice barely a whisper. "Don't do it."

But Tommy's eyes were wild with panic. The gun barrel pressed harder against Miller's skull.

"First question," Carlos announced. "Operation Blackout. When does it go down?"

Miller remained silent, staring at his partner.

"Choke him," Ramirez ordered.

Tommy's hands shook as he brought the rope around Miller's neck. Tears streamed down his face above the gag. The rough fibers scraped against Miller's throat.

He has to do it. If he doesn't, they'll kill me anyway.

"Tighter," Ramirez commanded, pressing the gun harder against Miller's temple. "Or I blow his head off right now."

The rope tightened. Miller's airway constricted. His bound body jerked against the chair as he fought for breath.

I can't breathe. Tommy's choking me. My best friend is choking me.

Tommy's whole body was trembling, tears flowing freely as he pulled the rope tighter.

He doesn't want to do this. They're making him. If I don't talk, they'll make him kill me.

Miller's vision started to darken around the edges. His lungs burned for air.

"Stop," Miller gasped when Tommy loosened the rope slightly. "I'll tell you. I'll tell you everything."

Tommy's grip on the rope loosened immediately. Miller sucked in desperate gulps of air, his throat burning.

"Smart choice," Ramirez said, keeping the gun trained on Miller's head. "Now, Operation Blackout. When?"

Miller's mind raced even as he gasped for breath. I have to give them something, but not the truth. Never the truth.

"Friday," Miller wheezed. "Friday night. Midnight."

The real operation is Thursday at 2 AM. Buy them some time.

"Where?" Carlos leaned forward.

"The warehouse district. Building 47 on Industrial Boulevard."

It's actually Building 23 on Commerce Street.

Tommy's eyes met Miller's over the rope still looped around his neck. Something flickered in his partner's expression—confusion, then understanding.

He knows those aren't the real details. He knows I'm lying.

"How many officers?" Ramirez demanded.

"Twenty-three," Miller said, his voice hoarse from the choking. "SWAT, undercover, surveillance teams."

It's actually forty-seven officers. Make them think we're understaffed.

Tommy's grip tightened slightly on the rope—not choking, but a gentle pressure. A signal. His eyes were wide, but Miller caught the subtle nod.

He gets it. He knows what I'm doing.

"Names," Carlos barked. "We want names of the undercover officers."

Miller's throat worked, as if he was struggling with the betrayal. "Detective... Detective Sarah Martinez. She's been working the north side dealers."

Sarah Martinez retired two years ago. She's in Florida now.

"Agent Mike Thompson with DEA. He's been running the south district operation."

Mike Thompson is fictional. Completely made up.

Tommy's eyes were locked on Miller's face. Behind the tape gag, Miller could see his partner's expression changing—fear giving way to something else. Admiration? Pride?

He knows every name I'm giving them is fake. He knows I'm buying us time.

"More names," Ramirez pressed the gun harder against Miller's skull. "All of them."

"Detective James Foster," Miller continued, his voice breaking as if the words were being torn from him. "He's been undercover for six months in the warehouse district."

James Foster was my training officer. He died in a car accident three years ago.

"Agent Lisa Chen, ATF. She's been tracking the weapons suppliers."

Lisa Chen—completely fictional.

Tommy's breathing had changed. The terror was still there, but now Miller could see understanding in his partner's eyes.

Don't give me away, Tommy. Don't let them see that you know.

"Where are they operating from?" Carlos demanded.

Miller let his head drop, as if the fight was going out of him. "Safe house on Maple Street. Number 1247."

The real safe house is on Oak Street, number 2156.

"Radio frequencies?"

"Channel 7, backup on Channel 12."

We use Channels 3 and 9.

Tommy's grip on the rope loosened completely. His eyes were bright with unshed tears, but Miller could see something else there now—hope.

He knows I haven't broken. He knows I'm still fighting.

Ramirez studied Miller's face, looking for signs of deception. "You better not be lying to us, Deputy. Because if you are..."

He nodded to Tommy, who reluctantly tightened the rope again.

Miller let out a choking gasp, playing the part. "I'm not lying! I swear I'm not lying! Please, don't make him do this anymore!"

Every word was a lie. Every single name, every location, every detail—all of it false.

But Tommy knew. And that meant there was still hope.

Chapter 5

"That's enough talking for tonight," Ramirez said, finally lowering the gun. "We got what we need."

Miller's heart sank. They believed it. They actually believed the lies.

"Carlos, get on the radio. Tell the boys to move on those locations tomorrow night. We're gonna bag ourselves some cops."

Tomorrow night. Friday. They'll waste time hitting empty buildings while the real operation goes down Thursday.

Tommy was pulled away from Miller, his hands quickly bound behind his back again. The rope around Miller's neck was removed, leaving raw burns on his throat.

"What do we do with them now?" Carlos asked, re-gagging Tommy with fresh duct tape.

"Same thing we always do," Ramirez grinned. "Make them disappear."

They're going to kill us. Even after I talked, they're going to kill us.

Two more men entered the cabin, carrying a large wooden crate between them. It was long enough for a coffin, with air holes drilled in the sides.

"Hope you boys ain't claustrophobic," one of the newcomers laughed. "Gonna be a tight fit."

They're going to put us in that box. Dump us in the lake. Watch us drown.

They began untying Miller from the chair, but his arms were so numb he couldn't feel the rope being removed. When they tried to stand him up, his legs buckled completely.

"Jesus, look at his arms," Carlos muttered. The rope had cut trenches in Miller's biceps, leaving deep grooves filled with dried blood. "Think he'll live long enough to drown?"

