Chapter 2 A Whisper in the Dark

The station felt colder than usual when I returned. The hum of fluorescent lights did little to cut through the weight of the night. My desk was still cluttered with Gerald's case file, and my coffee had long gone cold. But something told me I wouldn't be getting any sleep tonight.

A knock on my office door broke my train of thought. Aceman poked his head in, his face even paler than before.

"Detective, you're going to want to hear this. We have a survivor."

I was on my feet before he finished the sentence. Survivors in cases like this were rarer than a clean cop in a bad station. Whoever had the Crimson Mark on their trail didn't usually get a second chance.

"Where is he?" I asked, already grabbing my coat.

"Not far. ER at St. Luke's. He was found in a parking garage downtown, half-conscious and babbling about 'them coming back.' Paramedics say he's got wounds similar to Gerald, but not as deep. Almost like they wanted him to live."

That sat heavy in my gut. If they left him alive, they wanted something. A message? A warning? Or was he just unfinished business?

________________________________________

St. Luke's smelled of antiseptic and bad coffee. The emergency wing was quiet except for the occasional beeping of a heart monitor and murmurs from the nurses' station. Aceman led me to a small room near the back, where a man lay propped against a pile of pillows. He was gaunt, mid-thirties, with dark hollows beneath his eyes. Bandages wrapped around his throat, chest, and forearms, the clean white fabric stark against his bruised skin.

His eyes flicked to me when I stepped in. For a second, there was only fear.

"Detective Randi," I said, keeping my voice even. "I need to know what happened."

He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing against the gauze. "They know."

I pulled up a chair, leaning forward. "Who knows? Who did this to you?"

His fingers twitched against the sheets. "The ones who marked me. The ones who marked Gerald. They watch. They listen. And if they find out I talked to you..." He let out a shuddering breath. "It won't matter where I run."

I kept my expression neutral, but inside, my pulse quickened. "Tell me what you saw. Anything helps."

For a long moment, he didn't answer. Then, in a hushed, broken whisper, he said, "It's not just one. It's many. And they don't just kill. They take."

"Take what?"

His hands curled into fists. "Pieces of you. A name. A face. They erase you."

My skin prickled. "Do you know why Gerald was targeted?"

His breathing grew ragged. "He found something he wasn't supposed to. We all did. And now they're picking us off. One by one."

A lead. A real lead. "What did you find?"

But before he could answer, a sudden, sharp beep filled the room. His heart monitor. His whole body seized, and his eyes rolled back. The lines on the screen spiked erratically as the machines blared warning tones. A nurse rushed in, shouting for help.

Aceman grabbed my arm, pulling me back. "We need to get out."

"Like hell we do," I snapped, yanking free.

The nurse fought to stabilize him, but something in my gut told me this wasn't natural. The way his body convulsed, the sheer terror in his unfocused gaze it was like he was being swallowed by something unseen. A final, guttural sound escaped his throat before the monitor flatlined.

I swore under my breath.

Another dead witness.

Another message.

**********

Back at the station, I stood at the evidence board, staring at the tangled mess of photos, reports, and connections that weren't quite coming together yet. Gerald. The survivor whose name I didn't even get. The Crimson Mark.

Aceman entered the room, shaking his head. "Tox screen came back already. Nothing lethal in his system. Docs are calling it a 'sudden cardiac event.'"

"Bullshit," I muttered. "That was no coincidence."

"So what do we do now?"

I stared at the symbol on the crime scene photo. The Crimson Mark wasn't just a signature. It was a brand. A claim.

And if what the survivor said was true, it wasn't over.

"We keep looking," I said, voice firm. "Because whoever they are, they're not done yet."

And neither was I.

The night was quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of the clock on my office wall. I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my temples. It was one of those nights when the weight of unsolved cases pressed heavier than usual.

Then, my phone rang.

I glanced at the screen-unknown number. Probably another dead-end lead or a wrong number. But something told me to pick up.

"Detective Randi," I answered.

A woman's voice, shaky and laced with fear, whispered urgently, "They killed him. I'm next."

