"What about the mayor?"
"Is it just Baltimore, or is this going statewide? Nationwide, even?"
"I don't have any of those answers," Brian admitted. He knew that wouldn't play well. After all, the public would be looking to people like him for answers. If he couldn't provide them, then where was the comfort? But he wasn't about to lie to anyone; that was the last thing he wanted to do. "Right now, I am trusting the Baltimore Police Department to do what it needs to do to ensure everyone's safety. If they see fit to inform my office of their plans, then I'll pass along what I can."
The redhead peered up from her smartphone again. "I have a source saying Commissioner Saunders has gone missing. Care to comment?"
Brian's face went white, his heart now firmly lodged in his throat. He glanced at the two uniformed officers to his right, then his two campaign managers to his left. They all bolted for the building behind them, Brian in hot pursuit. He not only never answered the question, he also kept his mouth shut as a series of other questions, all mixed together to the point of incoherence, chased after him.
Even once he was back indoors, the murmur of curiosity and skepticism followed him.
CHAPTER 12
"Do we really need to watch it again?"
Earl Stevens had probably the strongest stomach of everyone who worked Homicide at the Seventh Precinct, but the video of Officer Weir's decapitation was enough to have even him looking green. On the heels of Councilman Franco's mutilated and bloated corpse, and now the video of Officer Weir’s murder, this case was testing every cast-iron stomach the department had. The newly svelte detective stood near the door separating the tech room from the bullpen, the only room in the precinct with a monitor that could display and analyze high-definition imagery.
Even as Stevens complained, his eyes never left the monitor. The picture had frozen on the image of the masked man bent down in front of the camera, Weir's disembodied head clutched in his grasp. The officer's eyes were as wide as his mouth. Brent Weir's final expression was a far cry from the bravado he had hoped to convey before his grisly murder. Not that anyone blamed him for it.
"I don't like this any more than you," Daniel Richards, captain of the Seventh, said with a shake of his head. He turned his head and coughed several times into the bend of his arm, gritting his teeth when the brief fit passed. "But I don't think I have to tell you how important it is we catch these sick fucks."
"Especially before they do it again," Detective Hitori Watson, sitting at the console to the left of the monitor, added.
"Anything?" Watson's partner, Whitney Blankenship, asked from the other side of the room. She stole a glance in Watson's direction, but he pushed his glasses further up his nose and turned back to stare at the monitor. Their lunch had been good, if a little awkward, but progress was too slow for Blankenship’s liking. "I mean, other than the video?"
"Three days ago," Stevens began, "we found Councilman Franco dead in an abandoned warehouse. Then yesterday, Officer Weir's partner reports him missing. About the same time, these chucklefucks come on TV and try to scare the bejeesus out of everyone. Now they've offed a police officer." He shook his head and glared at the monitor. If there was one thing no one in the Seventh appreciated, it was when one of their own became a target.
Though if Stevens was being technical, they were probably all potential targets now.
"Downtown is operating as if this cabal killed Franco," Richards added. "We don't have anything concrete to back that up yet, but it fits the timeline—and given Franco's suspected dealings..."
"We already know they did Franco," Blankenship interrupted. "They took credit for it right from the get-go."
"I've put in a few calls with the Feds," Stevens said, giving each of his colleagues a knowing glance. They had agreed to keep Jill's meeting with them the day they discovered Franco's body a secret, mostly because of how frosty things had become between her and the captain in recent weeks. But it also boiled down to the time-honored tradition of federal law enforcement trying to muscle local precincts out of the way. Even when everyone knew everyone, there was no telling when a case would turn into another round of My Badge is Bigger Than Yours.
On the other side of the door, uniforms and plain-clothed detectives alike were scurrying along the bullpen, making phone calls and sending emails, scouring over everything from travel logs to security camera footage. A cop had been killed, which meant usual protocol gave way to an all-hands-on-deck approach. Everyone wanted the men responsible for this heinous act and even now—at three in the afternoon—the coffee was flowing.
