The precinct was too quiet.
Daniela felt it the moment she walked in. It wasn't the usual pre-shift lull or the post-raid exhaustion. This was different. Conversations halted just slightly when she passed. A few too many glances tracked her movements, lingering a fraction too long before snapping away. Subtle shifts — but she knew how to read a room, especially this one. The tension clung like static, heavy and pregnant with unspoken words.
Someone knew something.
She walked straight to her desk, the familiar worn surface a small comfort in the suddenly hostile environment. Her instincts screamed at her, urging caution, but she pushed it down. She had a job to do, and a woman counting on her.
Duncan's door was ajar, a silent invitation. He sat hunched over his desk, poring over files. He waved her in without looking up, his posture unusually rigid.
As soon as she crossed the threshold, the door swung shut behind her with a sharp, decisive click that echoed ominously in the small office. The sound was deafening in the sudden silence.
"We need to talk," he said, his voice flat, devoid of its usual warmth or even its typical gruffness.
His tone was colder than usual. He wasn't angry — not yet — but there was a dangerous suspicion humming beneath his words like distant thunder, an accusation waiting to be unleashed.
Daniela kept her face carefully neutral, her expression unreadable. Her years on the force had taught her how to build walls, how to control her tells. "What's going on?" she asked, her voice steady, despite the sudden chill that had settled in her gut.
Duncan finally looked up, his eyes hard, assessing. He slid a manila folder across his desk. It stopped just shy of Daniela's reach, a deliberate barrier. The folder was thin, but the weight of what it contained felt immense.
"Internal Affairs flagged some irregularities in your expense reports," he stated, his voice devoid of emotion. "Surveillance logs that don't match GPS records. Burn phones pinging near locations you didn't report."
He let the silence hang, letting the words sink in, letting the implications settle between them like a suffocating shroud. Each accusation was a direct hit, confirming Daniela's worst fears. They were indeed watching her.
Daniela's pulse ticked higher, a frantic drumbeat against her temples, but her voice remained steady, remarkably calm. "I've been chasing leads," she said, her explanation practiced, if flimsy. "Sometimes off the books to avoid tipping anyone off inside the department. You know how it is, Captain. Too many eyes, too many ears."
Duncan narrowed his eyes, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. "That your official statement, Detective?"
"It's the truth," Daniela insisted, her gaze unwavering.
He studied her like a poker player reading a bluff, searching for a tell, a micro-expression that would betray her. Then his voice softened, almost too much, a dangerous shift that put Daniela even more on edge. This was the manipulation, the personal appeal before the hammer fell.
"Look, Silva. I've protected you before. Backed your calls when others wouldn't. I've always trusted your instincts, even when they took you off the path. But if you're working at an angle you haven't disclosed — if you're protecting your source a little too closely — you need to tell me now. Before this blows up in your face, and mine."
There it was. The offer. The thin line between loyalty and exposure. A lifeline, but one that demanded a confession.
Daniela swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. The air in the room felt thick, heavy with unspoken questions. She had to choose her words carefully, every syllable a potential trap.
"I've got a live informant inside Kayleigh's crew," she admitted, giving him the bare minimum, a truth wrapped in layers of omission. "That's all you need to know for now."
"Name?" His voice was still soft, but the underlying steel was unmistakable.
"I'm not burning her. Not yet." The "her" slipped out, an unintentional betrayal, a pronoun that instantly revealed too much.
Duncan sat back slowly, fingers steepled, his gaze unblinking. A slow, knowing smile touched the corners of his lips, a grim realization dawning in his eyes. "Her."
Daniela cursed herself silently. The slip hadn't gone unnoticed. It confirmed every suspicion, every lurking doubt he harbored.
"You're protecting her," Duncan said quietly, the words a statement of fact, not a question. "Not just professionally, are you, Silva?"
Daniela's jaw clenched, a muscle jumping in her cheek. She didn't deny it. Couldn't. "You got a problem with that, Captain?" Her voice was low, laced with a challenge she immediately regretted.
Duncan shook his head, a weary sigh escaping him. "I've got a problem if you let it cloud your judgment. If you let it compromise the operation, or worse, your life. Because if you go down, I go down with you."
Then his voice darkened, the soft appeal replaced by a chilling warning. "Because IA isn't the only one watching you right now. I've been getting calls from people I don't normally hear from. Higher up. Sensitive ears."
A cold dread coiled in Daniela's stomach. "Kayleigh?" she asked, the name a venomous whisper.
Duncan nodded slowly, his expression grim. "She's got friends in places that would surprise you, Silva. Powerful friends. And they don't like anyone digging around her business."
The meeting ended without further accusations, but the unspoken message hung heavy: Daniela was on her own. Duncan had given her a warning, a slim chance to clean up her mess, but his patience, and his ability to shield her, were clearly wearing thin.
That night, back at the apartment, the city lights blurred outside the window, reflecting the turmoil inside Daniela's mind. Eleanor was waiting near the window again, a silent sentinel, her silhouette framed against the urban glow. Her eyes locked on Daniela the moment she stepped inside, sharp and questioning.
"You're late." Her voice was soft, but the underlying anxiety was palpable.
"Had to dodge IA," Daniela said, shrugging off her jacket, the dampness from the lingering drizzle clinging to the fabric. She tossed it onto a chair, the weight of the day pressing down on her.
Eleanor stiffened, her posture becoming rigid. "They're on you?"
"They're circling," Daniela confirmed, her voice grim. "They know enough to ask questions. Enough to make trouble."
Eleanor exhaled shakily, a sound of profound fear and resignation. "Then we don't have much time."
