Some time later, Voight's truck pulled up onto the curb, right in front of a public parking lot. Several patrol cars were already parked there, with multiple officers standing behind the yellow police tape. At the center of the scene stood a white delivery van.
Ethan jumped out of the car, flashed his badge at the patrol officers, and as soon as they saw the detective credential, they lifted the tape. He and Hank stepped into the crime scene. Ethan headed straight for the van when he saw Erin writing something in her notebook.
—Erin —Ethan greeted her— Is he the driver?
—Yes. His name was George Wilenko, forty-one years old —Erin replied, tapping her notebook—. Worked at Markham Medical for seventeen years. No priors, even had border clearance for pharmaceutical transport. This guy doesn't fit the profile of an arms trafficker at all.
—If it were me, and if I wanted to smuggle weapons across the border, I'd look for someone exactly like him. —Ethan said as he put on gloves.—
—Yeah, well… money tends to be a good motivator. —Erin shrugged—
Ethan walked around the vehicle and headed to the driver's seat. A middle-aged white man was slumped over the steering wheel with a gunshot wound to the head. Ethan assessed him quickly: an average guy, family type, no criminal record, probably good credit. A model citizen… the last person you'd expect at a scene like this.
—According to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, a couple of months ago one of the Canadian Army armories was robbed. They took approximately 3,000 M995 rounds and fifty C7A2 rifles, a variant of the M4 used by the Canadian military.
Ethan opened the door and inspected the driver's seat. Nothing unusual inside. In the cup holder next to the gear shift, there was a coffee cup with traces of crimson lipstick.
He reached for the cup and turned it slightly.
—Erin.
Ethan raised his voice and held up the cup.
He gave it a shake; less than half a cup remained. He lifted the lid and smelled it: strong aroma — someone had been with him. Wife, lover, or accomplice.
—What is it?
Erin quickly stepped closer.
—Looks like George wasn't alone; someone came with him —Ethan said, handing her the cup—. Can you find out if he had a wife?
Erin crossed her arms.
—Why don't you check that yourself?
—First, because you're way better than me at that. —Ethan said playfully— And second, lunch is on me. How's that?
—Deal.
Erin smiled, happy she wouldn't have to pay, and took the disposable cup from Ethan.
—Where's the rest of the team? —Hank asked as he approached them after finishing with the forensics team.
Seeing no one else nearby, Hank decided to check the car himself. He opened doors, checked the trunk, and leaned under the chassis, but found nothing useful.
—There was another shooting on the east side —he reported as he stood up—. Three dead. Patrol says the killer likely used the smuggled rounds.
Erin shook her head, frustrated.
—The team went to verify it.
Ethan stepped back to get a wider view of the scene. He scanned every corner: the shooter knew this area well. South Side was full of places like this — out of sight, no cameras, perfect to kill without being seen.
—Detective Morgan.
A clear voice sounded beside him.
As he turned, he saw his two favorite patrol officers standing a short distance away. Burgess's wide eyes blinked as she watched him walk over.
—Hey —Ethan greeted them— What did you find?
—We canvassed the area, but there were no eyewitnesses, just people who heard the shot. —Atwater answered first—. And we couldn't locate any security cameras in the vicinity.
—Yeah, well, that's normal. This place is perfect to kill someone without witnesses, I guess. —Ethan said with a smile, nodding as he looked around— Good work.
Burgess and Atwater both nodded. They were always eager to help Intelligence — their goal was to join them someday — and both competed to prove their worth.
Ethan gave them a nod and walked back toward Hank, leaving the two officers behind.
—Did you know Detective Morgan is younger than he looks? —Atwater commented, raising a brow—. I had a buddy check his file this morning. I thought he'd be at least our age… but nope, he's two years younger.
—Seriously? —Burgess's eyes widened with genuine surprise—. I swear I thought he was older. You know, with how well he gets along with Voight and the rest of the detectives… you'd think he's been doing this for years.
Atwater let out a short laugh.
—I know. And after the shooting at the bus station, some of my friends at the academy have been asking about him —he said, scratching his face with a mix of pride and envy—. Next time I get the chance, I'm gonna ask Detective Morgan to give me some shooting-range lessons.
Burgess smirked sideways.
—Good luck with that.
