Chapter 24
Alex
I already didn’t want to pull myself out of Liv’s bed this morning, but when I got to work, I realized how much I really didn’t want to be here the moment I walked into the bullpen.
Someone screwed up the coffee-to-water ratio in the pot, causing the whole place to reek way too strongly with an over-the-top coffee scent.
And by the sounds of everyone in here, they’ve been drinking it.
It seems like everyone and everything is a fucking mess in this place. Papers are stacked where they shouldn’t be and case files are spread across desks that I’m pretty sure don’t belong to anyone on those cases.
I’ve got a headache and I just got here.
I slide in the chair behind my desk and give myself a moment to settle.
Today should feel familiar; it’s just another day at work.
But not only was I with Liv last night, we also now know what we’re dealing with.
This case isn’t just trafficking and violence, it’s about control and precision.
It’s a system built to break people in ways that don’t leave clean evidence behind but does leave immeasurable mental and emotional scars.
And somewhere inside that system is a man who thinks he’s untouchable.
“Tell me you’ve got something,” Mason says, dropping into the chair across from my desk.
I don’t look up right away, still scanning the report in my hands: financial logs pulled from a flagged account tied to one of the shell businesses in the area, a realtor who had been connected to the now-abandoned apartment building that caught fire with trafficking victims inside.
Then I toss it into the pile in front of him and finally look up.
The look in his eyes tells me he hasn’t drank any of the overzealous coffee and that he’s sick of what it’s doing to the bullpen as well.
“Depends on what you call ‘something’.”
He flips it open, skimming fast. “Wire transfers,” he mutters. “Layered accounts. Offshore routing… Jesus.”
“Yeah.”
“This isn’t street-level.”
“No.” It’s not. This is infrastructure. Clean money feeding dirty operations, cycling back through legitimate fronts so well built they don’t trip alarms unless you know exactly where to look. But now we do.
“CI confirmed it,” I say, leaning back slightly. “Money’s moving through at least three shell companies. Real estate, logistics, and some kind of medical supply distributor.”
Mason’s head snaps up. “Medical?”
“There it is.”
Now it fits. There’s access, knowledge, and a supply. Succinylcholine doesn’t just appear out of nowhere. Someone’s sourcing it, legitimately, or close enough to it.
“They’re covering their tracks,” Mason says, flipping another page. “Small shipments that are spread out. Nothing big enough to flag on its own.”
“But together?”
He exhales sharply. “Yeah. Together, it paints a picture.”
A damn clear one.
“Oh, and that receipt your girlfriend, dropped off-”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I interject.
“Yeah, yeah. Anyway, it came from a pharmacy that happens to be owned by the family of your favorite person in the world.”
“You know I hate York.”
“You still knew who I meant,” he beams at me like the bastard he is.
I push forward another paper, photos this time. Surveillance stills. They’re grainy and pulled from traffic cams and storefront security. “CI got us these.”
Mason studies them. A warehouse, loading dock, and a plain black SUV. The same vehicle we’ve seen circling three different locations tied to missing persons reports.
“Driver?” he asks.
“Unknown,” I reply. “Face is always obscured and they’ve never gotten a clear read on the plate. But the pattern’s consistent.”
Mason leans back, running a hand over his jaw. “They’re moving people.”
“Yeah.”
“And product.”
“Yeah.” I know he means the Succinylcholine, but to the traffickers, the words people and product are the same thing.
“And we still don’t know who’s at the top.”
I don’t respond because that’s the part that’s starting to bother me the most. Not the violence or the system, but the intelligence behind it. This isn’t sloppy; this isn’t impulsive. This is someone who understands how to build something that lasts. It’s someone patient and careful.
“CI say anything else?” Mason asks.
I hesitate but finally admit, “he mentioned that name again: York.”
“Same as the fire survivor.”
I nod once. “Yeah.”
That’s not a coincidence; it’s confirmation.
Mason exhales slowly. “Alright,” he mutters. “So, we’ve got money, movement, and a partial name.”
“And a method,” I add.
His jaw tightens at the thought. “Yeah.”
We both fall quiet for a second.
“What’s the play?” he finally asks.
That’s the question, the one that matters. I lean forward, resting my forearms on the desk, staring down at the mess of evidence we’ve pieced together. “We push the CI. See how close he can get us to York.”
Mason nods slowly, “and the warehouses?”
“Surveillance,” I reply. “No raids yet, not until we know exactly what we’re walking into.”
“Too risky,” he agrees. It’s too many unknowns, and too many ways it could go sideways.
I sit back again, my gaze drifting across the bullpen at the other detectives and uniforms moving around the room, and the sounds of phones ringing, keyboard typing, and conversations overlapping.
Like normal. Except it’s not, not anymore.
Because now I know what’s happening just a few miles from here. And we’re still playing catch-up.
“You’re distracted,” Mason says.
I glance back at him. “I’m working.”
“Yeah,” he replies. “But you’re thinking about something else.”
I don’t respond because he isn’t wrong. I’m still thinking about Liv.
“Don’t,” Mason insists.
My gaze snaps back to his. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t go there,” he replies. “Not now.”
My jaw stiffens, “You don’t even know where I’m going.”
“Yeah, I do,” he smirks. “She’s not part of this case.”
“She’s already part of it,” I say.
Mason shakes his head. “No,” he counters. “She’s adjacent. There’s a difference.”
Not anymore, not after last night. “She’s seen the victims,” I argue. “She’s heard what they’ve said. She-”
“Exactly,” he cuts in. “She’s a witness to the aftermath. Not a victim.”
I barely keep my fists from clenching, solely because they’re on my desk and he’ll see it and know that he got a rise out of me. “She’s exactly what they’re looking for.”
Mason holds my gaze. “So you keep an eye on her, but you don’t start spiraling about ‘what ifs’.”
Mason watches me for a long second, then leans back, exhaling softly. “Get your head straight,” he says. “We’ve got enough to work with without you losing your mind.”
I nod once because he’s right. Again. But that doesn’t make it easier.
My gaze drops back to the files between us, to the photos, financials, and all the pieces of something bigger that we’re still trying to see clearly.
York. The name lingers. He’s a shadow without a face, but not for long.
“We’ll find him,” I say.
Mason nods. “Yeah.”
We just have to figure out how without me going off the deep end.