Chapter 6
Marcus dropped flat into the freezing runoff, letting the foul-tasting water wash over his back as the beam of a high-intensity tactical flashlight swept inches above his head. The light flickered against the damp concrete, painting everything in a harsh, clinical white before moving further down the pipe.
"Clear this section," a second voice ordered, the sound bouncing off the curved walls and distorting into an eerie, metallic echo.
Marcus waited, his chest burning for oxygen, his muscles locked in a desperate freeze response. The footsteps grew fainter, splashing toward the southern exit of the culvert where the drainage system emptied into the river basin. Slowly, he raised his head, spitting out muddy water, and crawled backward into a narrow maintenance alcove that branched off the main pipe.
His fingers brushed against something metallic embedded in the wall—an old iron ladder leading up to a sealed utility hatch. He grabbed the rungs, testing their weight. They groaned slightly but held.
"Vance, you still there?" Marcus whispered into the satellite phone, his voice barely audible over the rush of water.
"I'm here," Vance replied instantly. "Did you see them? Those aren't cops, Marcus. They're cleaning up loose ends."
"You sent me down here knowing they use this route for sweep operations," Marcus accused, his grip tightening on the iron ladder until his knuckles turned white. "You set me up to be cornered."
"If I wanted you dead, I would have let Miller empty her magazine in the driveway," Vance snapped back, the exhaustion in his voice giving way to raw anger. "I’m sticking my neck out further than you can possibly imagine. My family is currently locked in a motel ten miles from here under armed guard because I wouldn't sign off on the third fabricated incident report this month."
Marcus paused, processing the seismic shift in the narrative. If Vance was telling the truth, the entire police force—or at least a very dangerous faction within it—had been compromised from the top down.
"Where is the file?" Marcus asked quietly.
"Inside the evidence locker at the downtown precinct," Vance said. "The physical file. Not digital. Digital records are getting wiped automatically every midnight by a backdoor script written by the chief’s office. You need that paper trail, Marcus. It lists every shell company, every corrupted badge, and the real name of the man pulling the strings."
"And what's his name?"
A sharp metallic clang echoed from the main drainage pipe—someone had dropped a heavy flashlight or kicked a piece of debris.
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"Director Vance?" a strange voice called out over the satellite line, cutting in with crystal-clear distortion. "Incorrect nomenclature. Vance retired ten minutes ago, Marcus."
Marcus stared at the phone in horror as the call disconnected with a sharp, electronic click.