Once the forensic team finished collecting evidence and removing the body, they returned to the station.
Erin checked immigration records and found that the driver had entered the country with his wife earlier that day. She had already contacted her and asked her to come in for a statement.
An hour later, footsteps echoed up the stairs: Antonio and his team came up to the office, and Ethan met them.
—How'd it go?
—Confirmed, same type of round. They're already on the streets.
Antonio showed Ethan the evidence bag containing a deformed bullet — the blue tip was still visible.
While chewing on a piece of jerky and sorting files, Ethan answered:
—Erin contacted the driver's wife. She should be back soon with her.
Right on cue, Erin appeared at the top of the stairs, guiding a distressed-looking woman to the second floor. She greeted Ethan and took her into the interrogation room.
Ethan gathered the documents and followed quickly. The moment he sat down, the middle-aged white woman with long wavy brown hair began to sob.
—My mother always called it "The Murder City"… —her voice trembled with a sick, choked sound, like a cold and heartbreak mixed—. But the first time we came here… I fell in love with Chicago. The lake, the riverwalk… —she blinked repeatedly, holding back tears—. George and I went up to the top of the Willis Tower. God… —she covered her mouth, breaking—. I can't… I can't believe he's dead.
—We believe he was smuggling weapons into the country. —Erin said gently.
—My George would never…
—Mrs. Wilenko, I'm very sorry for what you're going through —Ethan said, lightly drumming his fingers on the table—. Right now, the most important thing is finding your husband's killer. Did he have any enemies?
—George was a good man. Why did this have to happen to him? —Mrs. Wilenko sobbed—
Erin took out a pack of tissues, pulled one out, and handed it to her.
—Please try to remember everything that happened today. Anything that might help us.
The woman wiped her tears and sniffled.
—How often did you make the trip with him?
—Every two months… we always stayed at the Sofitel whenever we came here. After we arrived in Chicago, he dropped me off at the hotel so I could go shopping. I spent the whole morning at Bloomingdale's.
Her shoulders trembled again; her eyes filled with tears.
—God… why did this happen?
Hearing her words, Ethan's lips curved slightly.
After she wiped her tears once more, Ethan tapped the table.
—Mrs. Wilenko, let me be clear: he didn't die transporting insulin. Your husband was smuggling weapons to sell to gang members. There are five dead already.
—No… —Mrs. Wilenko looked at him in disbelief—
—Oh, absolutely… —Ethan opened the file and let out a cold chuckle—. I also know you weren't at any Bloomingdale's today. Right?
Ever since Erin contacted her, Jin had already investigated her movements from the moment they arrived in Chicago.
—I don't know what you're talking about —Mrs. Wilenko said, shaking her head frantically as she clutched her handkerchief.
Ethan ignored her, pulling photos from the folder and laying them out one by one in front of her.
They were all crime scene photos taken that day, along with pictures from earlier cases where people had died from similar rounds—bodies torn apart, drenched in blood.
—Why are you showing me this? —she asked, pale as a sheet.
—Do you recognize these men?
—Oh God… —she whispered as she recognized her husband.
—Yes, his face was destroyed by the bullets you and your husband brought into Chicago —Ethan said, placing a bullet firmly in front of her—
—If you don't tell me the truth… we'll charge you with arms trafficking and your husband's murder. —Ethan's fingertips tapped the table with a sharp tac, each impact landing straight in the woman's chest.
—I know you're not a killer, Mrs. Wilenko —Erin added, gently taking her hand—. But you have to tell us everything so we can help you.
The tapping stopped abruptly, and Mrs. Wilenko trembled.
When she still refused to speak, Ethan pressed harder mentally:
—You and your husband had a good streak going, didn't you? You start with something small—some pills, a bit of kush—but you get greedy and move on to gunrunning. You killed George, which makes you an accomplice to his murder.
Ethan took a particularly gruesome photo and slid it toward her.
—So let's try this again, only this time with the truth.
Erin added firmly:
—If you cooperate with us, I'll speak for you with the District Attorney.
After several rounds of questioning, Mrs. Wilenko's psychological defenses crumbled completely.
She covered her face with both hands.
—I went to Edgewater to see my ex-boyfriend. I had nothing to do with George's death…Ethan raised an eyebrow as he handed her a notepad and a pen.
