Shadows and dead ends

Maya moved through the city, searching for Nash. She checked all the usual places—the ones he used to haunt when they were on the same page. But he was nowhere.

Where are you?

I need to find him before Greg does.

What will happen if he tells Greg about my past?

That was all she could think about.

All of a sudden, she collided with someone—hard. Before she could react, strong arms steadied her, firm and uncomfortably familiar.

Then, the voice.

"Oh my God! What are you doing here, girl?"

A sharp, almost musical laugh followed, like glass breaking in slow motion. Maya froze.

She didn't need to look up. She knew that voice. Too well.

Saline.

Maya's body tensed, her breath catching in her throat. Not now. Not her.

Saline pulled back slightly, just enough to study Maya's face. Her smile was bright but didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Damn, Maya. You look like you've seen a ghost."

Maya swallowed, forcing herself to speak. "Wasn't expecting to see you here." Even to her own ears, her voice sounded flat.

Saline smirked. "Clearly."

She looked exactly the same—perfectly lined eyes, effortless charm dripping from her voice. But something was off. The energy behind the smile, the way her fingers fidgeted with the strap of her bag—it wasn't nervousness. It was calculation.

Saline wasn't just surprised to see Maya. She was assessing her.

Maya straightened, schooling her expression. "What are you doing here?"

Saline beamed, her voice lilting with practiced ease. "Vacation! Thought I'd grab some coffee, maybe do a little shopping." She tilted her head, studying Maya with an unsettling mix of amusement and curiosity. "But you, on the other hand... look like you're searching for something."

Maya forced a tight smile. "Just in a hurry."

Saline hummed, unconvinced. "Mmm. That's funny. I know that look. That's not 'I'm late for an appointment' urgency." She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. "That's 'I need to find a solution before shit goes south' urgency."

Maya's stomach clenched.

Not now, Saline. Don't do this.

She kept her face unreadable. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Saline's eyes glittered. "Oh, come on, Maya." She took a step back, gaze sweeping over her—from the slightly too-rapid breaths to the tension coiled in her shoulders. "You always did have a bad poker face."

Maya's fingers curled into fists.

Don't react. Don't let her pull you in.

"It's been two years," Saline mused, tapping her chin like she was calculating something. "You never called. You vanished. And now, out of nowhere, I run into you?"

She shook her head, grinning.

"That's not coincidence. That's fate."

Maya inhaled slowly. "Or it's just bad luck."

Saline laughed, but there was an edge to it—like she knew a joke Maya didn't.

"You always were the runner, weren't you?" she said, tilting her head. "Dipping before things got messy. Slipping away before people got too close."

Maya's jaw clenched. "People didn't deserve to get close."

Saline raised an eyebrow. "That what you told yourself?"

Maya exhaled sharply. "I don't have time for this." She moved to step past her.

Saline sidestepped smoothly, blocking her way.

"So tell me, what's got Maya-the-untouchable looking like she's five seconds from bolting?"

Maya's patience snapped.

"I have a family now."

The words landed like a gunshot between them.

For a split second, something flickered across Saline's face. Surprise? Amusement? Or something sharper, something closer to disbelief?

Then, the grin returned, but her voice was softer now, almost curious.

"A family." She repeated it like she was tasting the words, rolling them over her tongue. "That's a new one."

Maya's gaze hardened. "Yeah. And I have somewhere to be."

Saline hummed, like she was debating whether to push further. Then she smirked.

"No way! You have a family? The girl no one could ever trust?"

The words were meant to be playful, but they sliced deep. Maya stiffened.

"That's not funny."

Saline held up her hands in mock innocence. "Relax. I didn't mean it like that."

Maya stayed silent, her pulse hammering against her ribs.

Saline sighed dramatically. "Come on, don't be like that. I actually missed you."

Maya didn't answer.

Saline pouted. "No warm reunion? No 'Hey Saline, it's great to see you'? I get a glare and a hasty exit?"

Maya exhaled sharply. "What do you want?"

Saline's smile widened, but her eyes were too sharp.

"I don't know, maybe a real conversation?" She stepped closer, voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial. "Six years, Maya. Six years, and you expect me to let you go... so casually?"

Maya's fingers twitched.

Saline leaned in slightly, her voice turning almost teasing. "Or should I be asking what you're looking for?"

Maya had had enough.

"I don't owe you anything." The words came out low, tight. "I don't owe you an explanation. I don't owe you a reunion. And I sure as hell don't owe you my time."

For the first time, Saline's smile faded.

Her expression shifted—something unreadable flashing in her gaze, just for a second.

Then, just as quickly, she smirked again.

"Damn. You always did have claws. Never cared about no one else but your pretty self."

Maya turned sharply, stepping around her. This time, Saline didn't block her path.

