Brooklyn Nine Nine

Chapter 9: The Runner

Terry sipped his protein shake as he stared at the whiteboard inside the precinct's briefing room. Photos of pills, a busted stash house, and a suspect's mugshot were tacked under the bold heading: "OPERATION STEEL VEIN."

Behind him, the squad filtered in — Rosa , Boyle, Amy , and Jake were standing there waiting.

"Alright, squad," Terry began. "Here's what we've got. NYPD Narcotics ran surveillance for three weeks on a suspected drug pipeline from Newark to Brooklyn. Last night, we raided a stash house in Gowanus. Found fifty thousand dollars' worth of Fentanyl and fake oxy. But the primary suspect — Marcus Devane — he's on the run."

He pointed at the mugshot: a lean man with sharp cheekbones and dead eyes.

"Devane's got a history of slipping through cracks," Terry continued. "Assault, trafficking, resisting arrest. He knows the system. So we need to lock this down fast."

Amy raised her hand like they were in class. "Do we have intel on his last location post-raid?"

"Partial. K-9 unit lost the scent at the canal near 4th Street," Terry said. "We think he stashed a bike or had a ride. Jake, you're taking lead on the follow-up canvas of that area with Boyle. Amy, I want you digging through his phone records, socials, anything digital. Rosa and I will work possible safe houses. We hit this hard, we hit this smart. Let's roll."

Jake gave a short nod. "I will work on it."

Jake and Boyle moved along the grimy canal path near 4th Street. Old warehouses lined one side; the other was fenced with barbed wire. The morning fog still hadn't lifted.

"I'm just saying," Boyle said, scanning the ground, "this guy could've had a boat. Like a secret canal boat. Like a criminal gondola."

Jake smirked. "If we find a boat with a stash of Percocet and a guy playing accordion, I'm quitting."

They rounded a corner and spotted a motion-activated security camera fixed to a warehouse. Jake's eyes lit up.

"Jackpot."

Back at the precinct, Jake plugged the USB into the screen in the briefing room. The footage was grainy, but clear enough — at 3:11 AM, Devane sprinted into frame, tossed something into the canal, and then ducked behind a dumpster.

A minute later, a motorcycle with no plates pulled up. Devane hopped on. They were gone in seconds.

Terry leaned in. "You get a plate?"

"Nope," Jake replied. "But I got something better. The rider had a very specific sticker on the helmet — a yellow cat with a knife in its mouth. That's a biker crew from Red Hook called the Bone Fangs."

Rosa raised an eyebrow. "Nice catch."

Amy, sitting at her desk, chimed in: "I cross-referenced Devane's last known associates. Two of them have ties to the Bone Fangs. One of them — Colin Marx — he owns an auto garage near the docks. If Devane's hiding, that's where he'd go."

Terry nodded. "Let's suit up."

The team geared up and rolled out — Rosa and Amy in one SUV, Terry with Jake and Boyle in another SUV. NYPD backup would arrive five minutes behind.

As they approached the garage, Terry gave orders through the comms. "Jake, take the west entrance. Rosa and Amy go east. I'll take point with Boyle up front. Non-lethal unless fired on. Let's move."

The garage looked abandoned, but the faint smell of oil and cigarettes clung to the air. Jake moved silently, weapon drawn, heart steady.

He reached a side door, gently turned the knob, and slipped inside.

The dim space was lined with beat-up cars, tool racks, and oil-stained rags. At the far end, two figures moved — one standing, one crouched.

Jake signaled with his flashlight. "NYPD! Hands where I can see—"

Devane turned and bolted.

Jake was right behind him.

Devane knocked over a stack of tires, forcing Jake to hurdle through. They burst out of the back of the garage and into the open yard — a rusted fence blocked the alley, and Devane made a break for it.

"Freeze!" Jake shouted, voice sharp. "Don't make this worse!"

Devane turned and swung a wrench.

Jake ducked, tackled him low, and the two slammed into the dirt. They wrestled hard — Devane elbowed, Jake grunted and responded with a clean twist that pinned the man's arm.

"Let go of me!"

"You first!"

Devane snarled, trying to reach something in his jacket. Jake saw the glint, it was a small blade.

"Oh no you won't."

He slammed Devane's arm down, twisted the wrist, and the knife clattered to the side. A second later, Terry and Rosa were there, guns drawn, moving fast.

"Clear!" Rosa shouted.

Jake slapped the cuffs on Devane's wrists, panting hard. "You're done, Marcus. Game over."

An hour later, Marcus Devane sat in a cell.

The garage yielded five pounds of fentanyl, two handguns, and a burner phone with dozens of dealer contacts. Amy was working on mapping them now.

Boyle brought donuts. Rosa refused them. Jake actually took a nap on the couch for fifteen minutes — then got up and typed the report himself.

Terry walked over, arms crossed. "That was clean work. Especially that tackle."

Jake shrugged. "He zigged. I zagged."

"You could've been stabbed."

"I wasn't," Jake replied. "You said hit it hard and smart. I'm trying to do both now."

Terry gave a proud smile. "Well, keep it up. Holt's noticing. So is the Commissioner's office."

Jake gave a small nod.

"Also," Terry added, "Boyle said you tackled the guy like a linebacker."

Jake grinned. "He's just jealous because I landed it without hurting my back."

As the bullpen hummed with post-arrest energy, Jake sat at his desk, sipping coffee and finishing the last line of his report.

"Suspect apprehended. No casualties. Evidence secured."

He leaned back, eyes drifting to the photo of Devane on the board.