—Write down his name and number. I'll check them. And I hope you're done lying. —He watched her jot the numbers down—. Now tell me everything you did today, every stop you made, every person you talked to, everything.
—I already told you.
—Tell me again.
—We were on the road at 4:30 —she said, writing between sobs—. We didn't stop until we crossed the border just after Ann Arbor. I had a little coffee, and we filled up the tank at a nearby station. I used the bathroom. George got a phone call from our nephew…
—What nephew? He lives here.
—He likes to meet up with George whenever he comes to Chicago… Oh God, Mikey doesn't know.
Ethan reached out and grabbed her arm.
—Does Mikey have a last name?
An hour later, the team meeting began.
Ethan held up a photo and pinned it to the board with a magnet.
—Michael Ganz. Lives in East Garfield Park, has priors for theft and possession. He's the nephew of our murdered trafficker.
The photo showed a white man with a beard and a ponytail.
—Erin went through his connections and found something interesting —Ethan explained as he flipped through the notes—. Besides being a very devoted nephew, Ganz works with a small crew that handles petty theft… at least until now.
Erin added, crossing her arms:
—But everything points to him trying to level up. He started dipping into the gun trade.
—And according to what the widow told us —Ethan continued—, they'd already taken part in several smuggling operations. This time, if I'm right, the guys who died earlier were part of that crew—only one of them wanted a bigger cut and ruined their plan.
Erin pointed at the evidence on the table.
—The insulin boxes found in the house were part of the shipment. They didn't have time to get rid of them. He knew that sooner or later, we'd trace George through the meds and link them to him.
—So he decided to silence them —Hank said, pointing at George's photo on the board.
Erin stood as well, twirling a pen between her fingers as she gathered her thoughts.
—I've got good news —she announced—. Mrs. Wilenko usually comes with her husband every few weeks, but this time… Ganz didn't even know she was in town. As soon as she got to Chicago, she went straight to see her ex-boyfriend and didn't attend her husband's meeting.
—Which means —Antonio added— that Ganz has no idea she's here, and he doesn't know we know about her.
Erin nodded.
Just then, Jin appeared from the tech room with a sheet of paper in hand, still breathing fast as if he'd been running.
—With the number Mrs. Wilenko gave me, I traced the suspect's recent calls —he reported—. Ganz has been calling this number about 24 times over the last twenty-four hours.
—A pawn shop called Lucky M, in Gage Park.
—Good work —Hank said, giving him a thumbs-up, clearly pleased to have found a lead so quickly.
—Lucky M? —Alvin pulled the candy from his mouth, squinting—. I know the owner. He's a middleman… the kind who doesn't ask questions as long as you pay.
—Alvin —Hank said, standing as he checked his watch—. Contact the owner of Lucky M. Tell him I set up a meeting with Ganz and he needs to let him know there's a buyer for the rest of the rounds. And make something very clear: if he warns Ganz or tries to get creative… he'll spend the rest of his life in prison doing deals with his own ass.
—Trust me, he'll get the message —Alvin replied, shoving a chocolate bar into his mouth like it was part of his job description.
Since the exchange would happen the next day, the day's work was done.Ethan pushed the board aside, and Antonio grabbed his coat, telling him he'd see him later.
In the sergeant's office, Hank called Alvin. The two whispered, glancing at him occasionally. Ethan went back to his seat, propped his feet on the desk, and stretched.The night was going to be particularly busy.
Ethan was texting with Nola; since they hadn't seen each other before he left, she was a bit annoyed.
Nola:So you left Banshee… and didn't even wait for me? >:(
Ethan blinked. Yep, he knew that tone: a complaint disguised as annoyance, more pout than anger.
Ethan:I thought you were out of town. I didn't want to bother you.
Her reply came fast.
Nola:But I was coming back in a day!I texted you.And nothing.
Ethan:It wasn't on purpose.
Nola:I'll take a few days to see you in Chicago.
Ethan:Then I'll have to make it up to you when you come.
Nola:(¬_¬)You better.
Just as he was about to send the last message, a voice snapped him out of it:
—Come on, I'm done with my work.
He'd agreed to go with Erin to Antonio's place since Ethan still didn't know the city well.
Ethan grabbed his leather jacket from the back of his chair.
—Alright.
