Chapter 53: the call

The sudden ring of Detective Singer’s cellphone cuts through the tense air like a gunshot, snapping everyone’s attention toward him. His hand jerks instinctively to his belt, his eyes narrowing as he checks the caller ID.

the ID reads "Unknown." Detective Singer’s brow furrows in confusion, his fingers tightening around the device. He glances at the screen, unsure, but instinctively answers the call.

"Hello?" he says, his voice cautious, every muscle in his body on alert.

"Detective," a voice replies, smooth and taunting, sending a chill through Singer’s spine. "By now, you're probably with that Faulkner family, right?" The voice is unmistakable—Lyle.

Singer’s eyes narrow, his pulse quickening. How the hell...?

"What the hell?" he snaps, barely able to keep his voice from betraying his disbelief. "How the hell are you calling me from inside your cell?"

There’s a brief pause on the other end, then a low chuckle. "You think you’ve got me all figured out, don't you, Detective?" Lyle’s voice drips with amusement. "But you’re way behind. You think this is all about me being locked up? Think again."

Singer’s grip on the phone tightens, his patience wearing thin. "What’s your game, Lyle? You’re locked up, and your lawyer’s dead. What else do you want from me?"

Another pause. "Oh, it's not about what I want from you, Detective. It’s about what you’ll do next. You’re going to make a choice. But I’m sure you already know that. And as for your little investigation—good luck. You’re digging in the wrong place. Keep poking around, and the Faulkner family? They're not going to be so lucky next time."

The detective’s blood runs cold. The implications are clear: Lyle isn’t just taunting him; he’s threatening Alex, Jake, Mrs. Faulkner, and Miss Harper.

"You’re not the one in control here anymore, Lyle," Singer growls, fighting to keep his anger in check. "You’re behind bars, and I’ll make sure you stay there."

Lyle laughs again, dark and cynical. "You really think you can stop this, Detective? You're just a pawn. I’ve got things in motion you can’t even begin to understand. And you’ll be sorry you ever crossed me."

Then, with a final, mocking chuckle, Lyle hangs up. The line goes dead, leaving nothing but silence, but the weight of his words lingers in the air.

Singer lowers the phone, his eyes steely with determination and fear for what’s coming. He looks up at the group. "He’s playing games. This... it’s bigger than I thought. I don’t know how he got that call out, but Lyle’s not done yet. We need to be ready for whatever’s coming."

Alex and Jake stand frozen, the weight of Lyle’s threat hanging heavy in the air. The fear that has been slowly creeping into their bones now overtakes them completely. The realization that they weren’t as safe as they thought crashes over them like a tidal wave. Both brothers feel a cold sweat break out across their skin as their worst fears become reality—Lyle’s reach extends far beyond the walls of his cell.

The intense fear grips them in an instant, and before they can stop it, both Alex and Jake feel the overwhelming sensation of helplessness. A low, mortifying warmth spreads between their legs as they stand there, too terrified to move, their bodies betraying them in front of everyone. They’re paralyzed by the fear, the panic, and the realization that they never truly escaped Lyle’s shadow.

Miss Harper, standing off to the side, watches the brothers for a brief moment, her face hardening in frustration. She can see the horror in their eyes—the same horror she feels. But instead of sympathy, anger surges through her. She fists her hands, her jaw clenched so tightly it looks like it could break.

Without warning, she punches the wall next to her with all her strength, the sound of her fist slamming against the drywall echoing through the room. The wall cracks, dust falling in the wake of her impact, but the anger still burns in her eyes as she stands there, panting.

"I should’ve killed the bastard when I had the chance," she spits, her voice shaking with rage. "Now look where we are. You two—" She motions toward Alex and Jake, her voice softening with frustration, "You don’t have to live with this fear. You can still fight back. But damn it, you’ve got to be stronger than this."

Her eyes flick to Detective Singer, who watches them all silently. His face is grim, but he doesn’t speak, knowing Miss Harper’s anger is justified. The tension in the room thickens, but something in the air shifts. Miss Harper’s outburst, while harsh, gives them all a sense of urgency.

Alex wipes his eyes quickly, ashamed, but he forces himself to stand taller. "We can fight back," he says, his voice shaking but steady. "We have to." Jake nods in agreement, still pale, but finding strength in his brother’s resolve.

“We’ll fight,” Alex repeats, looking at Miss Harper and Detective Singer. "We have no choice now."