Richards arched a brow. "And?"
"They're just as lost as we are."
Silence fell over the three detectives and their captain. In the past month, the two most capable detectives among them had left. To this point, closure rates hadn't suffered, but the Seventh Precinct just wasn't the same without Jill Andersen and Ramon Gutierrez. Especially given the tension between Watson and Blankenship. They were doing their best to put on a good front in the sake of professionalism, but it was clear Blankenship's undercover operation over the past couple months had driven a wedge between them.
Watson could barely even look his captain in the eye anymore. Then again, Richards was used to that.
Stevens' phone going off broke the silence, and he swiped at the device to answer without even looking at caller ID. "Stevens. Go."
"It's me, Earl. I trust you've seen the latest video?"
"Let's just say I'm never giving Ramon crap for getting sick over a dead body ever again." Stevens cupped his free hand over the phone, pulling the device from his ear. "It's Andersen."
Watson's shoulders relaxed. "Let's hope some of her magic's rubbed off on the FBI."
"Tell Watson sorry to disappoint," Jill answered. "Go ahead and put me on speaker, Earl. Everyone needs to hear this."
Pursing his lips, which were hidden under his mustache, Stevens stabbed his thumb against the touchscreen to activate the speakerphone feature. "Go ahead."
"Officially, the FBI doesn't have anything on these men. They're a new player, and none of our usual channels saw them coming."
Blankenship arched a brow, stuffing her hands into her back pockets and coming up next to Stevens. "Officially."
"Hi, under the keyboard in the Tech Room, you should find a small switch. Flip it."
Watson frowned as his hand fondled along the underside of the keyboard. Once his fingers found the switch in question, they flipped it from right to left. A hiss of static burst from the speakers, but otherwise, there was no change. "Uh... done?"
"Another signal jammer. Let's just say being a vigilante with federal connections has its advantages."
Richards smirked. "You're bugging my precinct?"
"Agent McDermott has contacts no one else in the FBI does," Jill explained, ignoring her former boss. "He floated the name 'The Collective' to them as soon as the first video went public and they hung up on him. When he called back, they told him to get out of town."
"That's reassuring," Stevens muttered.
"As far as I'm concerned, this is still your case," Jill continued. "And I can tell you that what those men said about Officer Weir isn't true. Gutierrez looked up the family in question. They're in the middle of a divorce, but otherwise, both Mom and Dad have a clean record."
Watson shook his head. "So, on top of actual assassination, these guys are going for character assassination."
"They figure we'll be so busy chasing our tails as the bodies pile up," Richards theorized, "that we won't bother to check their claims. They're thriving on us taking them at their word."
"But why lie?" Blankenship asked. "Lord knows this town has plenty of people who fit the profile they're looking for. Why make up something?"
Stevens shook his head. "Prove no one's safe? Play into the fact that no one trusts us?"
"At any rate," Jill chimed in, "the FBI doesn't want the PR nightmare of swooping in while you're all mourning the loss o
f a cop. Ramon and I will be investigating on our own, but we're not official in any way."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning we don't have to follow the rules. We don't have to sift through all the red tape."
"I appreciate you not wanting to step on any toes," Watson said, shifting in his chair, "but if the FBI's coming up empty here, what hope do we have?"
"Come on, Hi. You act like this is the first impossible case that's ever fallen into your lap." There was a singsong tone to Jill's voice, but it was gone when she spoke again. "Look, I know how this sounds. But the fact remains, these men have killed a cop. In cold blood, on live TV. If we believe them, and I do, they also killed a city councilman. There's no telling who's next. If that doesn't motivate you to do everything you can to bring them down before they claim their next victim, I don't know what will."
"Any idea who their next victim might be?" Richards asked.
"In a perfect world, we catch them without ever having to find out."
