Ray kept his cruiser back far enough to stay off the wagon's mirrors. The taillights drifted through late afternoon traffic, steady, cautious. But then, without warning, the driver flicked the blinker and cut left at the next light, away from the main road that led toward Emma's apartment.
Amy frowned, jotting something in her notebook even as the car shifted lanes. "He saw us. That's a run."
Ray shook his head. "Or it's worse. Think. He saw Emma leave the station, yet he followed her when she did a quick round around the block. I think this guy is part of a well-planned team. He could be drawing us off. While we chase him, someone else could be waiting for her. Inside the building. Or trailing behind her car, which could be anyone."
Amy's eyes widened as the implication sank in. "Diversion tactic?"
"Exactly." Ray's tone stayed calm. "That means splitting up is the only sensible move."
He braked hard near the curb. Amy shot him a look as he unbuckled his seat belt.
"You take the wheel," he said, already reaching for the door. "Stay on Emma's trail. Don't let her out of your sight. I'll handle the wagon."
"Ray—"
"Careful, Amy. These guys are dangerous. They could be anyone from a delivery guy to a plumber. A new neighbour who might come to talk to her, or someone pretending to be lost. Don't let anyone inside other than the cops you know. Always keep your guards up and your gun at your hand's reach." He gave her the faintest flicker of a smile before slipping out into the street.
He looked at her, "Go!"
Amy nodded before driving away.
Across the sidewalk, two uniformed traffic cops stood by a hotdog cart, jackets unzipped, clearly on break. Josh and Earl. Ray knew them well enough to skip pleasantries.
"Emergency," Ray said, striding up. "I need the bike."
Josh blinked, mustard still on his hand. "The bike?"
Ray pointed at the police motorcycle leaned against the cart, kickstand down. "Now."
Earl didn't waste time. He tossed the key ring. "Go."
Ray caught it, mounted the bike, started it, and twisted the throttle. "Let's see what kind of bait you got waiting for me. Don't disappoint me." He mumbled to himself.
Ray leaned low over the bars, eyes locked on the shrinking silhouette of the station wagon. Then he opened the throttle wide, the bike surging forward like a predator loosed from a cage.
The hunt was on.
...
[Docks]
The docks smelled of salt and rust. Gulls wheeled overhead, their cries sharp against the low groan of the tide. Ray killed the engine, slid off the bike, and cracked his knuckles as the wagon rolled to a stop.
The burly driver climbed out, boots thudding on the cracked concrete. He was built like a refrigerator, shoulders wide, belly thick, mustache bushy enough to hide a blade. He grinned, showing teeth stained yellow and black.
"Anything I can help you with, officer?" he asked, voice slick with mockery.
Ray stretched his arms, yawned, then tilted his head. "We both know how this song goes. Why don't we skip the opening act and get to the main performance?"
The man chuckled. He raised his hand. From the warehouse beside them, a steel shutter rattled up with a grinding shriek. One after another, men walked out. Eight of them. They were carrying knives and iron rods.
The burly man spread his arms like a circus ringmaster. "You're out of luck, cop. This dock is off the grid. We set up a jammer strong enough to fry every signal in a mile. Your radio, your phone, and that little live cam on your chest won't be broadcasting any signal anywhere." He leaned forward, eyes glittering. "When we carve you up, piece by piece, no one's ever gonna find what's left. Fish gotta eat, after all."
Ray doubled over suddenly, clutching his stomach. His laughter rolled out, harsh and genuine, echoing across the empty dock.
"Oh, this is the stupidest thing I've ever seen and heard," he managed between laughs. He straightened, still chuckling, shaking his head. "You absolute geniuses. You jammed the signals. Which means… no evidence. No backup." He took out his gun. "And your men brought knives and rods..."
Ray held his Glock steady. The dockyard breeze tugged at his jacket, gulls wheeling above like they'd come for the show. It was a standoff... Guns vs knives and rods.
"Shit!" The burly man froze, hands in the air, trying to swallow the sudden dryness in his throat. The eight men hesitated, their bravado leaking out of them all at once. One by one, knives wavered, pipes drooped.
"Uh… boss?" one muttered, voice cracking.
Another jabbed a finger at him. "You said we were jumpin' some traffic cop with a taser, not a cop with a gun!"
"Yeah!" a third chimed in, already tossing his iron rod onto the ground with a loud clatter. "Nobody told me he was gonna bring a Glock! I got kids, man!"
The whole group started muttering at once, shoving each other, blaming the burly man.
"Where the hell's your brilliant plan now, genius?"
"You said easy payday, no risk!"
"You ever see a cop come without a gun? Are you stupid? Look at his clothes. He's a freakin' officer."
One of the men actually threw his knife into the ocean with a splash, muttering prayers under his breath. Another backed up so fast he tripped over the dock line and fell on his ass.