Miss Harper’s gaze softens, the anger still burning beneath her exterior, but she recognizes the moment of vulnerability. She moves toward the boys, offering them a reassuring but firm look. "Come on, you two," she says, her tone gentler now but still carrying that sense of urgency. "Let's get you cleaned up."

The boys, still reeling from everything, follow her without a word, the weight of the situation sinking deeper as they realize just how much danger they’re in. Miss Harper guides them out of the room, her steps quick and purposeful.

Detective Singer watches them go, his mind still racing over the phone call with Lyle. His eyes narrow as he thinks through the details. He turns slowly to face the room, his frustration clear on his face.

He turns to Mrs. Faulkner, his voice low and filled with concern. "I’m sorry," he says, his tone heavy with guilt. "I never wanted you or your family to get dragged into this. I didn’t know when I started investigating that it would come to this. But this is the reality now."

He pauses, looking out the window, as if trying to make sense of what he knows and what he doesn’t. "But there’s one part of this I don’t get. Lyle shouldn’t have known i was here. I never told anyone where I was going. I’ve been careful. So how did he find out?" " I use the ghost chip," It’s the kind of tech that makes his location impossible to trace.That’s how I’ve been keeping myself off the radar. Lyle... Lyle can’t track me that way. But the fact that he knew where I was,it doesn’t make sense."

He looks at Mrs. Faulkner, his gaze piercing as if searching for answers. "The only way Lyle could’ve known is if someone tipped him off. Someone who knows where I am, someone close enough to know where I’d be heading next." He clenches his jaw, frustration mounting.

He doesn’t know the Faulkner address." "If that were the case, he would’ve gone after you here, not at the park. "Which means someone must’ve found out where I was going... someone outside of this house."

The detective’s fingers tap nervously against the table as he continues thinking. "If Lyle doesn’t know your address, then the only way he could've anticipated my arrival here... is if someone else gave him that information. Someone who knew I was tracking him, someone who knew my next move."

He looks around the room, eyes scanning the faces of everyone present.

"This isn’t just about Lyle anymore. If he was able to get that info, that means there’s a bigger network at play here. And we’ve been walking into it without even realizing it."

He lets the words hang in the air, his mind spinning. Someone must’ve been watching him, maybe listening in on his movements. The question is: Who?

But now, more than ever, they need to figure it out before the situation escalates any further. They can’t trust anything they know, not until they uncover the true extent of this network—and who’s behind it.

The detective mutters under his breath, his mind racing as he pieces together the puzzle. "Okay, think... that lawyer said Lyle’s got mob connections. He said he's got cops on their payroll..." He shakes his head, a troubled look crossing his face. "I’ve known every single one of my officers for years. I trust them. They could never be dirty."

But as the thought settles in, he freezes for a moment, his mind snapping back to a key detail he almost overlooked. "Wait... that officer from earlier..." He pauses, his brow furrowing. "The one who said he went for a smoke… I’ve never seen him before today. Never."

A cold shiver runs down his spine. The realization hits him like a freight train. "That guy... he wasn’t one of mine. He wasn’t on my team. He’s the leak."

He paces back and forth, cursing under his breath. "He must’ve been planted there. Someone else got to him first, and now, he’s been watching my every move."

His hands ball into fists as the pieces start to fall into place. "That’s how Lyle knew where I was. That’s how he knew where to find you."

He stops pacing, turning to Mrs. Faulkner and the others, his face grim with determination. "We’ve got a rat in my department, and that’s the last thing I need right now. I don’t know how deep it goes, but we’ve got to be careful. Whoever that officer was, they’re working for Lyle—or someone else with connections to him."

The air in the room thickens with tension as the group realizes they’ve been walking around with a mole in their midst, and now, they’re more vulnerable than ever. The stakes just got even higher.

The detective’s fingers hover over the phone as the trace finishes, the screen displaying an unexpected result. His eyes narrow as a voicemail begins to play.

"You have reached Officer Hernandez. I'm unable to come to the phone right now. If it's an emergency, please call 911."

The message is brief, but the words hit like a hammer. His jaw tightens, and he grips the phone tighter, his mind racing. Officer Hernandez. The same officer who had been on the roof earlier. The one who had cornered the lawyer, the one who had shown up out of nowhere.

The voicemail ends abruptly, leaving an eerie silence in the room. Detective Singer exhales sharply, his frustration boiling to the surface.

"Officer Hernandez," he repeats under his breath, his mind turning over the implications. "I knew something was off about him. That’s no coincidence."

He glances at the others, his expression darkening. "We’ve been set up. Hernandez is the one who tipped off Lyle. And that means we’re not just dealing with a rogue cop—we’re dealing with someone who’s working for the mob."

