Chapter 21 Leverage Season
LEVERAGE SEASON
CALLAHAN
Webb looked smaller in captivity than he had running through that courtyard.
We'd brought him to Ravenswood, to one of the basement rooms that Adrian kept for situations requiring discretion, furnished with a chair, a table, and a single light.
No windows. No distractions. Just concrete walls and the particular silence that came from being deep enough underground that screaming wouldn't carry.
Webb sat in the chair with his hands zip-tied in front of him.
His expensive suit was torn, and the blood from a split lip had dried on his chin.
One eye was swelling shut from where he'd caught Dom's elbow during the extraction.
He looked exactly like what he was: a bureaucrat who'd built a career operating in shadows and never expected to end up on the wrong side of an interrogation.
I stood in the corner, watching, cataloguing the micro-tells. The way his breathing changed when certain topics came up. The way his gaze tracked Dom's movements with animal fear. The way he flinched at unexpected sounds.
Webb was terrified. Good. Fear made people honest.
Dom paced near the table, all controlled violence and barely restrained rage looking for an appropriate target.
Adrian stood near the door with his arms crossed, his expression carved from ice.
“Explain to me,” Adrian said, his voice quiet and deadly, “why I shouldn't dump both of you and Webb back in that courtyard and let Harrow's people finish what they started.”
“Because we got him out,” Dom said. “We saved his life.”
“You compromised the operation. Exposed yourselves in public. Brought a target directly to my home.” Adrian's gaze moved between us. “I said observe. Not engage. Not extract. Those were very simple instructions.”
“They were going to kill him,” I said, keeping my voice level. “We needed him alive to talk.”
“And now he's here. In my house. With Harrow knowing exactly where to look for him.” Adrian's expression didn't change. “So before we proceed with whatever interrogation you're planning, I need to know: was this a strategic decision or an emotional reaction?”
“Both,” Dom answered honestly. “We saw an opportunity. We took it.”
“You saw Webb in danger and reacted without thinking through the consequences.” Adrian corrected flatly. “Which is exactly the kind of recklessness that gets people killed. Think next time you do something this stupid, or don't bother coming back to Ravenswood when it goes wrong.”
Dom's jaw tightened. I kept my expression neutral. Professional.
Adrian moved to the door. “You have twelve hours to get what you need from him. Then he becomes a liability I can't afford. Understand?”
“Yes,” I said.
Adrian left. The door locked behind him with a sound that echoed through the small space.
Webb's gaze moved between Dom and me, calculating, still looking for angles despite everything.
“You can't keep me here,” he said, his voice shaking but reaching for authority. “This is kidnapping. False imprisonment. I have rights—”
“You have exactly the rights we choose to give you.” I moved closer, pulled up a chair, and sat down across from him. “And right now, those rights extend to breathing, talking, and hoping we find you useful enough to keep alive.”
“I want a lawyer.”
“This isn't that kind of conversation.” I leaned back and studied him.
“You're a Crown Court administrator of six years, paid by Elliot Harrow to handle evidence suppression, witness intimidation coordination, and payment distribution for an extensive corruption network.
You've made approximately half a million pounds over those six years, and you sealed evidence in at least forty-seven cases, including the murder of Lily Rourke.”
Webb's face went white. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Yes, you do. We have the financial records. We have the transaction logs. We have communications showing exactly how the pipeline works.” I pulled out my phone and showed him screenshots of his own emails, his own bank statements.
“So let's skip the denial phase and move directly to the part where you tell us everything.”
“I can't—they'll kill me—”
“They're already trying to kill you,” Dom interrupted, his voice hard. “We saw them in that courtyard. Those weren't amateurs. Those were professionals sent to extract you or eliminate you, which means Harrow has already decided you're a liability.”
“Or he thinks we've already flipped you,” I added. “Either way, the outcome's the same. You're dead if Harrow finds you. Your only chance at survival is cooperating with us.”
Webb's hands were shaking. “You can't protect me. Nobody can protect me from him.”
“We can try. Or we can throw you back to the wolves.” I kept my voice clinical. “Your choice, but make it fast. We don't have time for prolonged negotiation.”
“I need guarantees. Witness protection. Immunity. Something in writing—”
“You think we're the police? That this is some official investigation where you get deals and lawyers and due process?” Dom leaned down and got close enough that Webb flinched back.