He shut down his computer, said goodbye to Alvin and Hank—who were still in the office—and headed downstairs with Erin.
Both cars drove one behind the other toward Antonio's house.
They stopped briefly at a supermarket, where Ethan bought a bottle of wine so he wouldn't show up empty-handed; it wasn't expensive, but he didn't want to arrive with nothing.
Antonio's home was a two-story single-family house, a typical suburban place with a front lawn and toys scattered in the grass.
Ding-dong.
Erin rang the doorbell, a bit nervous for some reason.
—Hi.Antonio's wife, Laura, opened the door with a warm smile.
—Welcome, come in… dinner will be ready in a few minutes —she said as she guided them to the living room beside the dining area.
—Thank you… hope you like the red. —Ethan handed her the bottle—
—Oh wow, that wasn't necessary… Hi Erin, it's great to see you —Laura said calmly, smiling as she accepted the wine—. Detective Morgan, right?
Laura stared at the pair for a few seconds, glanced at Erin standing next to Ethan, and joked:
—You know, you two would make a cute couple.
The handsome man, the beautiful woman, both wearing similar leather jackets—they almost looked made for each other.
—Please, don't say nonsense.
Her heart pounding, Erin hurried inside and hugged Laura; the two kissed each other's cheek, cutting the conversation short.
Ethan said nothing and followed them into the house.
The place was cozy; two kids were watching TV in the living room, and a delicious smell drifted from the kitchen.
—You're here already?
Antonio stepped out of the kitchen, apron still tied around his waist, giving off that unmistakable suburban-dad aura.
—Ha, I'm gonna take a picture of you two and pin it on the board.Erin rarely saw him like that. She forgot what had just happened, laughed, and reached into her pocket for her phone.
Antonio straightened his apron quickly and struck a tough-guy pose, flexing his biceps:
—Go on, snap all the pictures you want.
—Tch.
Erin lost interest instantly and put her phone away.
—Dinner will be ready soon —Laura said, tying on the apron Antonio had tossed her—. Sit down for a bit.
Antonio opened the fridge and pulled out two beers.—Don't be shy, relax.
—Thanks.
Ethan took a beer and stepped out to the backyard with Antonio, sitting on a garden chair.
Watching the sunset, they chatted casually.
After enjoying a delicious Dominican dinner, Ethan and Erin said a quick goodbye; Antonio was married, and it wasn't appropriate to bother him any longer.
—Hey, do you want to grab a drink at Molly's? —Erin said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she looked at him with a mix of hesitation and resolve.
Ethan stayed quiet for a second, choosing his words carefully, then smiled.
—Can't tonight —he said, tapping his watch lightly—. I've got something to do.
Erin looked down for a moment, disappointed, but before she could say anything, Ethan added:
—But if you're free Saturday… we can go out. That drink can wait a little, right?
Her eyes lit up immediately.
—Yeah… sure. Saturday works —she said, trying to sound casual.
Ethan nodded, gave her a calm smile, and headed to his car. He opened the door, turned one last time to look at her, then got in, leaving her there, still smiling to herself like a happy idiot.
She rubbed her face, half-laughing at herself.
—Ugh… what is wrong with me? I look like a schoolgirl —she muttered, hiding her face in her hands.
Riverside Road, near the docks.
Ethan drove along the lakeshore and soon reached the place where he had arranged to meet Hank. It was a rundown-looking workshop, unnervingly quiet. In the distance, the masts of sailboats rose at the dock like a dense forest.
As he rounded the corner, his headlights lit up the metal shutter. Before he even had the chance to honk, the shutter lifted.
Hank, wearing a black coat, appeared in the doorway holding a remote and waved.The Cadillac eased into the workshop.
Bang!
The sound of the car door closing echoed in the empty space. Inside, only a few lights were installed. The lighting was dim, with dark corners creating stark contrasts.
Piles of miscellaneous objects—probably machinery left behind by the factory's previous owner—were stacked on both sides. In the center stood a table and a few chairs, and in the farthest corner, a large iron cage.
Alvin sat at the table with a beer bottle in hand, his baseball cap pushed to the side to reveal his messy hair.
—Hey.
Ethan walked over and bumped fists with Alvin.
—When are we heading out?
—Sit down first. We're waiting for a call —Hank said from behind, his voice rough.