A sense of urgency fills the room as the detective starts typing a few things into his phone, his fingers moving quickly as he begins pulling up Hernandez’s record. "I need to know everything about this guy. Where he’s been, who he’s talked to, and most importantly—where he is now."

He turns toward the group, his eyes sharp. "I’m going after him. We can’t afford to let him stay on the inside any longer."

Just as Detective Singer begins to focus on the next steps, his phone rings again, the caller ID flashing "Martinez." He picks up immediately, his mind still racing with the realization about Officer Hernandez.

"Martinez," he answers, his voice tight with anticipation.

"Detective," Martinez's voice comes through the line, calm but urgent. "I’ve got the information you’re looking for. Hernandez is still at the station. He’s in the maximum security block right now."

The detective’s face goes pale. He feels the blood drain from his face as the implications hit him hard. That’s how Lyle got the phone.

His breath catches in his chest. "He’s still in the station? What the hell is he doing in there?"

Martinez's voice drops, as if speaking more quietly now, his words careful. "We’re not sure. But if he’s there, then Lyle must’ve had some kind of access. I don’t know how... but I’m betting Hernandez gave him that phone."

A cold, bitter realization settles in the pit of Singer's stomach. Hernandez had been in on it from the beginning, and now they knew how Lyle could make calls from a supposedly secured cell.

"Alright," the detective mutters, his voice now steady, though there's a hard edge to it. "Thanks, Martinez. I’ll handle it from here."

As he ends the call, he looks at the others, his face grim. "We’ve got to move fast. Hernandez isn’t just compromised; he’s in the heart of the station. I can’t let him stay there, not with everything we’re dealing with."

Without another word, the detective turns toward the door, his expression a mixture of resolve and urgency. He knows what he has to do.

"I’m going after him," he states simply. "I’ll leave the same way I came in—by foot. No one will see me coming."

The tension in the room mounts as everyone watches him go, realizing that the next few moments could make or break everything. The detective steps out into the night, disappearing into the shadows, ready to confront the traitor in his own precinct.

An hour and a half later, Detective Singer bursts through the station’s back entrance, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he makes a beeline for the maximum security block. His mind is sharp, focused only on one thing: Hernandez. He can’t afford to waste any more time. Every second counts.

The weight of the situation presses down on him with each step. He’s been on edge since his conversation with Martinez, and now, with the urgency of everything weighing on him, he knows there’s no turning back.

He moves through the station quickly, navigating the hallways with a sense of purpose, his boots clicking sharply against the cold tile floor. His hand rests on the holster of his gun, ready for whatever he might face once he gets to Hernandez.

As he nears the maximum security block, he can feel his heart pounding in his chest. He’s coming up on the last stretch, and the quiet hum of the station around him seems to intensify with each passing moment.

Finally, he reaches the security door that leads into the restricted area. Without hesitation, he scans his badge to gain access, the heavy door opening with a quiet hiss.

Inside, the sound of locked doors, murmurs of inmates, and the buzz of security systems surround him, but it’s all background noise now. All that matters is getting to Hernandez.

He moves past the security checkpoints, his eyes scanning the area, knowing that Hernandez could be anywhere. He doesn't bother speaking to the guards or staff—he knows they’re either unaware of the situation or too intimidated to help him now.

His pace quickens as he approaches the cell block. He stops just outside the entrance, taking a moment to steady himself, knowing what he’s about to confront.

There’s no turning back now.

With a quick breath, he steps forward, ready to face Hernandez and the truth about just how deep this betrayal runs.

Detective Singer rounds the corner, his heart pounding as he nears the section where Lyle's cell is supposed to be. He knows Hernandez had to be here—this is the place where everything would be coming to a head. But as he approaches, something feels off.

The cell door is wide open. His breath catches in his throat as he quickly scans the area, his eyes narrowing. Seeing a body inside the cell.

Hernandez?

But before he can think further, his instincts take over. He pulls his gun, quickly aiming at the locking mechanism of the cell. A quick, sharp shot rings out, and the lock disintegrates in a burst of sparks, rendering it useless. He doesn’t want anything triggering or locking him inside, not with the stakes this high.

The detective steps inside cautiously, every sense on high alert. He scans the darkened cell, and his stomach churns as he sees the lifeless body slumped against the wall, blood pooling beneath it.

He steps closer, dread creeping over him as he recognizes the face. His jaw clenches. "Martinez."

