Chapter 9 Shadows

Chapter 9

The Shadows

The decision that Rebecca made to act irrationally was not made haphazardly; rather, it was inevitable. The truth had been a slow unraveling, threads pulled loose by secrets too heavy to ignore. Months before she found herself in the bar staring down Fred's sulfuric smirk, she'd uncovered a classified report buried deep in the Bureau's secure network. The file was flagged for deletion. It referenced "Project Red Wipe" a name that meant nothing at the time. But the deeper she dug, the more the puzzle bent toward something familiar. Her father's name Judge Roberto Munch kept surfacing in conjunction with a man he once prosecuted: Don Williams Coleman.

Don Williams, better known as The Red Wipe in the underworld, had entered her father's courtroom a decade earlier, cocky and chained, and was being tried for grotesque crimes that sounded like something out of a pulp thriller. Printing counterfeit currency with retrofitted iron-bar machines. Trafficking children through Eastern European and Middle Eastern corridors. Selling organs on the black market especially to Turkish buyers. The list seemed endless. Yet, somehow, he walked free. Whispers in the courthouse told of threats, bribes, and hidden pressures. Roberto Munch refused to talk about it even to his daughter.

Maria, a Turkish informant once embedded in Don's organ trafficking route, called him "The Book Maker." Not just for his money-laundering fronts, but for his uncanny ability to rewrite the narrative of every investigation that came close to pinning him down. Witnesses disappeared. Prosecutors withdrew. Judges including Rebecca's father suddenly recused themselves or issued dismissals based on "lack of evidence."

The more Rebecca learned, the clearer it became: Fred Don's son wasn't just a shadow of the man; he was an extension. A chameleon in designer suits, hiding the same cold-blooded instincts beneath a charming veneer. While Don specialized in underground dominance, Fred moved in public spaces, playing politics, buying off cops, judges, and even junior FBI agents.

When Rebecca exposed Don's link to the recent uptick in East Coast disappearances, she thought she'd found the thread to unravel him. But the Bureau didn't bite. Instead, she was told to drop the case. "It's above your paygrade," her supervisor had muttered. She knew then that she was alone.

That's when she met Sophia.

Sophia Silas stripper, singer, and reluctant informant had once been Don's favorite mistress, a title she neither wore proudly nor easily. After breaking things off, she lived with a kind of duality: terrified of being found, but tired of hiding. She was somewhat protected by her new relationship with Sergeant Alberto Samuel, an officer who was too principled to play dirty. But it wasn't enough.

Fred had found her again.

Which led them here: the bar, the heat, the rising dread.

Fred's grin was more than just arrogance. It was history. It was a family legacy soaked in corruption and impunity. Rebecca knew Sophia's breathless anxiety wasn't just fear it was memory. And Kelvin, the one-eyed Gulf War veteran known only as the Snake, had sensed it too. His presence in the bar had been silent, but not passive. Kelvin didn't speak unless necessary. But when he moved, things changed.

Samuel the last honest man stood like a sentinel, mind racing. He could see the room breaking apart. The patrons leaving. The DJ paralyzed. And Sophia, staring into the eyes of the devil she thought she escaped.

Fred didn't need to say much. His message was clear:

"You are our property. You can't walk away from the Red Wipe."

And that was when Rebecca's hand slid to her side-just beneath the hem of her coat. A steel glint. A silent choice.

Because some legacies weren't meant to be inherited.

Fred's presence was like static before lightning charged, coiled, promising destruction. The moment stretched dangerously thin, held together by the fragile restraint of each person in the room. Rebecca's hand hovered near her concealed firearm, her eyes calculating. She wasn't just watching Fred-she was watching Samuel, gauging whether the officer would back her if she acted.

Kelvin's stance hadn't changed, but something behind his remaining eye darkened. The Snake disliked being held captive. And Fred, whether he knew it or not, had cornered himself among people who didn't fear breaking the law to bury it.

Sophia's hands started to shake. She could hear the echo of Fred's threats from years past soft, sugar-coated, and laced with terror. "To remind you who you are," he had said.

But who she was now was no longer the victim.

A flicker passed through her. A decision. She stepped forward.

"Then remember this," Sophia said, voice flat but fire-bright, "I'm not scared of ghosts anymore."