Chapter 7 Burn Notice
BURN NOTICE
CALLAHAN
My flat smelled like copper and rain when I dragged myself through the door in the small hours of the morning.
Each breath made my ribs scream. My knuckles were split, blood dried in the creases of my fingers, the surveillance job having turned violent when my target noticed the tail.
I'd taken hits I shouldn't have because I was too busy thinking about Dom to focus on the man trying to break my ribs.
I stripped methodically in the bathroom, peeling clothes away from bruises already blooming purple and black across my torso.
My reflection in the mirror looked like someone else's problem — split lip, swelling under my left eye, the particular exhaustion that came from an adrenaline crash and the knowledge that I'd made mistakes I couldn't afford.
A first aid kit lived under the sink, well-stocked because this wasn't my first beating and wouldn't be my last. I cleaned my knuckles first, antiseptic burning in the cuts, each sting a reminder that distraction got you hurt in this line of work.
Tape around my fingers to stabilise the swelling.
An ice pack against my ribs, though I knew it wouldn't help much past the first hour.
I sat on the bathroom floor with my back against cool tile and let my mind do what it did best: replay everything with perfect clarity.
Dom. The alley. The way he'd crowded into my space with controlled violence radiating off him like heat, the way my hand had wrapped around his cock and felt him respond despite every attempt at restraint.
The way I'd made him come because proving I could break his control had felt more important than maintaining my own professional distance.
I'd crossed another line there. A different kind. Worse, maybe, because it hadn't been strategic — it had been impulse wrapped in justification, desire wearing the mask of tactical advantage.
My memory gave it back in perfect detail. The exact rhythm of my strokes. The change in his breathing. The sound he'd made when release hit him, rough and desperate and absolutely devastating.
I couldn't stop thinking about it. About him. About the way his body had felt under my hands, the way his control had shattered, the way making him lose it had felt like victory and mistake in equal measure.
My phone buzzed from the floor beside me. A text from Derek, former colleague from my police days — one of the few who'd stayed in contact after I was forced out, and one of fewer still who believed my partner's death hadn't been an accident.
Someone's asking about you. Man with different-coloured eyes. Thought you should know.
My chest tightened. Someone was asking questions, and they knew enough to use my heterochromia as an identifier. That narrowed the list considerably.
Harrow. It had to be. I'd gotten too close at Eden, stayed too long, left too many traces. He'd noticed me even behind a mask, had recognised something familiar enough to start digging.
Or Dom. Except Dom already knew who I was — had followed me through London, had gotten my name through whatever resources Adrian's network afforded him. Dom asking questions made no sense unless he was gathering intelligence for someone else.
Unless he was working for Harrow.
The thought made my stomach turn, but I couldn't dismiss it. Couldn't afford to assume Dom was clean just because he'd let me walk away from that alley. Couldn't trust attraction or the memory of his body responding to mine when trust had gotten me burned before.
I needed information. Needed to understand what I was walking into before it became a trap I couldn't escape.
I needed Bishop.
A pub in Southwark that looked like every other tired establishment where men drank to forget. I found Bishop in the back corner at 11:34 a.m., at a table that gave him clear sight lines to both exits and me the uncomfortable awareness that I was about to ask for favours I couldn't repay easily.
He looked like a banker — suit, tie, an expensive watch, polish so deliberate it announced legitimate business to anyone who didn't know better.
He'd been a fixer for twenty years, survived three regime changes in London's criminal infrastructure, and maintained neutrality through careful cultivation of value on all sides.
“Mercer.” He didn't stand, just gestured to the chair across from him. “You look terrible.”
“Bad night.”
“Or a good one, depending on perspective.” He sipped whisky that probably cost more than my rent. “What do you need?”
“Information on Harrow.”
Something shifted in his eyes — recognition, then warning — though his expression stayed perfectly flat. “That's a dangerous name to drop in my establishment.”
“I know. That's why I'm here instead of asking through official channels.”
“Official channels wouldn't help you anyway.
Harrow's corruption isn't rumour, Cal. It's infrastructure.” He set his glass down carefully.
“Judges, prosecutors, police, court clerks, charity boards, evidence custodians.