Daniela crossed the room, her movements purposeful. The scent of rain and city air still clung to her, a stark contrast to the closed-off world of her apartment. She pulled a printed spreadsheet from her bag and handed it to Eleanor. It was thin, unassuming, but it held the key to everything.
"What is this?" Eleanor asked, taking the pages with a trembling hand.
"Wire transfer logs. Offshore accounts," Daniela explained, her voice sharp with renewed focus, cutting through the fatigue. "Kayleigh's consolidating funds. Big ones. She's preparing for something — either an exit, or a major shipment. This is either her escape route or her next big play."
Eleanor scanned the pages, her brow furrowing in concentration, her eyes darting over the columns of numbers and codes. "I know that routing number," she whispered, a sudden spark of recognition in her gaze. "That's the Panama account. It's her main stash, the one she uses for her biggest deals."
"That's where we hit her," Daniela said, her voice low and determined. "This is our shot, Eleanor. The one she won't be able to talk her way out of."
Eleanor's eyes darted up, meeting Daniela's, a flicker of fear mixed with a desperate hope. "If we're wrong—"
"We're not." Daniela cut her off, the words absolute, even as doubt gnawed at her gut. The noose was tightening so fast, she wasn't sure if she was closing it around Kayleigh — or around herself. But there was no turning back now. It was all or nothing.
By midnight, the operation was in motion.
Daniela's task force — the few she trusted implicitly, the ones who would follow her into hell if she asked — prepped for a quiet raid. The target: one of Kayleigh's newly identified transfer depots on the industrial outskirts of the city. It was high risk. No warrant yet, just Daniela's intel and a desperate need for a win. If it failed, Daniela's entire career — and Eleanor's life — were done. Finished.
Daniela stood outside the dark, unmarked van, adjusting her earpiece as a fine, cold rain slicked down her neck. The air was heavy with the smell of damp concrete and the low hum of distant machinery. Her team moved silently, their forms barely visible in the pre-dawn gloom.
Duncan approached her from the shadows, his presence a heavy weight. He didn't say anything at first, just stood beside her, his gaze sweeping over the scene.
"Last chance," he said quietly, his voice a low rumble. "Are you sure about this, Silva? You're out on a limb here. A very long limb."
Daniela glanced at him, her eyes resolute. "I've never been more sure, Captain." It was a lie, of course. She was terrified. But she couldn't show it. Not now.
He studied her one last time, a long, assessing look that seemed to plumb the depths of her resolve. Then he simply nodded, a curt, almost imperceptible gesture.
"God help you." The words were a benediction and a warning, a final farewell before she stepped into the unknown.
Inside the sprawling, dilapidated warehouse, the SWAT team moved like ghosts, their boots barely whispering on the concrete floor. They breached silently — guns raised, flashlights sweeping through the cavernous space — room by room, methodically clearing the structure.
But what they found wasn't stacks of money or crates of weapons.
It was empty.
Again.
Daniela's stomach dropped, a sickening lurch that stole her breath. This wasn't a scheduling shift. This wasn't a last-minute change of plans. This was a setup. A cold, calculated trap.
Suddenly her earpiece crackled, static filling her ear — comms picking up interference, a deliberate jamming.
Then another voice broke through the static, cold and clear, chilling her to the bone.
A voice she recognized instantly.
Kayleigh.
"Detective Silva. How nice of you to finally join the party." Her voice purred, laced with a triumphant mockery that grated on Daniela's nerves.
Daniela's blood ran cold, freezing in her veins. Her grip tightened on her weapon, knuckles turning white.
"Surprised?" Kayleigh continued, her voice echoing with a slight distortion through the earpiece, as if she were enjoying every moment. "You should've known better, Detective. But you got sloppy."
Outside, the screech of tires on wet asphalt pierced the silence. A sleek black SUV roared to a stop in front of the warehouse, its headlights cutting through the pre-dawn gloom like predatory eyes.
Daniela spun toward it, drawing her weapon in a single, fluid motion. The SUV door swung open, a heavy thud.
Corsa stepped out.
Tall. Expressionless. Built like a machine, his form radiating a silent, lethal menace. The rain seemed to cling to his dark clothes, making him appear even more imposing.
And standing beside him — wrists zip-tied, face bruised, a raw gash bleeding faintly on her temple — was Eleanor.
Daniela's world narrowed into a sharp, lethal point. Everything else faded. The rain, the cold, her team, her career – none of it mattered. Only Eleanor.
Kayleigh's voice purred through the earpiece again, dripping with cruel satisfaction. "You thought she wouldn't fold, Detective? Everyone has a breaking point. She gave you up."
Daniela's hands trembled slightly, but her grip stayed firm on the weapon, a lifeline in a world suddenly gone utterly, terrifyingly wrong.
"She didn't fold," Daniela said aloud, more to herself than anyone, the words a fierce, desperate whisper of conviction.
Kayleigh chuckled darkly, a sound devoid of humor. "Everyone folds. Eventually."
Corsa shoved Eleanor forward roughly, a brutal, unceremonious push that forced her to her knees on the wet asphalt. His hand rested casually near the gun on his hip, a silent promise of swift, merciless violence.
Duncan's voice broke through on the other channel, strained and urgent. "Stand down, Silva. Don't make this worse. This isn't the way."
Daniela's breath came faster, ragged and desperate. She could feel every pair of eyes on her from the task force behind her, their collective shock and confusion a palpable weight. The line between duty and personal instinct had never been thinner, more fragile. It had disintegrated.
But when her eyes met Eleanor's — even through the pain, even under the crushing weight of fear and the humiliation of capture — there was no betrayal there. No accusation. No resentment.
Only fear.
And trust.
A terrifying, unwavering trust that pierced Daniela's heart and fueled a surge of primal rage.
.
.
.
.
.
To be continued