“This is two men who've lost everything to Harrow's corruption asking you very nicely to help us destroy him.
Cooperate and maybe you survive. Refuse and you're just another body that got inconvenient.”
“Dom.” My voice carried a warning. “Step back.”
He did. But slowly, making a point of it.
I turned my attention back to Webb. “Tell us about Lily Rourke's case. How the evidence got sealed. Who gave the orders. How much you were paid.”
Webb was quiet for a long moment. Then: “Fifteen thousand for the suppression. Another eight for coordinating the autopsy alterations. Five more for removing the witness statements.”
“Twenty-eight thousand total.” The number tasted like ash. “For a woman's life.”
“I didn't kill her. I just—I just made sure the case closed cleanly.”
“Who ordered it?” Dom's voice dropped to something deadly quiet. “Who told you to seal that evidence?”
“It came through the usual channels. A judge signed the order. The DA approved it. I just executed the paperwork.”
“Which judge?”
Webb hesitated, fear and calculation warring across his face.
Dom moved forward again. I stood and put myself between them.
“Let me handle this,” I said quietly. “Violence won't get us what we need.”
“He's stalling.”
“He's terrified.” I turned back to Webb. “The judge. Name. Now.”
“Carolyn Reeves. She's been on Harrow's payroll for eight years. Handles all the sensitive suppressions.”
My phone was already out, recording, documenting. Every word Webb said would be evidence when we finally brought this entire network down.
“And the DA who approved it?”
“Michael Brennan. He's since been promoted. Part of the reward structure.”
“How does it work?” I asked. “The whole system. From the initial request to the final suppression.”
Webb explained. Slowly, reluctantly, but he explained.
Harrow identified cases that needed managing, then sent requests through intermediaries.
Webb coordinated with judges who signed suppression orders, DAs who approved them, evidence handlers who physically removed or altered documents, witnesses who were paid off or threatened into silence, medical examiners who adjusted autopsy findings.
A machine built from dozens of complicit professionals who each handled one small piece and pretended not to see the larger picture.
And Lily's case had gone through all of it. Every stage. Every dirty hand.
By the time Webb finished talking, I had enough evidence to prosecute half the Crown Court staff and three sitting judges.
“Good,” I said. “That's a start.”
“A start?” Webb's voice cracked. “I just gave you everything. The whole network. What more do you want?”
“I want the person Harrow was protecting. The one Lily died because she saw too much about.” I leaned forward. “Who was it, Marcus? Who was worth killing over?”
“I don't know. That information never went through me. Harrow kept it compartmentalised. Only he knows the full picture.”
Dom's fist slammed into the table. Webb jumped. I didn't.
“Then you're useless,” Dom said.
“I'm not—I gave you the network—I told you how it works—”
“You gave us mid-level corruption. We need the apex.” Dom looked at me. “He doesn't know anything else useful.”
“Then we keep digging.” I stood. “You stay here with him. Make sure he doesn't try anything creative. I need to make some calls.”
“Cal—”
“Not now.”
I left before Dom could argue, walking out of the basement and up through Ravenswood's corridors, which smelled of old money and older secrets. I found an empty room, locked the door, and pulled out my phone.
Bishop's number went straight to voicemail. That wasn't normal. Bishop always answered—his entire business depended on being available.
I tried again. Same result.
Then a text came through from an unknown number, three words:
Bishop says hello.
My blood went cold.
A second message followed:
He's comfortable. For now. Cooperate and he stays that way.
Harrow had Bishop. Had gotten to him and was using him as leverage.
I stared at the phone, calculating options, running scenarios. Everything came up with the same ugly answer: I'd have to make a trade. Give up something to get Bishop back, something Harrow wanted badly enough that he'd consider it a fair exchange.
The problem was I didn't have anything Harrow wanted except access to this investigation. To Dom. To Ravenswood.
I pulled up my contact list and found the number I'd hoped never to use. A handler from my police days, someone who'd gone private, who brokered deals between people who couldn't be seen negotiating directly.
“This is Mercer,” I said when she answered. “I need to make a trade.”
“What are you offering?”
“Information about a current investigation. Partial disclosure in exchange for the release of a civilian who got caught in the crossfire.”
“Who's holding the civilian?”
“Does it matter?”