He's built a machine that turns justice into commodity.
You want to bring him down, you're not fighting a man. You're fighting a system.”
“Systems have weak points.”
“This one has bodies instead of weak points. Your partner found that out.” His gaze sharpened. “That's what this is about, isn't it? Still hunting the people who killed James.”
Hearing my partner's name out loud made my chest tight. “I'm hunting the corruption that protected his killers.”
“Same thing in Harrow's world. He doesn't pull triggers. He just makes sure the people who do never face consequences.” He pulled a thin folder from his briefcase and slid it across the table.
“Everything I could gather without alerting anyone to the search.
Case files, sealed evidence, witness statements that never made it to trial.
It's not comprehensive — most of Harrow's work stays buried — but it's a start.”
I opened the folder. Names, dates, case numbers, familiar and foreign simultaneously, my memory beginning to catalogue automatically, cross-referencing against patterns I'd been tracking for three years.
Then I saw it. Buried on page six. A case that had closed with suspicious speed.
Lily Rourke. Deceased. Domestic violence homicide. Suspect: Ethan Pierce (husband). Conviction secured. Presiding prosecutor: Elliot Harrow.
My blood went cold. Rourke. The connection snapped into focus like a door slamming shut.
“What do you know about this case?” I asked, keeping my voice level.
“Lily Rourke?” Bishop frowned. “Standard domestic violence case on the surface.
Husband confessed, got convicted, everything tied up neatly.
Except the timeline was compressed — investigation lasted four days, confession came on day three, trial wrapped in six weeks.
For a case involving a death, that's unusually fast.”
“Why the rush?”
“That's what I couldn't determine. No obvious political pressure.
The victim wasn't connected to anyone important.
Her husband was middle management at a financial firm, nothing special.
The only anomaly was Harrow's personal involvement — he usually delegates domestic cases, but he prosecuted this one himself.”
“Who was asking for it to be closed quickly?”
“If I knew that, I'd have included it in the file.” Bishop leaned back. “But someone wanted Lily Rourke's death resolved fast and final. Someone with enough influence to make Harrow personally ensure the narrative stayed clean.”
Dom's sister. Murdered. A case closed by Harrow. Dom wasn't a complication anymore — he was a living pressure point in a story Harrow had been protecting for years.
“I need access to the sealed evidence,” I said.
“That's not information. That's criminal activity.”
“You've facilitated worse.”
“For clients who pay better.” His mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
“But I'll make an exception this time, because watching you go after Harrow has entertainment value.
The archive you want is in the basement of the Old Bailey — court records, sealed evidence, files that officially don't exist. Access requires a judge's order or someone willing to bypass security.”
“I'm listening.”
“There's a clerk. Evelyn Cross. She's been there thirty years, knows where everything's buried, and has principles that make her exploitable if you frame the request correctly. Tell her you're investigating judicial corruption. Show her enough proof to make her believe you. She'll get you in.”
“And if she reports me?”
“Then you'll have bigger problems than Harrow.” He finished his whisky and stood. “Be careful, Cal. You're poking at something that's killed better investigators than you. And from what I hear, you've already attracted attention you can't afford.”
“Word gets around fast.”
“It does when you stop being subtle.” He adjusted his cufflinks without looking down. “You've made enemies. Make sure you know which ones matter before they decide you're too dangerous to leave operational.”
He walked out. I sat alone with the folder, reading through cases my memory would hold in full within the hour, building the architecture of Harrow's corruption one sealed file at a time, Lily Rourke's name sitting at the centre of it all like something waiting to explode.
I met Evelyn Cross at a coffee shop three blocks from the courthouse at 4:17 p.m. She looked exactly like someone who'd spent three decades filing humanity's worst moments — careful eyes, a stillness that came from long practice with difficult information.
“Mr. Mercer.” She didn't offer her hand, just studied me with the assessment of someone who'd learned to spot liars. “Bishop said you were investigating judicial corruption.”
“Specifically, cases where evidence was sealed without proper justification.”
“That describes half the cases that come through the Old Bailey.”
“I'm focused on one prosecutor. Elliot Harrow.”