Chapter 12 – Fire Camp
The Fire Camp wasn't flames and ashes like the name suggested—it was a strange, seductive mix of decadence and danger. Think: trench warzone by design, luxury brothel by funding. The floors were dusty concrete, but the ceilings? Vaulted and hand-painted. Air thick with cigar smoke, the scent of gun oil and lavender-scented cleaning spray. Spotlights hummed low from overhead cranes, casting golden beams down on what looked like a criminal factory line.
People bustled everywhere—silent and efficient. One corner had girls in gloves counting crisp stacks of money—dollars, euros, pounds, Kuwaiti dinar, even gold bars wrapped like candy. Another corner glimmered with open crates of custom pistols, long-range rifles, and devices that didn't belong in any legal market. Workers cleaned the guns, polished blades, tagged fresh deliveries.
And then they walked in—Silas, Jace, and Allen.
The energy shifted. Silas led the crew like a silent storm, black boots echoing against the ground. Jace's silver knuckle-chain slithered slightly with every step, like a threat unraveling. Allen's toothpick bobbed between his lips, that signature shit-eating grin daring someone to try it.
The workers noticed. They moved faster.
They were just two feet away from Jean-Luc's private door when the scent of ego hit the air.
"Well, well, if it ain't the charity case turned Jean's lapdog," a voice drawled from the shadows.
Scar Face.
He stepped forward from where his crew had been posted—leaning on crates, flexing guns they probably hadn't earned. His scar, carved deep and disrespectful across his cheek, split his smirk in two. Behind him stood his team:
Spice—femme in neon green with bubblegum in her mouth and brass knuckles already on.
Jet Black—tall, silent, sniper-vibes, dressed like a shadow.
Spiro—twitchy little tech freak filming everything with a tiny cam clipped to his hoodie.
The tension thudded into place like a drum.
"Funny," Silas said, voice low, barely interested.
Scar Face chuckled. "You walk in here like a damn prince. But I remember when you used to beg for scraps outside that old club in the east block. Shit, I was the one told Jean to even look your way."
Allen cracked his neck.
Jace wrapped the chain once around his fist.
Scar Face took a step closer, ignoring it.
"You should be one of these workers, Silas. You were made for scrubbing floors. Maybe if you're good, we let you wipe Spice's boots. Or clean Jet's barrel."
Spice blew a bubble and popped it.
Silas didn't flinch.
Scar Face grinned wider, then dropped the matchstick:
"Hell, maybe I'll let your baby sister ride shotgun with me next job. She got that spoiled look—bet she moans rich."
Jace moved first, silver chain whipping free like a cobra. Allen's foot slid forward, heel ready to crush. Silas's hand? Already at his hip, not even caring if it was the knife or the gun.
"Say it again," Silas said, voice like a scalpel.
"Silas."
Jean-Luc's voice, cold and crisp, cut through the tension like steel through silk.
Silas didn't blink. He kept staring straight into Scar Face's eyes. Scar Face didn't move either, but the grin? Gone.
"Inside," Jean said from the hallway. "Now."
Silas turned, but not before brushing past Scar Face with his shoulder. Jace and Allen gave the crew a once-over like they were already dead men. Then they followed.
Scar Face muttered something under his breath.
Spiro caught it all on camera.
Inside the office, the door shut.
Jean-Luc stood by a curved glass table littered with cigars, blood-red folders, a bottle of expensive bourbon, and a knife that might've been used hours ago.
He didn't smile. Didn't even greet them. Just gestured at the seats like this wasn't the den of the most dangerous criminal circle in the region.
"Let's talk," Jean said, "about Zayne McQueen, about the heat you three stirred up at the casino—and about what you're doing next. Because Scar Face isn't the only one watching."
★★★★★★
The Houndhouse. 8:46 PM.
The Houndhouse was thinning out like stale breath. Day-shift officers moved with the sluggishness of people who'd been punched in the brain by bureaucracy and street grit. Fluorescent lights still flickered above, stuttering like they couldn't keep up either.
Chairs scraped. Keyboards went quiet. Paperwork was left in half-signed stacks. The reek of instant noodles, sweat, and crime scene latex still clung to the air like a stain that refused to lift.