Alvin grabbed a deck of cards and shuffled them skillfully.
—You know how to play poker?
—Deal the cards.
Ethan lit a cigarette and pulled up a chair.
He pulled a few hundred dollars from his wallet and took a beer from the cooler on the floor.
The three of them started playing quietly.
More than an hour later, nearly a thousand dollars were piled up in front of Ethan.Alvin scratched his beard and smiled in defeat. Ethan had cleaned them out.
Hank dropped his cards with a sigh; another losing hand. Ethan's calm smile as he dragged the bills toward himself only added to his frustration.
He was about to say something when his phone began to ring.
—About time.
—Let's move.
Alvin opened a drawer and pulled out several Glocks with the serial numbers removed, along with some ski masks.
Ethan picked a gun, checked it, and tucked it into his waistband. The three exited through a side door and got into a nearly-new black Toyota Camry parked outside.
Hank drove, weaving through the city's side streets. No one knew better than him how to avoid surveillance and patrol routes. Half an hour later, the car stopped on a secluded corner.
The southern district was even more desolate at that hour.
Anyone walking around that late was basically asking to get mugged.
Even night-shift patrol officers avoided certain parts of the city; no need to risk their lives.
Hank checked his watch and pointed toward a house up ahead.
—That's Trayzell's mistress's place —he said, gesturing with his chin—. Stick to the plan, don't draw attention.
Ethan scanned the area, pulled on his mask, and waited for the signal.
Alvin kept watch and stayed in the car to provide backup.
Once Hank was ready, the two stepped out together.
Late at night, two dark figures moved through the shadows beside a Ford Explorer. From a distant house, faint music drifted through the air.
Alvin reclined in the driver's seat, occasionally checking through his binoculars, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror, always vigilant.
After half an hour, the door opened.
A Black man with dreadlocks stepped out alongside another guy, both with guns showing under their jackets.
Then another person appeared in the doorway.
—Heads up… Trayzell's coming out, and he's got company. Two armed guys —Alvin whispered.
At the door, a Black woman in silk pajamas kissed Trayzell goodbye before closing it reluctantly.
—They're moving —Alvin warned, gripping his Glock at his side.
Ethan crouched beside a truck, perfectly concealed. Without needing Alvin's call, he sensed three dots approaching on his radar.
Footsteps neared, but he didn't draw his gun; he only flexed and relaxed his hands.
In the next instant, he burst from the shadows. Before the two goons behind Trayzell could react, Ethan was already on them. He grabbed each by the back of the neck and slammed their heads together with brutal force.
Crack.
The dry snap echoing in the walkway made it clear the hit had been clean.
They stood dazed for a heartbeat, eyes unfocused, then collapsed when Ethan released them.
The sudden commotion didn't provoke any reaction from Trayzell; all his attention was on the hard object he felt pressed against the back of his head.
He took several deep breaths and spoke defiantly:
—Listen, I don't know who sent you. I've got five grand in my pocket, take it.
—Just shut up —Hank growled, pressing the Glock to his skull.
Ignoring his threats, Ethan grabbed the cuffs and restrained him quickly. Hank pulled a roll of duct tape from his pocket and wrapped it around Trayzell's mouth.
Soon, they dragged him to the back of the Camry and tossed him into the trunk. A breath of smoke slipped out of the car as it sped off.
The shutter lifted and the Camry rolled back into the workshop, stopping at the center. Hank and Alvin got out, removed their masks, and took off the plates from the vehicle.
—Aren't you worried he'll recognize you? —Ethan asked quietly.
—Don't worry —Hank rasped—. What's he gonna do? Call the cops and say a sergeantand two detectives kidnapped him?
Ethan smirked as he removed his mask, understanding the point.Even if someone believed him, Trayzell wouldn't have the guts after what happened.
Ethan lit a cigarette, the ember briefly lighting his impassive face, then he headed toward the trunk.Seeing him, Alvin took the keys, pressed a button, and the trunk opened with a hydraulic hiss.
Inside, curled up like a trapped animal, was Trayzell. Ethan looked down at him.
—Come on —he said with a calmness more threatening than any yell—. Get out. We need to talk.
Trayzell recognized the detective instantly; pure despair flashed in his eyes.