"But we need a Plan B," Stevens argued, staring at Richards and giving a curt nod. "I think at this point, assuming we're all targets is probably the way to go."
"So, what?" Blankenship shook her head. "We go into hiding?"
"No. Nobody's running, and nobody's hiding. I don't give a damn what Downtown says," Richards ordered. "But here's what we will do. You all keep investigating, like the damn fine cops you are. Stevens, you and I will identify people we think might be likely targets going forward, then I'll work with the Bishop to do everything we can to ensure their safety."
"And I'll make sure we do the same on our end," Jill added. "There’s one more thing. The rumors of Commissioner Saunders’ capture are true. If we don’t act fast, he’ll likely be our next victim.
A tense silence fell upon the cops huddled in the tech room. None of them had particularly liked the commissioner – particularly Captain Richards, given recent revelations – but if this murderous cabal had him in their grasp, then this was even more serious than previously thought. Not that Franco and Weir’s murders weren’t serious, but for these zealots to have already graduated to someone of Saunders’ station...
"Captain?"
Richards frowned, not having expected Jill to address him directly. This was the first time she had spoken to him in weeks, and were the circumstances not so dire, Richards might have had cause to celebrate. Still, he had to fight the smile tickling the corners of his mouth, scratching an invisible itch on his chin. "Yeah?"
"You make sure Brian's at the top of that list."
Truth was that Jill was at the top of that list. Not just because of her position as a high-profile law enforcement agent who had also recently outed herself as the costumed vigilante Bounty. If nothing else, her double life made her a prime target for these extremist jackals. But more than that, she was every bit the daughter Richards never had, and anymore, he found himself acting in her best interest more often than his own. Almost every morally questionable thing Richards had done came down to one simple goal—keep Jill safe.
Even with a precinct to watch over, Richards kept concerning himself with Jill's well-being, whether she wanted him to or not. Even as he had watched The Collective decapitate Officer Weir, Richards hadn't been able to shake the dread that they would eventually turn their attention on her.
But Jill was offering him an olive branch of sorts. Even acknowledging his presence felt like a win, more than he had any right to expect.
So, knowing full well what she was asking, he nodded.
"Your brother's in good hands," he promised. "Even if I get dragged out to Timbuctoo, I'll see to that."
"Good. In the meantime, I have an idea of my own."
The line went dead before anyone in the room could respond.
CHAPTER 13
"You cannot be serious."
"Of course, I am." Jill paced in her brother's living room, ignoring the framed photos lining the top of the fireplace. They held far too many memories to mention, and the last thing Jill needed to do right now was get distracted and fall down that rabbit hole. It was hard enough being back in this house, the only thing from her childhood left standing. Looking back on happier times, when her mother was still alive and her father wasn’t yet a monster, would only distract her. She couldn’t afford to give in to her emotions right now. She needed to be sharp, focused. Whoever these jackals were, they would prey on her emotions if she let them. No, stoicism was the order of the day.
Still, Jill never understood how Brian could live in this house, with everything that had happened. Then again, the place was paid for. She supposed not having to pay rent or a mortgage every month held a certain appeal.
"You know what they're gonna do." Brian followed his sister as best he could, though he couldn't shift back and forth as quickly as his sister. He eventually sat still, resting his hands on the wheels of his chair. "They're gonna consider this an act of aggression, and they're gonna kill someone else in response."
"They're gonna kill someone else anyway," Jill argued. "They’ve already got the police commissioner in their grasp. And let's face it, the traditional route isn't getting us anywhere."
Ramon would’ve argued it was because they hadn’t given the traditional route time to bear any fruit. And under normal circumstances, Jill would’ve agreed. But beheading police officers on live television, and gloating about it, was anything but normal, and the longer the authorities waited, the more likely it was The Collective would add to their body count. Subtle and patient these zealots were not, and it was increasingly clear to Jill that dealing with them required desperate measures not found in The Book.