"Don't matter," Ramirez shrugged. "Dead is dead."

My arms are destroyed. I can't even stand. How are we going to get out of this?

They dragged Miller toward the crate. Tommy was already being forced inside, his bound body curled in the fetal position. There was barely enough room for one person, let alone two.

"Get in there with your boyfriend, Deputy," Ramirez commanded.

Miller was shoved into the crate on top of Tommy. Their bodies pressed together, Miller could feel his partner's rapid heartbeat against his chest.

This is it. We're going to die together in this box.

"Miguel, you stay here and clean up the mess," Ramirez ordered one of the younger gang members. "Get rid of any evidence. We'll be back in an hour."

Miguel nodded nervously. He was new to the crew, barely nineteen, and Miller had noticed him flinching during the torture.

He doesn't want to be here. He's scared.

The lid started to close. In the last sliver of lantern light, Miller saw Ramirez's gold-toothed grin.

"Sweet dreams, boys. Try not to use up all the air before we get to the lake."

The lake. How far? How long do we have?

The lid slammed shut, plunging them into absolute darkness. Miller heard the sound of nails being hammered into wood.

They're sealing us in. Like a coffin.

The crate lurched as they picked it up. Miller and Tommy slid to one end, their bodies tangled together. Through the thin wooden walls, Miller could hear muffled voices and footsteps.

We're being carried outside. To another vehicle.

A truck engine started. The crate was lifted again, then slid across what sounded like a truck bed. Metal scraped against wood.

They're loading us like cargo. How long to the lake?

The truck began to move, bouncing over rough terrain. Every bump sent Miller and Tommy sliding around the cramped space.

Meanwhile, back at the cabin, Miguel stood alone among the blood-stained walls and torture implements. His hands shook as he tried to clean up the evidence.

Jesus, what have I gotten myself into? They're going to murder two cops. I'll get the death penalty for this.

He'd only joined the gang six months ago, desperate for money after his father lost his job. Drug dealing was one thing, but this... this was murder.

Miguel pulled out his cell phone with trembling fingers. He'd kept a cop's business card hidden in his wallet for months—Detective Sarah Chen from the gang unit. She'd tried to recruit him as an informant before he'd gotten in too deep.

If I call her now, maybe I can still get out of this. Maybe I can save those cops.

He dialed the number with shaking hands.

"Detective Chen."

"This... this is Miguel Vasquez. You remember me? You gave me your card..."

"Miguel? What's wrong? You sound scared."

"They got two cops. Ramirez and Carlos. They tortured them and now they're taking them to Clearwater Lake to drown them. They just left five minutes ago in Ramirez's truck."

There was a pause. "Miguel, are you sure about this?"

"I watched them do it! One of them's a deputy named Miller, the other's Rodriguez. They're in a wooden crate in the back of a blue Ford pickup, license plate... hold on..." Miguel ran outside and looked at the tire tracks. "I don't know the plate, but it's Ramirez's truck. Everyone knows that truck."

"Where at Clearwater Lake?"

"The old boat launch on the north side. That's where they always dump... where they dispose of things."

"Miguel, you need to get out of there right now. Do you understand me? Leave everything and run."

"I'm scared, Detective. If they find out I called..."

"We'll protect you. But you need to leave NOW."

The line went dead. Miguel pocketed his phone and ran into the woods behind the cabin.

Twenty minutes later, the sound of helicopters thundered through the forest as Sheriff's units surrounded Clearwater Lake.

The truck screeched to a halt as spotlights blazed down from above. Miller heard shouting outside, the sound of car doors slamming.

"What the fuck is that?" Ramirez's voice, panicked now.

"Cops! It's the fucking cops!"

They found us. They actually found us.

Gunshots erupted outside the truck. Men screaming orders. The crack of rifle fire.

Don't hit the crate. Please don't hit the crate.

"RIVERSIDE COUNTY SHERIFF! DROP YOUR WEAPONS!"

Sheriff Marcus. That's Sheriff Marcus's voice.

More gunshots. Someone screamed in pain.

The crate lurched as someone grabbed it, sliding it across the truck bed.

Are they rescuing us or taking us hostage?

Then Miller heard the sweetest sound in the world.

"MILLER! RODRIGUEZ! CAN YOU HEAR ME?"

It's Marcus. They found us.

Tommy was kicking frantically at the crate lid now, making as much noise as possible.

The sound of crowbars prying at wood. Fresh air rushed in as the lid cracked open.

Sheriff Marcus's face appeared in the opening, his eyes wide with shock at their condition.

"Jesus Christ. Get the paramedics! NOW!"

We're alive. We made it. We're going to live.

As hands reached in to pull them from the crate, Miller heard Ramirez's voice one last time, weak and defeated.

"How... how did you find us?"

Marcus's voice was cold as ice. "One of your own boys called us in, you piece of shit. Seems not everyone in your crew is okay with murdering cops."

Miguel. The kid saved our lives.

Miller felt himself being lifted from the crate, gentle hands supporting his damaged body. EMTs were already cutting the ropes from his wrists.

It's over. It's finally over.

As they loaded him onto a stretcher, Miller caught sight of Tommy being treated by another medical team. His partner gave him a weak thumbs up.

We made it. Both of us. We survived.

And the false information Miller had given them? Operation Blackout would proceed as planned on Thursday night, with Ramirez's crew chasing ghosts on Friday while the real bust went down exactly as intended.

They never broke me. Even when I thought they had, even when I thought I'd failed... I never broke.

The helicopter blades thundered overhead as they lifted off toward the hospital, leaving the lake and the nightmare behind.