The body is unmistakable. His fellow officer, the one who had helped him earlier, is now cold and lifeless in front of him.His fingers instinctively tighten around his gun, his mind racing through a thousand possible explanations.

The detective kneels beside the body, his hand hesitating for a moment before he checks for any signs of life. There’s nothing. Martinez is gone.

Detective Singer’s eyes lock onto the gruesome detail as he steps back from the body. His stomach turns violently when he notices the unmistakable signs of a brutal attack—the throat slashed open, blood staining the floor around the body. But what really catches his attention is the message scrawled on the wall nearby, written in blood:

"Who is the fucker now, Martinez?"

His stomach sinks deeper as the reality of the situation hits him like a punch to the gut. The walls seem to close in on him as he processes the brutal turn of events.

Lyle’s plan wasn’t just to get information. He wanted to destroy everything.

He swallows hard, his gaze flicking back to the body of Martinez. The image of the lifeless officer, his throat violently slashed, is seared into his mind. It’s a clear message that anyone who crosses Lyle and his people will be made to pay, brutally and without hesitation.

The detective’s jaw clenches as anger surges through him. This is personal now.

Singer doesn’t waste any more time. His instincts kick in as he pulls out his phone, dialing quickly, his voice low and filled with barely contained rage when the line connects. "Get me eyes on the security footage. Now. I want to know who had access to this area and when."

He watches the door, his mind already racing through the next steps. Lyle is playing a much deeper game, and now, the detective knows this isn’t just about busting him anymore. It’s about getting answers, and it’s about stopping him—before anyone else has to die.

But one thing is certain: this war is far from over.

The detective’s frustration boils over as he hears the officer’s response. "I’m sorry, sir. The system is down. We won’t have access until tomorrow evening."

Singer’s grip tightens on the phone. His eyes never leave Martinez’s body as he struggles to maintain control of his rising anger. This is a dead end—or at least it feels like one. He can’t afford to wait until tomorrow evening. Not after everything that’s happened.

"Are you telling me," he says, his voice dangerously calm, "that the entire security system is down? Right now?"

"Yes, sir. It's a full system failure. No footage, no access to the cameras until we can get it fixed. Might take longer than expected."

A dangerous silence fills the air as the detective listens to the officer's voice, the weight of the situation pressing down on him harder with each passing second.

He’s running out of time.

"Alright," Singer says, gritting his teeth. "I’ll find another way. Don’t make me ask again." He hangs up without another word, his mind racing as he scans the room.

He knows he needs to act fast. If the system’s down, he’ll have to rely on his own instincts. He steps back from the body of Martinez, looking around the dimly lit room for any clue that could point him in the right direction.

His gaze lands on something—a small, nearly unnoticed detail: the faintest scuff mark on the floor near the door. Someone had been here, and they weren’t alone. The detective leans in, inspecting it closely, knowing that even the smallest evidence could lead him to the answers he needs.

He moves to the door, carefully checking for any signs of forced entry or any indication of who might have been here recently. The clock is ticking, and Singer can feel the pressure mounting.

It’s clear now: if he’s going to get to the bottom of this, he’ll have to take matters into his own hands.

Detective Singer's eyes narrow as something catches his attention in the corner of the cell. He steps closer, and there it is: a cigarette butt, the same brand Hernandez had been smoking earlier. His stomach twists as the realization hits him like a punch to the gut.

Hernandez was here. He let Lyle out. And then... he killed Martinez.

The weight of the moment crashes down on him. Hernandez had been playing them all along. The detective grits his teeth, anger surging through him. The pieces were falling into place, but it only raises more questions. How long had he been behind this? How much had he been involved?

With the system down, there’s no way to know how much time they’ve lost. How long Hernandez had been in the maximum security block, how much more of the station was compromised.

Singer takes a slow breath, steeling himself against the gravity of the situation. He can’t waste another second. He pulls out his phone again and dials quickly, his voice cold with authority when the line picks up.

"Code 999," he says firmly, "Officer down. I need a coroner at maximum security. Now. And get a cleanup crew in here ASAP. We’ve got a homicide and a breach."

He hangs up and takes one last look at Martinez’s body, his anger burning hotter. His thoughts are moving a mile a minute. Martinez is dead. Lyle is still out there. And we’ve got a mole in the station who just took it to a whole new level.

"Goddammit," he mutters, pacing toward the door. His grip on his gun tightens. He can’t afford to let up now. They’re in deeper than ever before, and he’s not going to stop until he finds the truth.

He glances around the room one more time, searching for anything that might give him more answers. Then, without a second thought, he turns and heads for the exit, determined to finish what he started.