Not that The Book meant anything anymore anyway.
"Jill." Brian pinched the bridge of his nose. Whatever gene the Andersen family had that made it so headstrong, so resolute, Brian apparently never had it. At least, not to the point that his sister did.
Or maybe he had gotten skittish in ways his sister had become bold. What was that old saying? Fight or flight? If that was such a thing, then he and his older sister had clearly taken drastically different paths. Not that Brian was completely adverse to fighting—his career choice made that clear—but what she was talking about...
"These things take time," he argued. "You know that."
"Brian, we don't have time!" Jill shot back, cringing when she realized how much her voice had carried. With a sigh, she snaked her fingers through her hair and approached Brian. She dropped to her knees and rested a hand on top of her brother's. "You saw the same videos I did. The Collective is not going to sit back and wait. The only way to fight them is to take it to them. Sitting back and waiting is just gonna get more people killed."
"Maybe." Brian stared at Jill's hand. "Or maybe they'll just set their sights on you."
"Better me than anyone else."
Brian arched a brow and rested his other hand on hers, curling his fingers and squeezing. "You sure about that? Can’t say I like the idea of my sister being a target."
"Brian, if The Collective is focused on me, that's less time they're focusing on other cops. Besides..." She shrugged. "I’m used to having a bullseye on my back. Kinda comes with the costume."
No matter how many times Jill found herself in situations like this, it never got any easier for Brian. For her to be in danger in the line of duty was one thing. Even though he was nervous about it, Brian understood the risks that came with carrying a badge. How could he not, with his father having been a cop? He knew better than most what that meant. But Jill's double life brought its own peril, and for whatever reason, the prospect of Bounty being Jill's demise made him feel worse.
Not that he could really use those concerns to talk Jill out of anything. She was as stubborn as anyone he knew, and even though he wanted desperately to make her see where he was coming from, he had to admit—at least to himself—that he saw her point of view too.
It made sense. Even though it scared the piss out of him.
"Ever think of a day when you don�
��t need that costume anymore?" Brian’s eyes held no animosity, no accusations. It was a question he had considered in his own solitude several times over, but he had never found the right way—or right time—to broach the topic with Jill.
But if not now, when?
"I want to," Jill admitted. "I really do. Just... I dunno, it seems like a pipe dream a lotta times. I don’t wanna hang up the suit and feel like I’m turning my back on this city."
"Jill, this city never asked you to do this in the first place."
"No," Jill conceded with a tilt of her head. "But I know what they say about me. The citizens, not the higher-ups who’d just as soon I fade away. This city doesn’t trust anyone, but they trust me. I don’t know why, but I don’t wanna ruin that."
Brian sucked in a deep breath and sat up straighter in his wheelchair. He had been terrible about his posture, constantly leaning forward to stare at a computer monitor, and his lower back had been screaming at him for months about it.
"Well, maybe you don’t owe this town anything anymore." Brian shook his head. "You’ve already given Baltimore more than it deserves. I wouldn’t blame you for walking away."
"But I would."
"Well, then maybe I just don't want The Collective focused on you," Brian added. "Maybe I like your head right where it is."
"Hey, I do too." Jill offered a sideways grin. "Besides, you forget the part where my spine's coated in titanium."
Brian blanched. "Somehow, that visual's worse."
"I can't promise they won't get me." Jill leaned down to kiss the back of her brother's hand. "But I can promise I know what I'm doing. I'd rather those thugs were coming after me than anyone else." She reached up and ruffled her younger brother's hair. "And I really don't want them coming after you."
"Let them come." Brian smacked one of the tires to his wheelchair. "I'll run over their toes."
Jill's hair spilled out onto Brian's lap as she ducked her head and the laugh she had been holding in burst through anyway. He joined in the chuckle, giving his sister's hand another squeeze. Levity was in short supply for the two of them anymore, and the joke—inappropriate though it might've been—was welcome.
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