Without removing the cigarette from his lips, Ethan grabbed him by the arm and hauled him out like lifting a tool bag. The moment his feet touched the ground, Trayzell tried to run despite having his hands cuffed.
—You really think you can get away? —Ethan muttered, almost amused.
He stuck out his foot, and Trayzell tripped, losing control of his body and hitting the floor face-first. He rolled twice, gasping, until inertia left him still.
When he lifted his head, a pair of black boots stood right in front of him.
—Mmph— he tried to say, but only muffled sounds came through the tape.
Trayzell looked up. It was Hank.
His fear spiked into pure panic. He tried to scoot away but barely moved a few inches before a strong hand grabbed him by the hair.
Thud.
Trayzell's head snapped to the side. Hank forced him to look forward and hit him again, a hard, clean blow.
—We've got a lot to talk about —Hank growled, still holding him.
The punch left him seeing stars, his head whipping violently.
—I treated you with respect… I extended an olive branch —Hank crouched and straightened his face—
Trayzell looked at him, shaking his head frantically.
—Maybe Casper didn't tell you before they sent him, but I don't like negotiating —Hank said, then punched him in the body.
—Ugh!
Trayzell groaned as the blow slammed into his kidney. Pain pulsed through his forehead, his bound arms trembling uncontrollably.
—What do you say?
Alvin tore the tape from his mouth, and Trayzell gasped for air.
—I give up… You want D'Anthony… he's yours —Trayzell whispered, barely breathing.
—No. You know what? I don't believe you —Ethan said, leaning over him—. I think you're lying.
He placed a hand on Trayzell's shoulder, firm—too firm—then slid it down to his ribcage with unsettling calm.
Hank and Alvin exchanged a concerned look; neither knew what Ethan was about to do, but whatever it was, it didn't seem good.
—Shh… —Ethan whispered, eyes fixed on Trayzell—. It's okay…
His voice was soft, almost compassionate. His fingers were not.
With cold precision, Ethan dug his fingers between the man's ribs, pressing until he felt bone and muscle, forcing his way inward as if carving space with a spoon.
The sound was wet. Skin gave way. Trayzell held his breath for a second… then the pain hit all at once.
—AAAHHH—! S-STOP! PLEASE! —his voice cracked, rising higher— AHHH, AH, AHHH!
His eyes shot open wide, as if waking into a hell he hadn't known existed, screaming in agony with a raw, choked howl.
—NO MORE! NO MORE! —he sobbed— GOD… AHHH…!
Trayzell hissed, his core tightening in terror, afraid Ethan would tear through him.He shook his head, eyes begging, until Ethan finally let go.
—Hhh…
Trayzell exhaled a shuddering breath; thick beads of sweat ran down his forehead.
Ethan looked at the blood on his fingers and wiped it off on Trayzell's clothes with disdain.
—See, I don't trust your word. So I'm gonna have to be a little more convincing if I want you to remember what you just said —Ethan murmured, leaning closer, his hand still on the battered ribs—
His voice was calm, almost polite, but each word landed heavy.
—You're gonna leave the kid alone… and you're never going to look for him again —he continued, tightening his grip just enough to make Trayzell feel his bones about to crack—. Because what you're feeling now… this… will be a caress compared to what I'll do to you if you ever get near him again.
Trayzell nodded frantically, shaking more from terror than pain, desperate to appease him. A broken whimper escaped his throat as his panicked eyes searched Ethan's, pleading to be allowed to keep breathing.
—AAAHHH—! S-STOP!
Those words alone made it clear they weren't planning to kill him, but the man feared being hit again.
—D'Anthony's off the streets, you got that? —Hank said coldly, one hand still in his pocket—
—Got it —Trayzell swallowed, seeing a glimmer of hope— No one will bother him again.
—One more thing… you got kidnapped way too easily. I think you need protection —Hank added, scratching his chin.
Trayzell cursed internally but forced a clumsy smile anyway.
Seeing his hesitation, Ethan grabbed his ring finger and pinky, bending them in opposite directions.
—Let me ask you this too, my friend… do you feel like you need protection?
—Yes, yes! —Trayzell blurted instantly.
With his fingers on the verge of snapping, he nodded frantically, sweat pouring down his face.
