Agent Adam Fleury
Agent Adam Fleury
The streets outside Hudson Yards was chaos.
Police lights painted the buildings blue and red, yellow tape cut through the crowd, and the air was thick with camera flashes and questions.
New Yorkers were known for minding their business — but not today. Not when there’d been three bodies in a mall restroom, and two hours later, the NYPD still had nothing to say.
A black SUV slid to a stop behind the barricade. Three men stepped out, all in black suits, all wearing the kind of silence that made people step aside.
They moved straight for the tape.
“FBI,” the black bald one in front said, flashing his badge before the officer could even ask.
The cop frowned. “The fuck are you guys doing here?”
No one answered. They ducked under the tape and went in.
Inside the main hall, a group of weary officers were huddled near a cordoned-off zone, coffee in hand, mid-conversation. The air smelled of bleach and blood.
The unit captain — broad-shouldered, mid-fifties, a man who’d clearly missed sleep — straightened when he saw the suits.
“You gonna tell me why the Bureau’s suddenly interested in my homicide scene?” he asked.
The lead agent — the black one, gave a polite nod. “Good morning, Captain. I’m Agent Adam Fleury, FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit. These are Special Agents Jim Holt and Terrence Vega. We’re here under direct orders from the director’s office.” He handed over a sealed memorandum.
The captain flipped it open, skimming. “Doesn’t say why this is a federal issue.”
“Certain details are classified” Fleury said evenly. “I’m just here to oversee the transfer and containment of evidence.”
The captain eyed him for a long moment, then exhaled through his nose. “Fine. Follow me.”
They headed toward the restroom.
Even from the hallway, the smell hit — heavy, metallic, rancid. Inside, it was worse. They couldn't help but pinch their nose.
Light stands surrounded the scene. The floor was slick. Shattered mirrors, a sink half torn from the wall, two urinals broken in half. Blood — everywhere.
And in one of the toilet stalls, the source.
Three bodies, crammed into the space like broken mannequins, bent and stacked in impossible positions.
Fleury froze, his jaw tightening. “Jesus Christ.”
“Yeah,” the captain muttered. “That about sums it up.”
He walked closer, voice low and grim. “We think it started as a confrontation — probably didn’t last long. From what forensics says, the victims barely fought back. The perp wasn’t in a hurry either — looks like he wanted to make a point. We haven’t pulled them out yet. Walls might have to go first.”
He pointed to one of the victims. “That one’s Tyler Hagen. Nephew to Larry Gambino. The other two — friends, both college-age. All three: no blood left in them.”
Fleury turned sharply. “Come again?”
“Drained. Every drop,” the captain said, still looking at the mess like he couldn’t quite believe it himself. “And… bite marks on their necks. I don’t buy it either.”
Fleury’s brow furrowed, the line between skepticism and something else flickering there. “You got eyes on the suspect?”
“Yeah. Caught him on the west corridor cam,” the captain said, nodding toward the far hall. “And we got lucky — knife on scene, skin under the kid’s nails. But here’s the kicker — the DNA’s not in any database. Guy’s a ghost.”
They walked out. The captain extended a hand. “Captain Daniel Gustin.”
“Agent Fleury,” he said, shaking it firmly. “We’ll take it from here.”
Within minutes, the NYPD team was cleared out. FBI jackets replaced uniforms. The local chaos quieted into a federal hum.
Inside the mall’s security room, Fleury stood while Jim and Terry sat, their eyes glued to the monitors replaying the footage.
“Jesus,” Jim muttered, zooming in on the suspect. “This guy’s calm as hell after carving up three kids. Look at him. Doesn’t even flinch.”
“Even worse,” Terry added. “We ran him through every database. Nada. No priors, no aliases. It’s like he doesn’t exist.”
“Or doesn’t want to,” Fleury muttered, pacing behind them.
Jim leaned forward, still clicking. “We’re waiting on confirmation from ICE, too. They said the guy’s clean but didn’t attach a file. Probably nothing, but still feels off.”
“Off?” Terry snorted. “The Bureau’s been compromised for years. Half these agencies got their strings pulled by old money. You think ICE’s clean? Please.”
