Chapter  34: Flashes of Plans and Deception

In those days, before the spirit of Yeomra had taken root within Avery...

Tak. Tak. Tak.

The sound echoed through the empty hallway, each click of her heels like a countdown to something inevitable. She walked slowly, reluctantly, as if every step brought her closer to something she'd rather avoid.

Her red stilettos were killer – literally. The heels were so sharp you could probably use them as a weapon in a pinch. Not that she was planning on stabbing anyone... probably.

Halfway down the corridor, she froze

Go in? Turn back?

The choice stretched out before her like two paths in a forest. 

She took a deep breath, the scent of her expensive perfume filling the air. 

Her fist clenched so tight her nails threatened to break skin. A wave of frustration washed over her, hot and suffocating.

This place. She hated it now.

Every visit was a reminder of promises left hanging, of words that had turned hollow. She could almost hear their voices. Now? Nothing but echoes and disappointment.

The shame of it all burned in her chest. How could she walk in there, empty-handed again? No answers, no results, just another failure to add to the pile.

She let out a long, shaky breath. The corridor suddenly felt too small, too confining. For a moment, she considered turning tail and running. It would be so easy...

But no. She hadn't come this far to chicken out now.

Squaring her shoulders, she lifted her chin. With one last deep breath, she strode forward, her heels clicking a defiant rhythm against the floor. 

The columbarium stretched out before her, rows upon rows of memories and lost loved ones. Mina didn't hesitate. She strode down the aisle like she was on a mission, her heels echoing off the marble walls.

Right at the far end, she stopped. Two familiar faces stared back at her from a dusty frame – Mom and Dad, frozen in time, smiling like they didn't have a care in the world.

Mina reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as she wiped away the layer of dust. It danced in the air, caught in a shaft of sunlight streaming through a high window.

With practiced movements, she lit a candle. Its warm glow cast flickering shadows across her parents' faces.

No flowers today. No offerings. Just Mina, standing there with her fists clenched at her sides. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of a promise.

"They'll pay for it, Mom and Dad."

Gone was the Mina her friends knew – the one with the easy laugh and mischievous grin. In her place stood someone else entirely. Her face was set in stone, eyes burning with a cold fire that would make even the toughest person think twice about crossing her.

The candle flame wavered, as if even it could sense the storm brewing inside her. Mina stood there for a long moment, silently renewing a vow she'd made long ago. Then, without another word, she turned on her heel and walked away, leaving only the echo of her footsteps and the scent of vengeance in the air.

…

Sheriff Davis slammed his coffee mug down, sloshing lukewarm brew onto a stack of reports. "Alright, Twig. Give it to me straight. What's the deal with Billy Johnson?"

Deputy Jenkins, all gangly limbs and nervous energy, fidgeted with his notepad. "Well, Sheriff, Billy's sticking to his story. Says he took a nasty tumble down some stairs. The folks who dragged him to the hospital are backing him up."

Davis snorted, leaning back in his creaky chair. "A fall, huh? Man looks like he went ten rounds with a cement mixer, and we're supposed to buy that he just... tripped?"

"I know it sounds fishy, but—"

"Fishy? It stinks to high heaven!" Davis cut in. "Please tell me we've had eyes on this punk."

Jenkins winced. "We've been trying, Sheriff. But you know how it is in the Third Street. And with our department spread thinner than dollar store toilet paper..."

Davis pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. The Third Street. Of course. That neighborhood was a black hole where leads went to die and witnesses suddenly developed selective amnesia.

Davis slumped back in her chair, the ancient wood creaking in protest. "Unbelievable," she muttered, running a hand through her messy hair. "I crack case after case, and what do I get? Zip. Nada. Just a stupid photo op with some glad-handing politician."

She glared at the framed picture on her wall, as if it was personally responsible for all her problems. "Where's my competent team? Where's my office that doesn't look like it was forgotten by time? But nooo, apparently a handshake and a cheesy grin is all the thanks I need."

Jenkins shifted uncomfortably, torn between sympathy and amusement at his boss's rant. "Well, at least we identified our guy. Who'd have thought a booze billboard guy would end up our prime suspect?"

"Yeah, fat lot of good that does us now," Davis growled. "He was stone-cold by the time we got there. And don't get me started on that joke of a medical report." She leaned forward, eyes sharp. "Please tell me we got something, anything, from that facility. Fingerprints? A stray hair? Hell, I'd settle for a smudged bootprint at this point."

Jenkins winced, already knowing how his boss would react. "Sorry, Sheriff. Place was wiped clean."

Davis's head hit the desk with a dull thud. "Fantastic. Just... fantastic."

For a moment, the only sound was the ancient ceiling fan whirring overhead. Then Davis straightened up.