Draya Castillo strode down the corridor, heels steady, face unreadable, but something in her gait said she was done for the day. "If anyone else calls my name tonight, I'll personally authorize a taser to the throat," she said without slowing down.
Someone laughed nervously. A junior officer whispered, "Goodnight, ma'am," like it might protect him.
She didn't answer—just raised two fingers behind her head in a peace sign as she disappeared into the elevator. The doors shut with a dignified ding.
At his desk, Theo Briggs let out a loud, suffering yawn like it had a mortgage and three kids. "If I don't get horizontal in the next hour, I'm legally allowed to bite someone," he muttered, rubbing his eyes.
Sage Marlowe didn't respond—he was halfway through reviewing one of the files Draya had handed him earlier, brow furrowed, pen tapping his lip like a metronome made of sass and suspicion.
Theo kicked his leg under the desk. "Hey. Nerd alert."
Sage looked up—and paused. Across the department, past the rows of blinking monitors and slumped officers, Devon Hart stood leaning by the elevator. His hands were in his pockets, jaw clenched like he wasn't sure if he was here to drive Sage home or fight him in the parking lot.
They hadn't talked since the birthday party blow-up. Sage hadn't even texted. And yet… there he was.
Sage sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, then stood. "You're lucky you're pretty," he said under his breath. He stepped away from his desk and turned to Theo, who raised both hands in mock surrender.
"I'll hold down the fort, lover boy," Theo said with a wink.
Sage rolled his eyes and pulled him into a half-hug. "Don't die on me."
"No promises."
Sage walked off toward Devon. Neither of them spoke—not right away. Devon opened the elevator with a button press and waited. When the doors closed behind them, Sage exhaled like he'd been holding it all day.
Back at the bullpen, Theo stretched again, then slowly started packing up his files. He muttered his goodnights to no one in particular and headed out, his hoodie already halfway over his head.
The energy shifted after that.
The day team had officially tapped out.
In came the night crew—dark uniforms, strong coffee, and faces set like they'd already accepted whatever hell waited for them between dusk and dawn. Someone was microwaving the same cursed bowl of leftover ogbono that made the whole station smell like wet socks and garlic. Nobody complained.
Now, only a few lingered from earlier.
Tina Rodrigo still sat in her corner, fingers dancing on her laptop keyboard with unsettling speed. She hadn't said a word in over thirty minutes.
Across the bullpen, Trent Argo slung his coat onto the rack with a grunt. He glanced toward her. "Aren't you leaving?"
Tina's mouth curled. "In a minute. Got some threads to follow."
Trent raised a brow. "Suit yourself. Don't stay too long. The janitor ghost starts whispering names after midnight."
She didn't laugh. Just gave him a sugary smile that didn't reach her eyes.
When the last of the evening officers disappeared, replaced fully by the soft buzz of night-shift energy, Tina finally slowed her typing.
She leaned back, watching the exit doors with hawk focus.
There—Quinn.
Blonde hair tucked under a hoodie. Head down. Bag slung over one shoulder. Moving quiet like she always did, a ghost in sneakers.
Tina tracked her movements with a predator's patience.
She waited until Quinn was fully out of sight, the sound of the elevator doors ding-ing shut once more.
Then—smirk.
"Well well, Sage Marlowe," she murmured, reaching over to retrieve a half-finished mug of tea. "Someone just walked out with your little ticking breadcrumb."
Her hand tapped a key on the laptop. A second screen blinked awake—showing a list of trackers.
One blinked. Active.
Tucked neatly inside Quinn's bag, that "device" Tina had dropped earlier—a pin-sized tracer. Energy-efficient. Impossible to detect without a scan.
Tina tilted her head.
"You think you're smart," she whispered to herself. "You think this whole little trio of yours is operating off the grid."
She grinned now, wide and wicked. "But you just handed me your blonde little bloodhound."
A beat.
She took a sip of tea and gagged. "Ugh. Chamomile? Ew.
Tossing the cup in the bin, she stood, brushed off her blazer, and cracked her neck.
"Let's see where this rabbit hole goes, Marlowe.
She closed her laptop.
And followed.....