Jim ignored him, clicking again. “You wanna hear something weird though? I swear I saw the Falcone girl with this guy. See? Right there.” He zoomed in. The grainy footage showed Lucian walking beside a young woman — Francesca.
Terry blinked. “how the fuck do you know the Falcone daughter?”
“I know faces, man. It’s her.”
Fleury leaned closer, the tension sharp in his shoulders. “You saw that and didn’t think it was important to mention?”
“I mean—”
“You freaking idiot,” Terry cut in. “You don’t see the connection? The guy’s with a Falcone and kills a Gambino? Jesus, that’s a goddamn declaration of war.”
“Ohh,” Jim said, realization dawning. “So that’s why we’re here. Mafia politics.”
Fleury slammed his palm against the console, the monitors flickering. “Would you two shut the fuck up for ten seconds?”
Silence.
He grabbed the mouse and began scrubbing through the footage himself. Every frame — Lucian entering the mall, Francesca beside him, Tyler’s taunt in the Zara store, Lucian going to the restroom and Tyler following him inside. Then nothing. No exit. Just static.
Jim broke the silence again, voice cautious. “You ever hear the story of Vittorio Falcone?”
Fleury didn’t answer. Terry sighed. “Christ, here we go.”
“No, listen,” Jim said, leaning back. “Vittorio came here from Sicily decades ago — alone, or maybe with his friend...brother, Benny, no one knows. No family. No title. Just brains and resolve. Built his own thing in Jersey before the Genovese bastard took a liking to him. What’s crazy? He did it without a traditional family structure. No capos, no underbosses, just him and Benny who's supposed to be his consigliere. That’s why nobody’s been able to touch him — no trail, no rats. Man’s untouchable,, and...”
Before he could finish, Fleury slammed the mouse down, the sound echoing in the small room. He turned and stormed out.
“What’s his problem?” Jim muttered. “That was relevant.”
Fleury stepped outside, lit a cigarette, and took a long drag like he hadn’t breathed in hours. The smoke trembled in the cold air.
Another black SUV pulled up. A single man stepped out — sharp suit, silver hair, the kind of authority that made even senior agents stiffen. Fleury stubbed his cigarette and walked to meet him.
“Morning, sir—”
“Save it,” the man said, striding past him. “Clear the area. Now.”
“We already have, sir.”
“No, you haven’t.”
He raised his voice, cutting through the quiet hum of agents and forensics techs. “Everyone out. Now.”
The order was absolute. No one hesitated.
“Sir,” Fleury said, following, “with all due respect, we still don’t know why this is Bureau business. This should be under state jurisdiction—”
The man stopped cold and turned, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. “Your brother was one of the best agents I ever had. You know what made him great? He didn’t question orders. You want to live up to that? Then shut up and move.”
Fleury froze, jaw tight. “Yes, sir.”
Minutes later, the place was empty again — just the man, Fleury, and the hum of monitors in the dark security room.
Jim and Terry were still there, laughing over something on-screen — until the man walked in.
“Out,” he said.
They didn’t argue. They left with their heads bowed like they weren't just laughing their asses off.
When the door shut, Fleury finally spoke. “Sir, what’s going on? If I’m assigned to this case, I need to know what the hell we’re walking into.”
“Orders from the director,” the man said flatly. “Everyone except you is off this detail. You’re to report to Headquarters, prep for a full medical panel. You’ll be vaccinated for Ebola.”
Fleury blinked. “Ebola? Sir, my grand mother was Nigerian, she made sure we were—”
“I don’t give a damn about your nanny or whether you’ve had it before,” the man interrupted. “You going or you wanna be pulled outta this case?”
Fleury’s jaw flexed. He nodded slowly. “Yes, sir. I'll go.”
“Good. You’ll be briefed there.”
Fleury stood there for a second, staring at him — at the exhaustion behind the authority — then turned and walked out.
Behind him, the man exhaled, looking at the footage still frozen on the screen.
Lucian’s face stared back at him — calm, empty, almost human.
Almost.