Officer Hayden Christensen pulled his car to a slow stop a block away from the warehouse. The informant's tip had been sketchy, vague at best, but he'd followed it anyway. Tonight, it seemed, the risk was about to pay off. This deal was bigger than anything he'd busted before. The place was a long-abandoned warehouse, the kind with busted windows and rusted metal siding, dark and empty except for the faint glint of light seeping through gaps in the panels. Hayden stepped out of his car, adjusting his leather jacket and tucking his gun into his belt. He moved toward the building quietly, listening, watching for any signs of movement. As he crept closer, he heard low voices, punctuated by laughter and the occasional scrape of something heavy being moved. The kind of sound that only a lot of cash or drugs could buy. He slipped into the shadows by a side door, finding it cracked open. Inside, the place was huge - open floor, concrete pillars, dim industrial lights hanging from wires. And people. Dozens of them. In the center of the space, a makeshift table had been set up with stacks of cash piled high, some spilling over onto the floor. Around it, men in suits, others in leather jackets, all whispering to each other as more people walked in carrying metal cases and duffel bags. He counted at least fifteen armed guards stationed around the perimeter, their faces blank but their eyes trained on the crowd. He spotted the main dealer, a tall man in a slick suit, going over inventory with a grim smile, nodding as he counted bag after bag of white powder. These were serious players. He knew this could blow up in seconds, but he wasn't about to back down. "Alright," Hayden muttered to himself. "Time to crash the party."