She walked away without looking back.

Then, just as she reached the corner—

"Hey, Maya."

Maya paused, but she didn't turn.

Saline's voice was lighter now, but underneath, there was something else. Something colder.

"Can I meet your family?"

Maya walked faster.

She didn't look back.

But she could feel Saline's gaze burning into her spine.

THE PRISON

The prison visitation room smelled like bleach and bad decisions. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly glow over the scratched plexiglass that separated the free from the damned.

Detectives Jack and Sarah took their seats on the metal stools bolted to the floor, their expressions unreadable. Across from them, slouched like a king on a crumbling throne, sat Ricky Jones. Tattoos slithered up his forearms, peeking from beneath the cuffs of his orange jumpsuit. He picked up the phone receiver with the kind of slow, exaggerated movement that said he had all the time in the world.

Jack grabbed the receiver, his grip tightening with each passing second. Across from him, Ricky Jones lounged against the scratched plexiglass, looking entirely unbothered. The smirk on his face made Jack's blood simmer.

Sarah lifted her receiver with calm precision. "We need to ask you about Greg Walters."

Ricky exhaled dramatically, shaking his head. "Greg, Greg, Greg. You two come all this way just to talk about a dead man? Gotta say, I'm flattered. Didn't know you cared so much."

Jack leaned forward, his voice taut. "Cut the crap."

Ricky grinned, tapping a lazy rhythm against the table with his fingers. "Why should I? This is the most entertainment I've had in weeks."

Sarah, ever patient, studied him. "You knew him. You ran with him. We need to know who wanted him dead."

Ricky tilted his head as if considering. "And what do I get for my troubles?"

Jack let out a sharp breath. "You're wasting time."

Ricky chuckled. "Nah, see, you two are wasting mine. You think I don't know how this goes? You come in here, all serious and tight-lipped, act like you've got some leverage. But me?" He gestured to his orange jumpsuit. "I got nowhere to be. I can sit here all damn day and still get my three square meals. So why the hell should I help you?"

Jack's jaw clenched, but Sarah leaned in, her expression unreadable. "Because we both know Greg wasn't careful. He talked too much, made the wrong enemies. And if we don't close this case soon, you might end up next on someone's list. Someone who doesn't mind taking care of killing and hes damn good at it."

For the first time, Ricky's smirk flickered.

Jack pressed harder. "You wanna play games, fine. But you and I both know the kind of people Greg ran his mouth to. And if one of them thinks you know more than you should?" He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous murmur. "Well, let's just say accidents happen in places like this."

Ricky clicked his tongue, feigning boredom. "Oh, now you're trying threats? Cute." He yawned, stretching his arms. "Look, even if I did know something, how do I know it won't get traced back to me? You got cops in here, sure, but you ain't got walls thick enough to keep certain ears from listening."

Sarah didn't blink. "Then make sure what you say is worth the risk."

Ricky exhaled through his nose, his amusement slipping. He tapped his fingers against the plexiglass, his eyes flicking between the two detectives. Finally, he let out a slow, deliberate sigh.

"You ever try squeezing blood from a stone, Detective?"

Jack's patience snapped. "Enough bullshit! Who was after Greg?"

Ricky let the silence stretch, a smug glint returning to his eyes. Then, just when it seemed like he might hold out completely, he leaned forward, dropping his voice.

"There was a name floating around. Some whispers. But like I said, talking gets people hurt."

Sarah held his gaze. "And silence gets people killed."

Ricky chuckled, low and dry. Then, after another beat, he exhaled sharply and shook his head.

"Alright, alright. I don't know much. Just that Greg was running his mouth about some deal gone bad with some mexican. Something about a guy named Alvarez not being too happy with him."

Jack stared, still seething, but Sarah gave a small, satisfied nod.

"Now was that so hard?" she asked coolly.

Ricky smirked, leaning back again. "Hell yeah, it was. And I hope it was worth it."

Jack stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. Sarah followed, her expression still unreadable. Ricky watched them go, his smirk never quite fading.

As they walked down the dimly lit corridor, Jack exhaled sharply. "I swear to God, if I had five minutes alone with that guy—"

Sarah, ever composed, cut him off. "You'd be right in the next cell over."

Jack ran a hand through his hair, muttering. "He got under my skin."

Sarah smirked ever so slightly. "He wanted to. And you let him."

Jack grumbled, but Sarah was already focused on what mattered.

"At least now we have a name."

And with that, they walked on, the case taking its next step forward.

THE WAREHOUSE

The warehouse smelled of old wood, oil, and dust—a relic of forgotten deals and silent betrayals. Rusted chains swayed from the ceiling, creaking softly in the still air. Moonlight barely seeped through the grime-covered windows, casting long shadows across the stacks of crates and metal shelves.

