Chapter 25
Alex
The fluorescent lights of the precinct bullpen hum overhead, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow. Mason's red hair is a stark contrast against the gray filing cabinets as he slams a folder down on my desk, sending a cloud of dust into the air.
“You're not going to believe this,” he says, dropping into the chair opposite mine. “Forensics finished tracing those shell companies from the financials.”
I lean back, rubbing my eyes. “Let me guess. More dead ends?”
“Wrong.” He flips open the folder, pushing a stack of bank transfer records toward me.
“See this name? Rivers? It keeps showing up.
Not just in the money trail, but in facial rec from CCTV in the areas of the kidnappings too.
Our CI mentioned it yesterday, said Rivers must be one of the main guys handling the 'merchandise' transfers.”
I scan the documents, my focus sharpening. “Rivers... where have I heard that before?”
“Probably because we've been looking at it for three weeks without connecting the dots,” Mason says, running a hand through his hair. “He's not just a money guy. He's hands-on. The CI says Rivers is the one who moves the women from location to location.”
That gets my full attention. “He has a fixed address?”
“Owns a location in the warehouse district downtown. But here's the thing-” Mason leans forward, lowering his voice “-our CI says Rivers is paranoid. Changes locations every few weeks. But he's got a standing appointment every Tuesday at the warehouse on Elm.”
I check my watch. “Today's Tuesday.”
Mason nods. “And our CI says Rivers is expecting a delivery tonight. Medical supplies.”
The pieces start clicking into place. “Succinylcholine.”
“Bingo.”
I stand up, pacing the small space behind my desk. “We need someone inside. Tonight.”
“Not me,” Mason says immediately. “You know I can't pass for anything but myself with this hair.” He gestures to his red locks that hang past his ears. “Even with a wig, it'd be too obvious. Too much to hide.”
He's right. Mason's distinctive hair would never fit neatly under a wig without looking unnatural. And in a world where one wrong detail gets you buried, unnatural is a death sentence.
“Then it's gotta be me,” I say, already knowing the answer.
Mason doesn't argue. “You know the risks. Your face...”
“I'll be unrecognizable,” I assure him. “We’ve got access to colored contacts, prosthetic nose pieces, and wigs that’ll cover my hair completely. With the right clothes, I'll just be another low-level runner.”
“Your dad...”
“Would have a heart attack if he knew,” I finish. “Which is why he won't. We do this tonight, and we do it clean.”
Mason studies me for a long moment. “You sure about this? Going in alone?”
“I trust you to have my back from the outside,” I say. “And I don't trust anyone else to get this right. You know that.”
He nods slowly. “Alright. But we plan this down to the second. In, out, no heroics.”
“Deal.”
We spend the next two hours mapping out every detail. The plan is simple: infiltrate tonight under the guise of a new runner, gather evidence, and get out. The actual raid will happen a few days later, once we have concrete connections and warrants in place. My infiltration is just reconnaissance.
“Remember,” Mason says as we finalize the details, “you're just there to be a lacky. Nothing more. Don't engage, don't explore, don't play hero.”
“I hear you,” I say, though we both know I've never been good at following that particular rule.
After a few days of arguing with Captain Grant that this is actually a good plan despite his reluctance to accept it.
By evening, I'm transformed in the precinct's bathroom. The man staring back at me in the mirror is a stranger with dark, stringy hair that hangs over a forehead covered by a prosthetic brow piece. My nose looks broader, and my jawline is different. The green contacts make my eyes look so different that along with everything else, I don’t even recognize myself.
With the worn leather jacket and plain black shirt, I could be anyone.
“Ready?” Mason asks when I step out.
I nod once. “See you on the other side.”