The bank robbers' faces lit up on the police command van's monitors, one by one. As the grainy video feed from the delivery box stabilized, the facial recognition system went to work. Matches began flooding in—criminal records, known associates, past charges.
Detective Hale stood silent, eyes fixed on the screen, as names and profiles appeared. Ray Donovan. Ethan Black. Logan Vance. Mack Carson. But one face came up with no match at all: A.D. His identity was blank—no record, no confirmed ID. Hale's brow furrowed. Something about the silent man tugged at a memory, but he couldn't place him.
He had only seen A.D. once, almost a year ago. And in that moment, Hale had been too consumed by duty—and guilt.
The command tent suddenly parted. A voice, shaky and familiar, called out:
"Robert!"
Hale turned. His wife, Angela Hale, stood there, eyes red with worry. She rushed to him.
"Emily's in there," she said, voice cracking. "You have to do something. Please. Don't let her get caught in crossfire…"
Hale clenched his jaw and pulled her into a brief hug, his eyes never leaving the monitors. "I'll get her out. I promise."
Just then, another figure approached. A woman in her early forties, with tired eyes and a face Hale hadn't seen in over a decade.
"Detective Hale," she said firmly. "I need to speak to you. It's important."
The officers tried to stop her, but Hale raised a hand. "Let her through."
She stepped inside the van. "My name is Linda Donovan. I'm Ray Donovan's wife. He's the one leading them. He's not in the bank. He's running this… from a van. I know where it is."
The command van fell silent.
Moments later, police surrounded an old utility vehicle parked two blocks east. Inside, they found Ray Donovan hunched over surveillance equipment, earpiece still connected. He didn't resist when they dragged him out in cuffs.
Hale stared at him, stunned.
"Ray… why?"
But Donovan didn't answer.
Across the city block, chaos was brewing in Hale's absence.
Without informing him, the Deputy Commander, growing impatient and under media pressure, gave a quiet order: "Take the shot. Disable them. End this now."
A signal was passed.
From a nearby rooftop, a sniper zeroed in through a second-floor window. Inside the bank, the robbers were mid-conversation when glass shattered—then a sharp crack echoed.
Ethan Black staggered back, clutching his shoulder, blood blooming through his jacket.
Screams erupted. The hostages dove for cover. The robbers scattered, grabbing weapons.
And just like that, everything inside began to fall apart.