Nash stepped in cautiously, his boots barely making a sound against the concrete floor. He scanned the dimly lit space before his eyes settled on a figure sitting at an old workbench near the back.

Louis Bento.

The old man was pushing seventy, his weathered face lined with experience, his hands still strong despite age's grip. A half-burnt cigar rested between his fingers, smoke curling up toward the ceiling. When he looked up, a weary smile formed on his lips.

"Kid," Louis greeted, his voice gruff but warm. "Didn't think I'd see you again."

Nash stepped forward, his movements measured. "I need answers, Louis."

The old man exhaled, nodding slightly. "Figured you'd come knocking eventually. Trouble's been stirring, and I assume you're at the center of it."

Nash's expression remained cold. "They know I'm alive."

Louis rubbed his temples before tapping ash from his cigar. "Yeah… about that. You met Maya, didn't you?"

Nash stiffened. He didn't respond, but his silence said enough.

Louis sighed, leaning back in his chair. "You should've killed her."

A flicker of emotion crossed Nash's face, but he quickly buried it. "She called the higher-ups?"

"Yeah," Louis confirmed. "She was scared you'd come after her family for what she did to you. So she decided to cover her ass. She told them you were still breathing."

Nash clenched his fists.

"And now they want me dead—again."

Louis nodded, his eyes filled with something between sympathy and regret. "Having a soft spot for Maya might be your downfall, kid. The goal you're chasing… you won't reach it if you let old emotions cloud your judgment."

Nash's jaw tightened. He knew Louis was right.

"I get it," he admitted. "Now tell me who's behind the hit."

Louis exhaled deeply, shaking his head. "There's a list, Nash. It's not just one guy. I can give you names, but you'll have to hunt through them before you find the main man."

Before Nash could respond, something in the air shifted. A faint, nearly imperceptible glint from one of the warehouse's high, broken windows.

A chill ran down his spine. Instinct screamed at him.

"GET DOWN!"

But he was a second too late.

A sharp crack echoed through the warehouse as a bullet tore through the air with terrifying precision. Louis's head snapped back violently, a red mist exploding from the exit wound. The force sent him toppling from his chair, lifeless before he hit the ground.

Nash didn't flinch—he couldn't. Blood splattered across his face, warm and thick, soaking into his clothes. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, but he forced himself to stay composed.

Another shot fired. Nash ducked behind a metal crate just in time, the bullet sparking as it ricocheted off the steel surface.

A sniper. Precise. Fast. Deadly.

Nash could hear the faint mechanical click of a reload. He needed to move—now.

He bolted for the exit, keeping low, but as he neared the door, the sniper opened fire again. Three shots rang out in rapid succession. Nash twisted mid-step, but a sharp sting ripped through his thigh.

He'd been hit.

Gritting his teeth, he stumbled forward, using a stack of crates for cover. The sniper cursed from the distant rooftop. "Fuck."

Nash didn't have time to process the pain. He glanced toward the other building—the sniper was moving. Ditching his rifle. Coming down for a close-quarters kill.

That meant Nash had seconds.

Just as he reached for his knife, the sound of approaching footsteps stopped him cold.

Five men. Armed.

They fanned out, blocking his exit. The leader smirked. "Looks like you're outta luck, Nash."

Nash exhaled slowly. His leg was bleeding, but adrenaline drowned out the pain.

Five against one.

Fine.

The first guy lunged. Nash sidestepped and drove his knife into his throat, twisting savagely before yanking it free. The second swung a crowbar—Nash ducked, countered with an elbow to the ribs, then buried his blade into the man's gut.

The third man pulled a gun—Nash grabbed the dying second guy and used his body as a shield as the bullets tore through him. When the clip emptied, Nash lunged, snapping the gunman's neck with a brutal twist.

The last two hesitated. Too late.

Nash moved like a predator. He dodged a wild punch, grabbed the attacker's wrist, and twisted until bones snapped. As the man screamed, Nash slit his throat in one fluid motion.

The last guy turned to run. Nash threw his knife. The blade sank deep into the back of his skull.

Blood pooled around his boots.

He didn't hesitate. Ignoring his throbbing leg, he limped toward the warehouse exit, disappearing into the night just as the sniper reached the scene.

The sniper surveyed the carnage, his expression darkening. He kicked one of the bodies in frustration before pulling out his phone.

"Boss, the target escaped."

A pause. Then a low, measured response.

"Then track him down. No loose ends."

The sniper smirked as he pocketed his phone, glancing at the trail Nash should have left behind.

But there was none.

Smart bastard.

Still, he wasn't worried. No rat had ever escaped him before.

"This should be fun," he murmured, before heading off into the darkness.