Luke followed the address Clarice had given him and found the hotel.
The Dolphin Hotel.
He stood outside the luxurious building with its classic charm and couldn't help but whistle under his breath. The FBI really knew how to spend money if they could expense a place like this. Compared to his own rundown apartnt, it felt like a refugee camp.
Inside, it was a completely different world from the bloody chaos of Miami. Well-dressed n and won sipped drinks and chatted quietly over soft piano music. The air slled like expensive perfu and cigars.
A young waiter in a crisp vest spotted him imdiately and approached with a polished smile.
"Welco to the Dolphin Hotel, sir. How may I assist you?"
"I'm here to see soone."
Luke kept it short.
The waiter nodded. "Of course, sir. Right this way."
Before they could move, a loud argunt erupted at the front desk, shattering the elegant atmosphere.
Luke glanced over. A middle-aged man was yelling at the clerk.
"I said I want room 1408! If you can't handle it, get your manager out here right now!"
Luke turned to the waiter with a curious grin.
"What's his deal? Sothing special about that room?"
The waiter looked uncomfortable. "I'm new here, so I'm not sure. But the manager has made it crystal clear—no one is allowed to stay in 1408."
Luke chuckled. "Guy's got balls. And your hotel's got secrets. I like it."
The waiter didn't comnt. He simply led Luke to the elevator.
Upstairs, Luke knocked on Clarice's door.
"Who is it?"
Her voice was cautious.
"Luke. Your partner."
The door opened. Clarice stood there in casual clothes, hair still damp from the shower. She looked surprised but stepped aside to let him in.
The room was spotless. Her suitcase sat neatly in the corner, case files spread across the desk in perfect FBI order.
"What's going on? It's pretty late."
She poured him a glass of water.
Luke didn't answer right away. He walked to the window and looked down at the street.
A group of young guys were checking every passerby against wanted posters they'd cut out of newspapers. Every now and then they yanked so unlucky bastard under a streetlight for a closer look.
A few minutes later an explosion cracked at the corner. Real fugitives burst out of the shadows. Shouting and gunfire followed. A full-blown alley shootout had just kicked off.
Luke turned back to Clarice.
"Looks like we've got solid leads on the cult, but our firepower's still way too light. The Glock and shotgun are the best the station can give us, and they're not gonna cut it."
Clarice's expression grew serious.
"I sent a full report to headquarters. Their response was… weird. No comnts. No questions. Just 'keep investigating.'"
Luke frowned. With supernatural shit and a cult involved, the FBI should've dropped everything and sent in the big guns. This radio-silence treatnt scread that sothing was off.
Still, he didn't push it. After everything he'd seen in his past life about what the Bureau was capable of, nothing they did surprised him anymore.
Clarice continued.
"I requested weapon support. They didn't approve my list. Just gave an address and told us to pick up whatever we needed ourselves."
Luke nodded. No ti to waste.
Half an hour later they pulled up to the location.
It was just a plain self-service laundromat.
They pushed through the glass doors. The only person inside was a middle-aged guy in a baseball cap sitting in the corner, reading a newspaper without looking up.
He coughed once—loud and heavy—then pointed with his toe toward a plain iron door marked "Staff Only."
Luke and Clarice exchanged a look and stepped through.
On the other side was a long, narrow corridor sloping downward. At the end stood an old freight elevator.
Luke felt a sudden wave of déjà vu.
"n in Black vibes, huh?"
They stepped inside. He couldn't resist teasing.
"Your FBI really goes all out. This setup looks like it ca straight from a movie."
Clarice looked just as lost.
"Don't ask . I graduated training and got shipped straight here. I don't even know where the real headquarters front door is."
The elevator doors opened.
No high-tech secret lair. Just a regular office filled with sharp-looking agents.
A young man in black-rimd glasses and a neat shirt walked over.
"Intern Agent Clarice and Officer Luke, correct? This way, please."
He led them to a side room and opened the door.
Luke's eyes lit up instantly.
One entire wall was covered in weapons—pistols, submachine guns, assault rifles, everything imaginable.
A burly man with a thick beard was cleaning a rifle. He set it down when he saw them.
"You can call Marcus. That's my codena."
"I can hook you up with stuff you can't buy on the street. All the serial numbers are wiped, obviously."
He pointed at the wall.
"Rules are simple. One gun each, one load of ammo. Don't lose it. Don't tell anyone this place exists."
They nodded and started browsing.
Clarice quickly picked a compact submachine gun perfect for close-quarters work.
Luke grabbed a heavy Remington shotgun, but it still didn't feel like enough. He looked at Marcus.
"You got anything with real stopping power?"
Marcus paused, set down his tools, and studied Luke carefully.
"You're Officer Luke, right?"
"That's ."
Marcus's face broke into a wide, enthusiastic grin. His whole attitude shifted.
"Officer Luke, I've heard a lot about you. I've got exactly what you're looking for."
He walked to a cabinet in the corner, pulled out a black tal case, and set it on the table. When he opened it, Luke stared.
Inside lay the most ridiculous handgun he'd ever seen—massive, almost comically oversized—along with a single bullet thicker than his thumb. The kind of round you'd normally load into a heavy machine gun.
Marcus smiled strangely.
"Our departnt's little pet project. Built purely for fun. A single-shot pistol that fires full machine-gun rounds."
He picked up the giant bullet and held it up.
"Nobody can handle it. The recoil would snap a normal person's wrist like a twig."
He slid the gun and the bullet across the table toward Luke.
"But I've got a feeling Officer Luke can manage it."
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