With his fingers on the verge of coming off, he nodded frantically, sweat running down his forehead.—All right, we'll take this as a down payment. —Ethan patted himself down until he found the bundle of five thousand dollars. — I want five grand every week, no excuses. It's a good deal, isn't it?
Ethan smiled and let him go. A thin line of blood slid down Trayzell's knuckles.
—Sure… no problem —Trayzell muttered, defeated.
—Perfect.
Hank pulled out a business card and slipped it into his jacket pocket.
—Here. We'll stay in touch. If you run into any problems, call me. I'll see what I can do.
Trayzell nodded, accepting his fate. It wasn't that he needed protection… but he did want to stay alive.
Ethan grabbed him by the neck with both hands and, with a smile that never reached his eyes, said:
—I hope you're a man of your word. If you try to get clever, next time I'll come for you alone… and trust me, you won't want that to happen.
Trayzell nodded instantly. These people in front of him were terrifying. What kind of cops were they? They looked more like gangsters than the actual gangsters.
Ethan tossed the handcuff keys to Olinsky and told him to take Trayzell and drop him somewhere discreet.
This time there wasn't a single protest. He climbed into the trunk, forcing himself to smile at Ethan and Hank before lying down inside.
Once Olinsky drove away, Ethan returned to his seat, set the wad of bills on the table, and carefully cleaned the blood from under his nails.
—You'll make a name for yourself in Chicago at this rate. —Hank commented, taking the money and splitting it in half— You and Olinsky take this. Consider it a bonus for helping out tonight.
—No problem, the kid wants a second chance. —Ethan replied indifferently, pocketing his share. That amount of money was nothing to him, but it would look bad if he didn't take it. — Besides, I don't like when people give me dirty looks.
—Now I get you a little better —Hank laughed, raising his beer.
Their bottles clinked with a sharp clank.
Everything settled. After sharing a beer, Ethan headed out.
Driving along the road by the river, the night breeze brushed his face. It was nearly one in the morning—time to head home; tomorrow would be a long day.
Later, stopped at a traffic light downtown, he glanced to the side and thought he saw a familiar figure standing on a corner. He blinked… and the silhouette vanished.
Ethan pulled forward slowly. Lowering the window, he saw a dozen prostitutes scattered around, the air thick with cheap perfume.
—Hey, baby, wanna have some fun? —said a blonde woman in a very short purple dress, high heels, and a pearl necklace as she approached— One fifty an hour, honey.
Ethan didn't answer her. He looked around, searching for something —or someone.
Another prostitute knocked on the window.
—Hey! I'm talking to you. What're you looking at?
Not seeing what he was after, Ethan turned the wheel to leave.
Then:
Thud!
Black Pearl kicked the car door.
—Josh! There's some guy causing trouble!
Immediately, several Black men stepped out of an alley.
—What's up, white boy? —one said, lifting his shirt to show a .38 revolver— If you're not buying, get the hell out. Don't waste my girls' time.
—Oh yeah? And what if I don't want to… —Ethan lifted his shirt too, revealing his badge—
—What are you waiting for? Beat his ass! —the woman shouted, moving forward.
Slap!
The man with the gold chain smacked her.
—Shut up, bitch.
She froze. Seeing the badge on Ethan's belt, she immediately covered her mouth.
—O-officer, I'm sorry…
—Just shut up, and answer me. Is there a woman named Juliet around here? —Ethan asked.
The man swallowed hard and froze. His buddies did the same. The prostitutes scattered like startled birds.
—Juliet? —He shook his head— No, sir. I don't have any girl by that name.
Ethan stared him down. Then he casually took the .38 from him.
—If I find out you're lying… it'll be the last time you're able to use this.
Ethan aimed toward his crotch. Josh began sweating cold.
—I swear… I'm not lying.
—Good. —Ethan pocketed the revolver— Now, that bitch dented my car… how are you gonna compensate me?
The man reluctantly took out a wad of bills.
—It's all I've got…
—You think I'm an extortionist? —Ethan took the money and smacked him lightly on the face—
—No sir… —he answered, utterly humiliated.
—Get lost.
The group vanished in seconds.
After confirming there was no sign of Juliet, Ethan shook his head and returned to the car. The Cadillac roared to life as he hit the road.
Crossing by the river, a shadow dropped from the window and hit the water with a chop.
The .38 spun, bubbled… and sank into the darkness.