Drop an anonymous tip to the NYPD.

Daniel Cross climbs up the stairs, panting, soaked in sweat and cursing under his breath. She wasn't at that nosy neighbor's apartment, she wasn't at the grocery store, or the nearby clothing shop she always asked to visit. That exhausted the short list he had to work with, leaving him without a clue as to where she could've gone... and panic was quickly settling in. What would she do without him? Was his son in danger? He has to be protected... no, more than that...

She has to be protected, or such was Daniel's perception: she is ****, weak, and she completes him. Her absence is a void that fills him, and now more than ever did he feel the absence of allies. But he can't rely on anyone else: he didn't flee to this metropolis of sin on a whim, after all. People knew what he did in Buffalo, or they would've known if he stayed visible... and there was nowhere better to vanish in the state of New York than the bowels of Hell itself.

Their marriage, her location, their child: none of it was known or made official by the State, and that's how Daniel wanted it. Only God would judge him, and he knew that her delivery unto him was nothing short of a gift for his faithfulness. He sinned of course, and as he unlocks his apartment door he contemplates those early, heinous crimes, his sexual acts with a foster child he all but tortured into "marrying" him... but long has his mind's eye been twisted into a lens through which his crimes seem like a matter of providence.

"Daniel Cross?" He swings around, wide-eyed at the sound of his name. A pair dressed in business casual, a Hispanic young man and a middle-aged black woman, were suddenly right next to him. He had barely registered them while approaching his apartment; he had no reason to expect company he didn't already recognize, here.

"I'm sorry, I'm afraid I can't-"

Both flash their badges: NYPD. Detectives. The hunters of criminals. Criminals like Daniel Cross, a fact not lost on him. "I'm Detective Sanchez, this is Detective Forbes. We'd like to ask you a couple of questions about the disappearance Ophelia Dale." The State was ever his enemy, save when they gave him the repository for his seed. Normally he knows better than to tell them anything...

But somehow, here, they knew. Disappearance. For a crazed, **** moment, Daniel Cross saw the State as an ally. It would be his undoing. "Disappea- you'll help me find her?! And our son, I- Please, I was only away for a few days and she's not here, or anywhere else she'd-"

The detectives look at each other, and then back to him. Wait. Disappearance. "Sir... we got a call from the Buffalo Sherriff's Office: they've been investigating the sudden disappearance of your foster daughter for a few years now, after you reported her as a runaway. They just got a tip that says you were spotted with her... here."

Of course. Disappearance... she disappeared years ago. That's what he told the State. The vile, godless State that would've taken his daughter, and their son, away from him. Forbes speaks up, her voice hinting at a bubbling mixture of anger and disgust. "So you're saying she was here... and did you say... YOUR son?"

Sanchez licks his lips as he reaches into his pocket. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to come down to the station with us. We've got a few questions, and-"

Daniel Cross did not come this far to have his life ruined by two low-bred stooges of the State. His vision was clear now... now as it filled with murderous rage. Self-defense. That's what he will call it when he suddenly, viciously swings at Sanchez. The detective rolls as well as he can with the blow, saving his life but not sparing his consciousness. With a fractured cheekbone the rookie detective crumples into a heap, and Cross goes to deliver the same to-

BAM.

The Glock 17 is a popular side-arm for the younger generation of detectives. The cool glory of a revolver was diminished by the amount of shooting and reloading some surprise engagements called for, especially here in the Lower East Side. This is why Harry Sanchez arms himself with a Glock 17, and practiced firing from the hip as well as proper stances at the range at least once every month. It could save his life, one day.

BAM.

But Detective Sanchez is **** right now. Fortunately for him, Detective Forbes finds a nice middle ground between the practical Glock 17 and the flashy Smith & Wesson or Colt revolvers of the old hounds of the NYPD: it was gaudy, but she loves her Heckler & Koch HK45 Tactical, loaded with ten full-jacketed rounds. She didn't even need the extended barrel, one of the few additional features on the Tactical model, but the name excited her: "Tactical". It's like having a nice middle name, which she always wanted. She sort of got it with her department nickname: Sarah "Firestorm" Forbes. She practices at the range twice every week.

BAM.

Forbes punches the third .45-caliber round into the right-half of the suspect's pelvis, and Cross finds his balance crumbling as his hip bone is shattered into pieces. The pain, and loss of supporting bone structure, and damage to intestines, cause him to crumble, howling in agony while his and the detective's ears ring from the blasts of her sidearm. Even while deafened by gunfire, she yells for an ambulance into her radio before wrangling the flailing, half-conscious man. He tries to grip her, earning a solid elbow to his temple that quiets him down long enough for her to capture his wrists on the third-largest setting of her handcuffs.

Though he couldn't make out her reading of his rights, he'd later find out he was arrested for endangering a minor, sexual **** of a minor, aggravated battery, **** of a police officer, and resisting arrest. Once he's done wallowing in a prison hospital for three months of recovery, he'll face detention without bond for the duration of his trial. His attorney, which he will name as being "Jesus Christ Himself", will not be reached for comment. His public defender will insist on a plea, and will then be assaulted by the mending Mr. Cross, extending his stay in the State's justice system.

Your anonymous tip, made at an unmonitored payphone, proves the catalyst for this dispensing of justice, where Mr. Cross will find that his permanently damaged hip and bad attitude will serve him poorly in maximum-security prison... {if Sarah_slave = true}or at least that's what Sarah whispers into your ear while squeezing your cock, that same night. It was reassuring, given that all you heard were gunshots... as much as you resented Mr. Cross and what he did, none of it was worth **** by your own hands.{else@}but you won't learn about any of these details until you have your own, fateful meeting with one "Firestorm" Forbes.{endif}