When Gordon stepped onto the floor, every head was already down—Johnson, Bullock, Rusty, Chen—all parked at their desks, pretending to work. But their eyes tracked him as he walked past. His footsteps tapped against the linoleum, as the steady rain hissed at the window. The silence and their stares itched at his neck.
He was ten steps from his desk when he spotted the manila envelope waiting for him.
His brow twitched.
It couldn't be from him. Then again maybe he was just that stealthy.
Before he could rip it open, Gillis barked from his office, calling the squad in. Chairs scraped. Boots shuffled. They filed into his office one by one. No one looked his way.
He was alone.
Gordon opened the envelope. A pager and a folded note dropped into his palm. He set the pager down, unfolded the paper. It had his new number scribbled on it.
He memorized it, then slid the note into his pocket. He was now alone with his thoughts and didn't like it.
How was he supposed to tell Alice?
Where would they even go?
A pinched, needling pressure crept across his shoulders. He ran a hand over his face, rolled his neck, exhaled hard.
No room for worry. Not now.
He had work to do.
He pulled a notepad and his partner's typed case notes from his bag. His handwriting was tight, fast, but still legible. He was scrawling the last sentence when a voice broke the silence.
"Chicago."
Pinkerton had slithered in from the stairwell and now stood by Gordon's desk.
"Lieutenant," Gordon said, eyes still on the page.
"How's your night?" Pinkerton asked, his tone too light, too casual.
"Fine."
Gordon slid the marked-up case file back into his bag. The note with the number followed. He zipped it shut, stood, swung the bag over his shoulder in one clean motion.
Pinkerton lingered. "Couple of the guys are grabbing drinks later. Thought maybe you'd want to come along."
Gordon stared at him, a flat look that asked if he really thought this was going to work. Under the weight of it, Pinkerton's fingers began tapping the desk in an uneven rhythm.
"Just a thought," he muttered, backing off.
Gordon turned to the phone. He picked it up, dialed, punched in a code, then hung up.
Then he moved downstairs where two officers were already waiting to take him home.
A few blocks north of Patel's liquor store, wedged between boarded-up storefronts on Chester Avenue, sat a pawn shop long forgotten by the city—but not by the desperate.
Inside, a man lay slumped behind the counter, blood seeping from a split above his brow. He was unconscious and his breathing shallow. The air stank of dust and old varnish. Shelves sagged under the weight of outdated televisions, antique wood radios, and the glassy stares of mounted heads—a lion, a zebra, a crocodile. The real prizes—guns and jewelry—sat behind smudged glass, untouched. For now.
Two men in balaclavas prowled the space. One smashed through the glass counter then began stuffing watches, rings, and gold chains into his coat. The other swept the far wall, jamming pistols and knives into a black duffel without care or order. It was a sloppy job—fast and frantic. Not professionals. Just vultures picking apart a neighborhood without a kingpin.
"Hurry up," one hissed.
"The cops aren't coming," the other muttered, then froze. "Oh shit. Look."
High on a dusty shelf behind the counter rested a katana.
"Think it's real?"
"Forget it. Let's go."
"I'm taking it." He dragged a chair over and climbed up, wobbling as he reached for the blade. His eyes lit up as he unsheathed it. "Check it out."
The lights died.
"Fuck," the other snapped, voice tight.
"It's just the storm," the first one said, climbing down with the sword in hand.
"We need to move, now."
"Fine," he grunted rounding the counter.
The one with the duffel bag stepped toward the door, looked over his shoulder—then stopped cold.
"Where the hell are you?"
The shop was nearly pitch black. Behind the counter, the owner gave a wet, rattling wheeze—barely alive. But his partner with the katana had vanished. No footsteps. No sound.
"Stop screwing around. Let's go!"
Something sharp spun from the dark and buried itself in his hand. He howled and dropped the duffel.
"Shit!"
He staggered back, clutching his hand. Embedded in his flesh was something small, black, bladed—shaped like a bat.
His breath caught. He looked up.
Two white eyes stared back from the void.
He turned and bolted, shouldering open the front door and crashing into the rain. He hit the pavement, slick and cold, scrambled to his feet and rounded the getaway car. He yanked the door open and dove inside.
Pain and fear narrowed his world. Tunnel vision. His fingers trembled as he fumbled with the keys. His head down, eyes fixed on his blood-slick hand, he never saw the dark figure.
The driver-side door ripped open. An arm snaked around his neck, locking tight. He was dragged from the car and slammed to the asphalt.
He hit hard, gasped, rolled to his knees—hands up, soaked in blood and rain.
"Please," he whispered.
He opened his eyes.
No one.
A flicker of confusion. Then the wire looped around his chest.
It snapped tight and lifted him off the ground. He screamed as he rose into the storm—legs kicking, rain hammering his face. He looked up. Nothing. Just the sky stretching forever.
"I've called for an ambulance, sir," came Alfred's voice in his ear.
High above, on a nearby rooftop, a figure stood watching. Below, red and blue light flickered off wet pavement as an ambulance pulled up, a patrol car close behind. The man dangled from a streetlight, sobbing.
"You've received a page from Detective Gordon."
"Where?"
"A corner market near his residence."
A pause.
"I should caution you, sir."
"It's not a trap."
"No, I didn't think so. But that doesn't mean he's not being watched."