23. Seventeen Years
Chapter twenty-three
Seventeen Years
Matt
The heavy briefing room door swings shut behind me with a dull thud, a stark contrast to the pounding still echoing inside my skull.
Exhaustion from last night’s chaos clings to me, deepened by the lingering bruises and raw knuckles from my run-in with Mercer.
The team is already assembled, an uneasy silence settling over them as I enter.
Bishop’s smirk is immediate, his tone dry as he tips his chin at me. “Mercer must be feeling real proud this morning.”
Demo lets out a low whistle, tipping his chair back with a satisfied grin.
“Damn, Mason,” he drawls. “Looks like you finally let Mercer get a decent shot in.”
Hale chuckles. “Heard it was pretty even.”
“Serves him right,” Diego mutters. “The asshole almost got Melina killed.”
My jaw tightens at the comment. I don’t like even. Even means I’ve gotten sloppy. Allowing Mercer to hold his own burns me worse than the bruise itself.
“Wouldn’t call it even,” I shoot back, though the weak retort grates on me. I make a silent promise to hit the gym harder this week—no excuses.
The door swings open again. Callahan strides in, authority rolling off him in waves. His gaze sweeps the room once, landing squarely on me.
“Mason. A word.”
I push back from the table immediately. “Yes, sir.”
Curious stares follow as I trail him into the empty hallway, my shoulders tight, bracing. Here we go.
He turns to face me, expression firm but measured. “I get why you did it,” he says evenly. “But I won’t tolerate that kind of behavior.” His stare pins me in place, each word deliberate. “This is your one free pass.”
I nod sharply. “Understood, sir. Won’t happen again.”
Callahan studies me a beat, something almost like humor flickering in his expression. “Good. He looks worse than you do, for what it’s worth.”
A surprised huff of laughter escapes me. “Yes, sir.”
He gives a single nod and pivots toward the door. “Let’s get to work.”
That went way better than I thought it would. I respect the hell out of that man—not just because he’s tough, but because he didn’t dress me down in front of the team. That matters.
I follow him back inside. The room goes still, every set of eyes tracking us as we take our seats. The tension is thick, everyone waiting.
Callahan clears his throat, voice cutting through the silence. “First order of business: Mercer.” His tone is flat, final. “He’s suspended without pay, pending investigation.”
Everyone remains silent, the weight settling like stone.
“This is his second strike,” Callahan continues, his gaze sweeping the table. “One more, and he’s done.”
No one argues. No one even shifts. We all know Callahan doesn’t bluff. Mercer’s hanging by a thread.
“Alright,” Callahan says, turning his attention. “Steele—what do you got?”
Steele rises, tablet in hand, and moves to the monitor at the far side of the room. He gives it a quick tap, and a dozen grainy security stills pop onto the screen—the waiter from last night.
We watch in silence as he clicks through. Side door. Ballroom. Kitchen. Not perfect shots, but enough.
Another tap, and a mug shot fills the screen. Unkempt hair. Hollow eyes.
“Meet Craig Johnson,” Steele says evenly. Files and records flicker up one after another—license, birth certificate, parole papers.
“Thirty-seven. No wife. No kids. Lives in a shit-hole apartment in East Dallas. Day labor when he can get it. Petty crimes—break-ins, small thefts, possession. Nothing major, but he’s done time. Paroled six months ago.”
The room stays quiet, the weight of it settling.
“How’d he get through security?” Bishop asks, leaning in, jaw tight.
Steele clicks again. The image shifts to the valet lot—shattered glass, a windshield caved in.
“Diversion,” he explains. “Broke a car window. Security shifted to cover it, gave him a gap.”
Bishop lets out a slow breath. “Simple, but effective.”
“Exactly,” Steele confirms, eyes still on the monitor. “Guy knew what he was doing.”
Callahan rises, his presence enough to settle the room. “Assignments.” He looks to Hale and Brooks first. “Check Johnson’s residence and workplace. See what shakes loose.”
They nod once, running through the checklist in their heads.
“Demo.” Callahan’s gaze cut to Ramirez. “Talk to his parole officer. Make sure he’s been keeping his check-ins.”
“You got it.” Demo leans back, casual but alert.
“Steele, stay here. I want everything—contacts, affiliates, anyone who could be pulling strings.”
Steele’s already moving, fingers quick over the tablet.
Finally, Callahan turns to Bishop and me. “You’re on Melina. Twelve-hour rotations. Neither she nor the kids are left alone. Understood?”
“Understood,” Bishop answers.
I give a short nod, anxiety in my chest loosening a notch.
Bishop frowns. “We’re not pulling Bravo for backup?”
Callahan shakes his head. “No. They’re down a man. And they were just assigned a new mission—wheels up tomorrow.”