The burly man's grin twitched into panic as his crew dropped their weapons like hot potatoes. "Wait, wait, hold on—"
"Shut up, Carl!" one of them snapped. "This is on you!"
Ray lowered the gun just enough to smirk. "Wow. Your motivational speeches need work. Do they all usually abandon ship this fast, or am I just special?"
One guy raised both hands, backing away. "Hey officer, no hard feelings, right? I didn't even swing at you. Technically I'm innocent."
Ray gestured with the Glock toward the pile of discarded weapons. "Good. Keep that energy. Everyone sit down. Hands where I can see them. You..." he nodded at Carl, the burly man. "...Let's have a little chat, shall we?"
Carl's face went red. "I ain't telling you nothing."
[Bang!] Ray shot his kneecap with a smile.
"Motherfucker!" Carl fell to the ground, holding his knee and screaming in pain.
"Stop screaming or else I'll blow your dick off, motherfucker," Ray said as he walked toward him.
Carl clutched his knee, blood seeping fast through his jeans. He bit down on his sleeve to stifle the scream, but the tears gave him away. His chest heaved as Ray crouched beside him, Glock steady, expression calm and cold.
"Let's try this again," Ray said softly. "Why are you stalking Emma Watson? Did you break into her apartment last night?"
Carl shook his head violently. "No. No, man. I don't break in. I don't hurt nobody. I just... I just take pictures."
Ray's eyes narrowed. "Pictures?"
"Yeah," Carl whimpered. "That's it. I follow the targets, snap photos. Where they go, who they meet, what they buy. I write notes sometimes. Then I leave the envelope on a park bench just a block away from here. Midnight sharp. Next morning... money shows up in my mailbox. I swear to God I never even met the guy. Never seen his face."
Ray tilted his head, studying him like a puzzle piece that did not fit. "So you're a glorified delivery boy."
Carl nodded frantically. "Yes. Exactly. I don't even know what they do with the info. I'm just told to keep my eyes open. Please, man. I'm bleeding out here. Take me to a hospital. I'll die if you don't."
Ray stood, slid the Glock back into his holster, and looked at the circle of silent goons who were still sitting cross-legged on the cracked concrete. "Shut down the jammer. Now."
One of them scrambled up and sprinted into the warehouse. Seconds later, the humming distortion cut out and the air felt clearer. Phones chirped back to life.
Ray dialed. "Nine Nine. This is White. I need backup and an ambulance at Pier Forty docks. Multiple perps in custody, one injured. Tell Captain it's tied to Watson's case."
The line clicked. "Copy that, Officer White," came the dispatcher's calm voice.
After that, Ray searched the car and found the camera. He took out the memory card and put it in his pocket. Then he searched further and found multiple photos of Emma Stone. Other than that, there were a couple of packets of white powder. He took a sniff.
"Wow! That's some nasty shit," He chuckled as he pulled back. "Man, you stalked Emma Stone, too. This just got bigger than I expected. And you got enough drugs in your car to put you away for good."
"Fuck!" Carl cursed.
About ten minutes later, headlights cut across the dock. Jake's beat-up squad car skidded to a halt. Boyle was with him. Both of them got out, and behind them were three more cop cars. The officers got out.
"We solved one case, Captain finally gave us permission!" Jake announced before even reaching the group. "And what do we find? You having a whole illegal dock party without us?!"
Boyle, eyes wide, looked at the pile of discarded weapons and the moaning Carl clutching his ruined knee. "Jake... I think we missed the party. This was... like... the after party."
Ray gave them a flat look. "They are all yours."
Jake saluted dramatically. "On it, partner-in-badassery." He turned to the circle of goons. "Alright gentlemen, please form a nice orderly line for the Brooklyn Nine Nine arrest express."
Boyle chimed in, "And just so you know, you're being arrested by one of the most statistically efficient teams in the precinct. No rough stuff, no fuss, just classic police professionalism."
One of the goons groaned. "Man, can you two just shut up and put the cuffs on already?"
Jake blinked. "Wow. Rude. But fair."
Ray ignored the chatter, his eyes still fixed on Carl. The wounded man's face was pale, sweat streaking down his forehead.
"Someone call an ambulance."
---
[Meanwhile...] [Emma's apartment]
Emma just parked her car and was about to get into her apartment when Amy arrived. She parked her cruiser outside and gave Emma a simple nod. Then both of them got inside.
"This is a nice place," Amy complimented.
"Thanks." Emma put her purse on the table in the living room.
"Would you mind if I take a look around? Figure out how the stalker got in and out without breaking in?" Amy asked.
"Yeah, sure. Go ahead," Emma said as she took a deep breath.
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[24 advance chs] [No double billing.]
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