I sat up straight, my instincts kicking in. "Who is this?"

"No time please, you have to help me. They're looking for me."

I kept my voice steady. "Okay, slow down. Who got killed or are you talking about Gerald? Who's after you?"

A deep breath on the other end. "It's Martha. They killed him right in front of me. I ran, but they know I saw everything. I don't have much time."

"Martha, listen to me. Where are you?" I grabbed a notepad and pen.

A pause. Then, in a hushed tone, "I'm hiding in a hotel. They're close, I know it."

"Which hotel, Martha? Give me the address."

"The love Inn, downtown. Room 214," she whispered. "Please, hurry."

I was already on my feet, grabbing my coat. "Stay put. Lock the door. Don't open for anyone but me."

"Okay."

Then the line went dead.

I glanced at the clock-2:47 AM. Fifteen minutes. That's all I had.

I rushed out into the night, my gun holstered but ready. If they were after Martha, I wasn't about to let them get to her first.

The streets were eerily empty at this hour, the city swallowed by shadows and silence. I kept my foot pressed hard on the gas, weaving through the occasional red light. If Martha was right and they were close, every second counted.

I reached love Inn in just under ten minutes. It was the kind of place where people checked in when they didn't want to be found dimly lit parking lot, peeling paint on the walls, and a front desk clerk who probably stopped asking questions years ago.

I pulled my car into a spot near the back entrance, out of view. I didn't know who else was coming for Martha, but I wasn't taking chances.

Room 214.

Taking the stairs two at a time, I reached the second floor and moved quickly down the hallway. My fingers hovered near my holster, ready. I stopped at her door and knocked, low but firm.

"Martha, it's Randi. Open up."

Nothing at first. Then I heard shuffling inside.

I knocked again, a little louder. "Martha, now."

The door cracked open just enough for one wide, terrified eye to peer through.

"How do I know it's really you?" she whispered.

"If I were them, this door would already be off its hinges," I said flatly. "Let me in."

A second of hesitation, then the door opened wider, just enough for me to slip inside. She pushed it shut immediately, her fingers trembling as she fumbled with the chain lock.

Martha was barefoot, wearing an oversized hoodie that looked two sizes too big for her. Her hair was disheveled, her face pale. She backed away as if still expecting someone to come crashing through the door.

"Did anyone follow you?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Not that I saw. But if they knew where you were, they won't be far behind." I scanned the room single lamp on, bed unmade, curtains drawn tight. She had barricaded the chair against the door, but that wouldn't stop anyone determined enough.

She hugged herself.

"I don't know what to do. They killed him, Randi. They killed him like he was nothing." Her voice broke. "And I saw it happen."

I met her eyes. "Then we make sure you don't end up like him."

Before she could respond, the distant sound of a car screeching to a halt outside made her flinch.

They were here.

Martha was still breathing hard, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. I kept my ears sharp, listening past the hum of the old motel air conditioning.

Then I heard footsteps. Heavy, deliberate. Not just one person. A group.

I pulled my gun and signaled for Martha to stay quiet. Her eyes went wide, but she nodded.

The footsteps stopped right outside the door. A hushed voice whispered something. Then

BOOM!

The door exploded inward, sending wood and metal flying. I yanked Martha down just in time as bullets shredded through the air above us. The room erupted in gunfire, the air thick with gunpowder and chaos.

I rolled to the side and fired one shot, then another. The first guy went down before he even got a second shot off. His buddy staggered back, clutching his throat as blood gushed between his fingers.

"Stay low!" I barked at Martha, shoving the mattress up as temporary cover.

More men poured in. I counted at least twenty. They weren't some street thugs they were professionals, tactical in their approach.

One of them lobbed a flashbang into the room.

I grabbed Martha and threw both of us behind the bed. Boom! The blast rattled my skull, my vision swimming, but I forced myself to focus.

Three more rushed in. I popped up and took them out in quick succession two headshots, one to the chest.

Seven down.