Davis's eyes lit up with that dangerous gleam Jenkins knew all too well. It was the look that said she was about to bend the rules until they screamed.

"Round up those two who dragged Billy Johnson to the hospital," she said, voice low and intense. "I want them in here, pronto."

Jenkins blinked, caught off guard. "Uh, Sheriff? What exactly are we bringing them in for?"

Davis waved her hand dismissively. "I don't know. Get creative. Jaywalking. Suspicious loitering. Crimes against fashion. Just get them here."

"But—"

"Come on, Jenkins! Do I have to connect all the dots for you?" Davis leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The point is to get them squirming in those uncomfortable chairs out front long enough to squeeze out every last drop of info they're hiding. Trust me, those two know way more than they're letting on."

…

The warehouse had undergone a major glow-up. Bishop and Rocco were now hanging on one corner of the warehouse. Gone were the piles of junk and rusty metal. Now, smack in the middle of the concrete floor, sat a shiny new pool table.

Bishop leaned on his cue stick, eyeing Rocco as he lined up a shot. "So... you think we should tell the boss about what we heard?"

Rocco's cue struck the ball with a satisfying crack, sending it ricocheting around the table. "And say what, exactly? 'Hey boss, we've got a hunch about some shady stuff, but zero actual proof'? That'll go over real well."

"But what if it's connected to... you know," Bishop lowered his voice, glancing around like the walls might have ears. "The organization?"

Rocco straightened up, shaking his head. "Or it could just be your average, run-of-the-mill human trafficking ring." He paused, realizing how messed up that sounded. "Which is still bad, obviously, but not exactly our usual beat."

Bishop's forehead creased with worry. "It sounds pretty dangerous, though."

A grin spread across Rocco's face, the kind that usually meant trouble was brewing. "Exactly. Which is why we're gonna crack this case wide open ourselves."

"We are?" Bishop blinked, caught off guard. "Uh, how exactly do you plan on doing that?"

Rocco's eyes gleamed with that dangerous spark Bishop knew all too well. "Here's the plan: We get Lucky to recommend us to this mystery guy. If it turns out to be our target! We drop the intel on the boss's lap."

Bishop fidgeted with his pool cue, uncertainty written all over his face. "Hold up. Didn't Lucky say those other people he recommended just... vanished?

"Pfft, please," Rocco scoffed, waving his hand dismissively. "We're not some random schmucks off the street. Third Street toughened us up, remember? We've been through hell and back."

"I dunno, man..." Bishop mumbled, still not convinced.

Rocco sighed dramatically. "Fine, you big baby. I'll leave a note for Slick, okay? He'll know what we're up to if things go sideways."

"And you're sure this is a good idea?" Bishop asked, eyebrow raised.

Rocco grinned, slinging an arm around his friend's shoulder. "When have my ideas ever not been good?"

Bishop studied Rocco's face, trying to figure out what was really going on. "Why are you suddenly all gung-ho about this?"

Rocco's usual cocky grin softened into something more genuine. He leaned against the pool table, eyes distant. "You know... it's weird. I actually kinda like our new boss. Like, really like working for him."

Bishop raised an eyebrow, waiting for the punchline.

"No, seriously," Rocco continued. "The other day, my kids asked what I do for a living. And for once, I didn't have to make up some lame story or change the subject." His voice took on a hint of pride. "I told 'em straight up – their old man's an investigator, working for someone pretty damn amazing."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "You should've seen their faces, man. They looked at me like I was some kind of superhero or something."

Bishop's skepticism melted away. He'd never seen this side of Rocco before – the guy actually getting misty-eyed over his kids being proud of him.

…

"47°15'22.3"N 122°28'07.9"W"

The coordinates flashed on the massive screen, a digital bullseye marking their target. One of the Collectors, hunched over a keyboard, spun around in his chair.

"Boss! We've got a hit on the location of our mystery hacker," he announced, trying (and failing) to hide his excitement.

Heihachi, the weathered old man in charge, allowed himself a thin smile. "Well, well. Looks like our little fly couldn't resist the bait."

Cypher, Heihachi's right-hand man, raised an eyebrow. He was young, but his eyes held the cold calculation of someone way beyond his years. "Sir, forgive me, but how are you so certain this is connected to the missing Cleaner?"

Heihachi chuckled, a sound like gravel in a blender. "Think, boy. Who'd be stupid enough to poke around our systems? Either a complete moron..." He paused for dramatic effect. "Or someone desperate for intel. These flies, they can't help themselves. Give 'em even the tiniest whiff of something rotten, and they come swarming."

Understanding dawned on Cypher's face. "I see. Clever."

"Clever nothing. It's just how the game is played." Heihachi's eyes narrowed. "Now, here's what we're gonna do. Get in touch with that Damien. Tell him to send a flock of his Crows to check out the area. I want eyes on the ground yesterday."