Chapter 5
Miller looked horrified. “Alex, that’s a heavy accusation. Vance is a twenty-year veteran. He’s got a commendation medal.”
“And he’s got a gambling debt that the whole precinct whispers about,” Alex countered, stepping toward the door. “I’m going back to the station.”
“You’re crazy,” Miller said, stepping in front of him. “You’re suspended from duty as of this morning because of Rex’s condition, remember? You’re off the clock. If you walk in there accusing the captain of treason and animal cruelty without hard proof, you’ll be in a cell before you can draw your weapon.”
Alex reached into the stainless-steel bowl and picked up the blood-stained, sharpened wire fragment. He dropped it into a sterile plastic evidence bag he pulled from his cargo pocket.
“I have the proof right here,” Alex said. “And I’m going to find where this wire came from.”
Part IV: The Industrial Trail
The rain began to fall in heavy, gray sheets as Alex drove his unmarked cruiser away from the veterinary clinic. The wipers slapped against the windshield with a frantic, hypnotic rhythm that matched the ticking clock in his head. He had left Miller at the clinic to watch over Rex, with strict orders to let nobody near the dog except Dr. Elena.
Alex didn’t go back to the precinct. Instead, he drove toward the industrial wasteland of the old docks district—specifically, to the abandoned textile mill where Rex had been injured.
The building was a rotting monument to the city’s manufacturing past. Red brick walls, stained black by decades of soot and acid rain, loomed over the dark waters of the river. The windows were mostly shattered, looking like empty, blind eyes staring into the storm.
Alex parked two blocks away, concealing the cruiser behind a row of rusted shipping containers. He checked his service weapon—a standard-issue Glock 17—ensuring a round was chambered. He slipped his tactical flashlight into his left hand and stepped out into the downpour.
The entry to the mill was exactly as they had left it on Tuesday night. The yellow police line tape had been torn by the wind, flapping miserably against the broken wooden doors. Alex slipped inside, the shadows immediately swallowing him.
He clicked his flashlight onto its lowest setting, casting a narrow, sharp beam across the debris-strewn floor. The air inside was thick with the scent of mold, stagnant water, and rotting wood.
He made his way down the concrete stairs into the basement, his boots making no sound on the damp stairs. This was where Rex had led him. This was where the trap had been sprung.
He reached the false wall. The drywall had been smashed open by the raid team during their futile search, revealing the hollow space behind it. Alex knelt down, crawling into the narrow cavity between the structural brick and the fake partition.
He shined his flashlight onto the floor of the gap.
There, bolted to a heavy wooden beam, was a crude but highly effective mechanical apparatus. It was a spring-loaded tripwire device, fashioned from an old garage door mechanism. Attached to the firing arm was a mounting bracket that was now empty—the exact size and shape to hold the sharpened wire fragment that Elena had pulled from Rex’s body.
Alex touched the spring. It was covered in a thin layer of specialized, high-grade synthetic grease. It wasn't old rust-preventative; it was fresh, clear, and smelled faintly of lithium.
“This wasn't built months ago,” Alex muttered to himself. “This was installed hours before we arrived.”
He leaned closer, searching the floor for any other trace left by the builder. In the dust near the base of the wooden beam, his light caught something small and metallic. He reached out with a gloved hand and picked it up.
It was a shell casing. A .45 ACP caliber casing, stamped with a specific military-surplus headstamp: WCC 98.
Alex’s breath hitched. WCC 98 was a batch of ammunition that had been confiscated during a major bust three months ago—a bust led by Captain Vance’s special task force. The ammunition had been logged into the precinct’s evidence locker under lock and key. Only three people had authorized access to that specific cage.
Captain Vance was one of them.
Suddenly, a sound echoed from upstairs—the distinct, heavy thud of a car door closing outside the mill, followed by the soft crunch of gravel under heavy boots.
Alex instantly cut his flashlight, plunging the basement into absolute darkness. He drew his Glock, his heart rate spiking as he slipped into the deepest shadow behind the false wall.
He listened, his senses heightened by years of tactical training. There were two distinct sets of footsteps entering the ground floor of the mill. They weren't trying to be completely silent; they moved with the confidence of people who believed they were alone.
