Chapter 6
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They followed the money upstream through a labyrinth of shell accounts and digital smoke screens until they found a weak link—an ATM on Brooklyn's outskirts.
An anonymous debit card, repeatedly used for large cash withdrawals. The card led straight to a familiar face in the NYPD database.
Rico "The Ghost" Vargas.
A mid-level enforcer for the "Iron Fist Brotherhood," Brooklyn's nastiest gang outfit. Their specialty: money laundering, bone-breaking debt collection, and protection rackets. Vargas was the alchemist who transformed Brilliant Stars' "clean" money into street-level dirty cash.
His job was simple—distribute cash to his crew, who'd then feed it into "piggy bank" accounts like Sarah Jenkins', completing the laundering cycle.
The trail had suddenly dropped from high-finance chess to street-level thuggery.
To nail down the Vargas-Sarah connection, Ethan and Sophie launched a risky surveillance operation.
As darkness fell, Ethan's black Charger lurked in the shadows across from a derelict Red Hook warehouse—one of the Brotherhood's known haunts and Vargas's regular stop.
The car's interior was cramped and stifling. Ethan manned a high-powered scope while Sophie logged every arrival and departure on her laptop. Her first time in the field, yet her face betrayed no fear—only fierce concentration.
"Red jacket, three o'clock," Ethan murmured. "Vargas's number two—'Butcher' Billy. Did two years for nearly beating a man to death."
"Got it," Sophie replied, as coolly as if she were in court. "Plate number 4-K-L-3-7-7."
Minutes crawled by. In the tense silence, something shifted between them.
They passed a thermos of coffee back and forth, trading theories in whispers, occasionally breaking the tension with gallows humor. Surrounded by danger, something beyond professional partnership took root—a raw, instinctive trust.
Suddenly, Ethan's hand froze on the binoculars.
"Target acquired."
Rico Vargas emerged from the warehouse. Powerfully built, sporting an expensive leather jacket, with a jagged scar slashing across his face and predatory eyes. He scanned the area before slipping into a nearby alley. Seconds later, another figure followed.
From their angle, they couldn't make out the second person's face, but they clearly saw the thick envelope changing hands before the mystery figure vanished.
"Still running his operation," Sophie said, fingers hovering over the keyboard. "We're definitely on the right track. Sarah must have been silenced because she knew too much—or wanted out."
"It also means we've pissed off a very active criminal enterprise." Ethan lowered his binoculars, face grim.
Their probe had clearly struck a nerve. And the blowback came faster than either expected.
The next evening, Sophie worked late. Dragging herself back to her Upper West Side apartment, she spotted a plain white envelope on the floor just inside her door.
Assuming it was junk mail, she picked it up absently. When she saw "Attorney Sophie Bennett - Personal" spelled out in letters cut from magazines, ice shot through her veins.
Her pulse quickened, fingers trembling as she tore it open. Inside was a single white card bearing a message in pasted magazine cutouts:
"STOP DIGGING. WE KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE."
No signature. No fingerprints. Just raw intimidation. In that moment, all her legal training, her courtroom prowess—all the weapons she'd relied on—suddenly felt useless. These people had stepped outside the rules, bringing their threat to her very doorstep.
She closed the door with forced steadiness, leaned back against it, and slowly slid to the floor. She never showed weakness, but now, for the first time in years, she felt genuinely afraid.
She called Ethan immediately. He was at her door in record time. When he saw the threat, his face hardened into something dangerous.
"You're not staying here alone." Ethan's voice brooked no argument. "I'll arrange police protection, or you move to a safe house. Tonight."
"No." Sophie stood, her face regaining its familiar stubborn composure. "If I run and hide, we're telling them we're scared. The investigation stalls. I'm not some damsel in distress, Ethan."
"Damn it, Sophie, this isn't about playing hero!" Ethan's voice rose sharply. "These aren't opposing counsel you can outmaneuver! They don't follow rules—they use violence. They'll shut you up permanently if they have to!"
"Then I can't back down!" Sophie met his gaze unflinchingly. "We've come too far to let one threatening note derail everything!"
Their argument ended in stalemate. Ethan couldn't budge her stubborn resolve; Sophie couldn't ease his genuine fear. Finally, Ethan compromised—but insisted she maintain constant contact and allowed him to upgrade her apartment security.