Martha screamed as one of them yanked her by the wrist, dragging her toward the door. I lunged, wrapping my arm around his neck and snapping it clean. She gasped, but I didn't give her time to panic.

"We're moving! Now!" I grabbed her hand and yanked her toward the window.

More bullets whizzed past. Another guy charged me I caught his wrist, twisted hard, and turned his own gun on him. One shot to the gut, he crumpled.

Ten down.

But that still left ten more. And they were regrouping.

"Out the window!" I shouted, shoving Martha forward. She hesitated for half a second before swinging her legs over. I followed right behind, landing on the pavement just as more rounds tore through the wall above us.

The parking lot was crawling with them. More black SUVs skidded to a stop, men piling out.

"We're dead," Martha breathed.

"Not yet." I spotted my car, parked near the exit. "Run!"

We sprinted. Bullets peppered the asphalt around us, sparking against metal. I yanked open the car door and shoved Martha in first, diving in after her. The second I turned the key, the windshield shattered bullets tearing through it like paper.

I hit the gas.

The tires screeched as we fishtailed into the main road. The SUVs roared after us, headlights glaring. A storm of bullets chased us, punching holes in the trunk, the side mirrors exploding.

Martha screamed, ducking as glass rained down.

"Hold on!" I growled, swerving hard to avoid a roadblock they had set up ahead.

The rear window shattered as another burst of gunfire hit. One round whizzed past my head, missing by inches.

I yanked the wheel left, sending us down a dark side street. The pursuing cars followed, their engines roaring.

We weren't out yet. But I wasn't going down easily.

I gritted my teeth, checked my ammo, and prepared for one hell of a fight.

The engine roared as I pushed the car to its limits, weaving through the empty streets. The SUVs stayed on us, their headlights bouncing in the rearview mirror. More gunfire erupted bullets ripped through the trunk, shattering the taillights.

"They're not giving up!" Martha screamed, her hands gripping the dashboard like a lifeline.

I jerked the wheel right, barely avoiding a parked truck. "Yeah, I noticed!"

The first SUV pulled up alongside us, its passenger leaning out with an automatic rifle. I ducked just as a spray of bullets tore through my side window, glass flying everywhere.

"Son of a-" I growled, reaching for my gun.

Martha yelped as another SUV swerved in from the left, trying to box us in. I gritted my teeth, slammed the brakes, and the two vehicles shot ahead of us. Before they could react, I floored it again, ramming into the back of one. The driver lost control, the SUV skidding sideways before smashing into a streetlight.

"One down!" I barked.

Another SUV closed in, its driver pulling a pistol and taking shots. I ducked low, twisting the wheel hard. The car jerked violently, and the next bullet missed by inches, hitting the windshield instead.

Martha grabbed the gun from my holster. "What are you doing?!" I shouted.

"Helping!" she snapped, rolling down the window.

She aimed, took a deep breath, and fired.

The bullet punched through the driver's side of one of the SUVs. The vehicle swerved violently before flipping over, metal screeching as it tumbled down the road.

"Nice shot," I muttered, impressed.

But we weren't safe yet. The last SUV was still on us, gaining fast. Then, ahead-

"Roadblock!" Martha shouted.

They had a damn barricade set up-two black sedans parked across the road, armed men crouched behind them, rifles aimed at us.

"Brace yourself!" I slammed my foot down, gripping the wheel tight.

Martha screamed as I yanked the emergency brake. The car spun hard, tires screeching, smoke filling the air. The pursuing SUV didn't have time to react-it plowed straight into the barricade, sending bodies flying.

I hit the gas again, finding a gap between two wrecked cars and blasting through it. The street behind us was chaos-burning vehicles, twisted metal, and the sound of distant sirens.

Martha was shaking, her breath ragged. "Tell me we're safe," she panted.

I exhaled, finally easing off the gas. "For now," I muttered. "But they'll regroup."

She turned to me, eyes filled with something between fear and determination. "Then what do we do?"

I checked the mirror one last time, then tightened my grip on the wheel.

"Now?" I said. "Now, we go hunting."