The words hang for a moment before Bishop cuts through with a grin. “Mason, you need to have your face checked? Happy to take first watch if you need to ice that bruise.”
“Fuck off, Bishop.” I roll my eyes.
Demo chuckles. “Careful, Mason. Keep taking hits like that, you’ll end up looking like Hale.”
Hale snorts, unfazed. “Scars build character.”
The table breaks into laughter, tension easing for a beat. But the unease doesn’t lift. Something keeps gnawing at the edges of my mind—a hunch I can’t shake. Then it clicks.
“Steele—where was Johnson incarcerated?”
Steele’s already typing, laser-focused on his screen. “W.J. ‘Jim’ Estelle Unit in Huntsville.” He glances up. “You making a connection?”
“Maybe.” A cold knot tightens in my gut.
“Where is Darren Smith incarcerated?”
Steele freezes, then snaps his attention back to the screen. I see when it hits him—the same realization I had. His eyes track a list, jaw clenched.
“Who the fuck is Darren Smith?” Hale asks, frowning around the table.
“Melina’s ex-husband,” I bite out.
Steele’s expression darkens, nerves sparking through me. “What is it?” I snap, sharper now.
“He’s… he’s not.” Steele’s tone is low, deliberate, gaze lifting with a heaviness that chills.
My pulse slams. “Not what?”
Steele exhales hard. “Incarcerated. He was paroled three months ago, from…” Anticipation stretches while he clicks through the record. His voice drops when he continues.
“W.J. ‘Jim’ Estelle Unit.”
“Fuck,” Bishop growls.
The realization slams into all of us at once. Not a coincidence.
“What was he in for?” Bishop questions, turning toward me.
“Drugs,” I say tightly. “Manufacturing, I think. That’s what Melina told me.”
Steele is typing vigorously now, lines of concern etching deeper across his forehead with every keystroke. Then he freezes, his face draining of color.
“What is it, Steele?” I demand, tension gripping my chest.
He doesn’t respond, just stares at the screen, locked in place. My jaw clenches so hard it aches. I force myself to stay seated, but my leg bounces under the table, restless with a level of anger I can’t show here.
“Umm, Mason, maybe we should—” he starts, unsteady.
“Just fucking tell me,” I snap.
Steele’s gaze flicks up to Callahan, a silent plea for help. Callahan’s nod is firm. “We need to know what we’re up against.”
“Not just drugs,” Steele says finally, rough, hesitant. “He was convicted in 2007—possession of a controlled substance, manufacture of a controlled substance, assault family violence, unlawful restraint, and…” The words falter, hanging in the air.
“And?” My fury surges, barely contained. “Spit it out, Steele!”
Steele exhales, his expression grave. “Aggravated sexual assault.”
It hits like a bomb, detonating in the silence as devastation floods me, my body locking tight, lungs strangled by the horror of his words.
“Jesus Christ,” Bishop mutters, shaking his head.
“Who?” The word rips out of me, trembling with a ferocity I can barely contain. My stomach churns, dread clawing its way up my throat. I already know—feel it in my bones—but I need to hear it. Need Steele to say it out loud, even if it breaks me.
Steele lifts his head, anguish written all over his face.
“Matt…” His voice cracks under the weight. “Don’t make me say it.”
He doesn’t have to. The tortured look in his eyes says it all.
The room goes deathly still. Anger radiates off every man at the table, a palpable wave of ire and disgust. Bishop’s knuckles whiten as his fists press hard into the wood.
Hale grinds his teeth so forcefully it looks painful.
Demo’s eyes burn with quiet contempt, and even Callahan’s composure fractures, his expression darkening into something lethal.
Steele breathes out, steadying himself, but his face stays shadowed with sorrow. “There’s more.”
“Tell me,” I force out, my throat tight.
He hesitates, then says softly, like an apology, “There are photos.”
“Show me.”
“No.” The finality in Bishop’s voice cuts sharp. “Steele—Mason does not need to see those.”
Devastation twists into blinding rage. “Fucking show me!” The shout tears out before I can stop it. I inhale deeply, forcing my tone lower, raw with desperation. I turn to Callahan. “Please. I have to know.”
Callahan studies me for a moment, then gives a solemn nod. "Everyone else, out."
Hale, Brooks, and Demo rise without a word, their silence heavy with everything they don’t say. Demo pauses at my side, squeezing my shoulder once before following the others out.
That leaves Callahan, Steele, Bishop, and me.
Steele drags in a breath, bracing himself, then taps the tablet. The screen flickers back to life.
Crime scene photos flood the room, each one worse than the last. A bed, sheets soaked in blood and tangled with torn clothing. Drywall caved in, a violent crater where she must’ve been thrown. A lamp shattered on the floor, bearing witness to the brutality.