But once danger casts its shadow, it rarely retreats so easily.
Two evenings later, Sophie walked home after work. She'd waved off Ethan's offer of a ride, insisting the walk helped clear her head.
As she turned onto a familiar street that suddenly seemed too quiet, a black German sedan—the same one from their surveillance—glided alongside her like a phantom.
The door flew open. Two muscled men in black hoodies lunged out.
Sophie's pupils contracted in fear. She spun to run, hand diving for her phone. Too late. A thick arm locked around her throat while a calloused hand clamped over her mouth, stifling any scream.
She fought wildly, driving her knee back hard, but her attacker only grunted and tightened his grip. A sharp pain exploded at the base of her skull. Her vision tunneled to black as her strength evaporated.
As they dragged her toward the car, her phone slipped from nerveless fingers, landing with a soft thud between sidewalk cracks, its screen winking out.
The car door slammed. The engine growled to life. Without hesitation, the sedan merged into traffic and vanished into New York's gathering dusk.
At eight p.m., Ethan sat in his car, gripped by mounting dread. He made his fifth call to Sophie, only to hear the same robotic voice: "The number you have dialed is currently unavailable…"
His stomach dropped. Sophie was pathologically punctual and responsible; she'd never go dark without reason.
"Something's wrong," he muttered.
He gunned the engine and raced to her apartment.
The apartment stood empty, but he found the threatening note she'd hidden away. He bolted downstairs and began frantically searching her usual route home.
His eyes scanned every shadow like radar. Finally, under a dim streetlight, he spotted it—her phone lying abandoned on the concrete.
Sophie's phone.
Ethan's heart constricted as if gripped by an invisible fist. He snatched up the phone as cold fear and white-hot rage exploded inside him.
He immediately accessed the police network to pinpoint the phone's last signal and pulled all traffic cam footage from the area.
Soon he had it—the black sedan stopping, two shadows forcing a third into the backseat.
He captured a partial plate. Not enough for an APB, but enough for him.
Back in his car, he ran the partial plate against known Brotherhood associates and vehicles. Minutes later, he had an address—an abandoned Red Hook shipyard where the Brotherhood "solved problems."
Ethan memorized the address, his eyes burning with cold fury. He didn't call Marcus. Didn't request backup. In that moment, he wasn't a cop anymore—just a man with nothing to lose.
He abandoned protocol and procedure, focused on one thought: find her, save her, make them pay.
His Charger cut through the night like a black arrow, racing toward darkness and danger.
The abandoned Red Hook shipyard sprawled along the waterfront like a rusting steel carcass. Salt-laden wind moaned through skeletal cranes and decaying containers. This forgotten corner of New York had long ago slipped beyond the reach of law and order.
Ethan killed the Charger's engine a half-mile out, melting into the darkness. No badge, no uniform—just black tactical gear that made him look like Death incarnate.
He checked his Glock's magazine one final time and strapped a tactical knife to his calf. His eyes were dead calm, but beneath that surface churned a vortex of rage.
Ethan avoided the main gate. He ghosted along the rusted fence until he found a gap.
Every step calculated, each footfall silent. A guard smoking by the warehouse door never even saw the shadow behind him before an arm locked around his throat and he dropped without a sound.
Ethan dragged him into darkness and continued toward the shipyard's only illuminated building—the main warehouse where they'd likely be holding Sophie.
He used shipping containers and abandoned equipment for cover, studying his targets like a veteran hunter. Two perimeter guards. Three playing cards by the entrance. Unknown number inside. His mind burned with fury, but his body moved with machine-like precision. Years as a detective had taught him—the greater the danger, the colder you must become.
He grabbed a rock and hurled it at a distant oil drum. The clang echoed through the night.
"Who's there?" The card players jumped up, two drawing weapons and moving cautiously toward the noise.
His chance.
Ethan exploded from the shadows like a striking predator. Before the remaining guard could turn, Ethan's elbow connected with his brain stem. No cry—just the soft thud of deadweight hitting dirt.
He slipped inside, where the reek of machine oil mingled with the metallic scent of blood, turning his stomach.
