Chapter 9
The rain drummed a heavy, relentless tattoo against the roof of the command car as Vance and Harrelson drove back toward Station Four in tense silence. The blue vinyl binder lay between them on the passenger seat like an unexploded ordnance. Every page represented a direct indictment of the city’s municipal leadership, tying high-ranking fire commissioners and real estate developers directly to the arson homicide of an active-duty captain.
“If we hand this over to internal affairs, it’ll be shredded before the morning shift change,” Harrelson said, keeping his eyes fixed on the wet asphalt ahead. “You know how deep those connections go in city hall. The Chief of Operations golfs with the zoning commissioner every Sunday.”
“We aren't giving it to internal affairs,” Vance replied coldly, staring out the window at the blurred neon signs of downtown. “We’re taking it to the federal prosecutor’s office across the river. They’re the only ones outside the city's jurisdiction who can subpoena the property records without tipping off the mayor’s office.”
“And Maya?” Harrelson asked, glancing sideways at Vance. “What happens to her while we cross enemy lines?”
Vance felt a sharp pinch in his chest. Maya was still sitting in the back office of Station Four, believing her father might somehow walk through the heavy bay doors. Telling her the truth—that her father had been murdered by the very system he swore an oath to protect—felt like lighting a match in a room full of gasoline. But lying to her wasn’t an option anymore. Tom had trusted Vance with his life, and now he had trusted him with his daughter.
When the car rolled back into the station bay, Vance noticed something was wrong immediately.
The heavy steel security gate at the front entrance was halfway down, locked in place. Two unmarked black sedan cruisers were parked near the personnel door, their emergency flashers dark and silent.
“Wait here,” Vance whispered, killing the engine and slipping his hand inside his coat where his service revolver rested in its leather holster.
He pushed open the car door and stepped out onto the wet concrete of the bay floor. The station was dead quiet, save for the hum of the heaters. But the air smelled different—not of diesel and coffee, but of cold polish and sharp, expensive cologne.
May you like
From behind the corner of Engine Four, a tall man in a tailored charcoal suit stepped into the light. It was Deputy Chief Sterling, the head of municipal logistics and the mayor’s primary liaison to the fire department. He wasn't wearing a uniform, but the silver stars on his collar pinned to his lapel gleamed under the fluorescent lights.
“Evening, Vance,” Sterling said smoothly, his hands tucked casually into his trouser pockets. “Bit late to be out touring the districts, isn't it?”
