He sat down on the couch and waited a while for his teammates to arrive. He pulled out his phone to reply to a few messages he still hadn't answered; Nola had been a bit persistent lately.
Nola: Are you free?
Ethan let out a faint smile before replying.
Ethan: Yeah, although I'm in the middle of a case right now.
Nola: That's fine, I won't take much of your time. Just letting you know I'm getting to Chicago on Saturday.
Ethan stared at the screen for a few seconds.
Damn. He had forgotten that Nola would be in the city for a couple of days to take a break. Now he'd have to come up with some excuse for Lindsay. They weren't anything formal or serious yet, but he was sure she wouldn't like finding out about Nola.
Ethan: Okay, just so you know, I don't have as much free time as I did in Banshee.
Nola: Doesn't matter, as long as I have you all night… I've got new lingerie you're going to love.
Ethan: I can't wait. 🍆 😈 💦
Ethan snapped out of his thoughts when he heard the sharp screech of brakes outside. A few seconds later, the door opened and Olinsky and Antonio walked in together.
—Hey.
Ethan greeted Olinsky with a slight nod.
—How are things at home? Everything okay? —he asked—. Sorry to call you in, but with Jay still out of commission, I had to lean on you.
—It's fine —Olinsky replied—. Just a minor issue.
He forced a smile that didn't quite convince anyone. Ethan got the message and didn't press. Some things were better kept private; they weren't his business.
—If you need anything, you know I've got your back —he added anyway.
Olinsky nodded in silence.
Antonio stepped forward, carrying several rolled-up blueprints under his arm. He spread them out on the table and handed copies to Ethan and Olinsky.
—Jin and Ruzek found the original house plans in the city records database —he explained—. This is the structure and the building's original dimensions. Patrol officers didn't find any hidden spaces when they searched the place, but…
He then pulled a compact device from his jacket pocket and set it next to the plans.
—This is a portable rangefinder. If we compare the actual measurements with the blueprints, something should stand out.
Ethan took the plans for the second floor, studied the rangefinder for a moment, then headed for the stairs.
—I'll check upstairs.
Olinsky and Antonio stayed behind to go over the first floor.
Ethan began comparing the plans with the measurements. A red laser slowly traced the walls, marking distances with precision across the room. Everything seemed to line up… until he stepped into the art studio.
Even before scanning it, something felt off.
He measured one wall, then the opposite one. He repeated the process and checked the plans again. After a quick calculation, he frowned.
The room was seven to eight square meters smaller than it should have been.
Ethan carefully lowered the rangefinder, studying the space with fresh eyes.
—Hey, get up here! I think I found something!
Ethan shouted from inside.
Rushed footsteps followed, some going up, others down, converging on the studio.
Ethan set his gear aside and moved to one corner of the room.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
With each strike of his fist, the echo coming back from the wall sounded unnaturally hollow.
Most of the houses in the neighborhood were wooden, with plank walls covered in insulation, but this sound was empty—there was definitely something behind it.
—Boom.
Just as Olinsky and Antonio burst into the room, they saw him throw a brutal punch, burying half his forearm into the white wall.
—Please, Superman —Olinsky grumbled— couldn't you have looked for a hidden door first?
He chewed on a twisted piece of candy, shaking his head in resignation.
—I already looked. Didn't find one… this way's faster —Ethan shot back.
He bent his arm, braced his forearm against the inside of the panel, and pulled hard.
The sound was sharp and jarring. A large section of the panel tore free, exposing the hidden space behind it. Peering through the opening revealed a workbench covered in dust and tools.
Ethan didn't stop. With a few rough movements, he quickly widened the opening until it was big enough for a person to pass through. Then he leaned forward and slipped inside the cavity, disappearing into the hidden space.
A few seconds later, a light flickered and finally came on, pulling the room out of darkness. The space revealed walls covered with detailed images of fifty- and hundred-dollar bills, enlarged with almost obsessive precision.
Every line, every security mark, had been reproduced with unsettling accuracy.
On the workbench, several engraving plates lay perfectly aligned. Some corresponded to hundred-dollar bills, others to fifties.
Hank's suspicion had been right. There was no doubt about it: they had stumbled onto a major counterfeiting operation.
Finding the hidden door from the outside had been difficult; from the inside, however, it was obvious. Ethan pressed a specific spot on the panel and the section gave way with a soft click. He pushed the concealed door open and emerged into another room, hidden behind a bookshelf loaded with books and boxes.
—Just when you think you've seen it all… —muttered Alvin.
Antonio stepped closer to the workbench, picked up one of the plates—a thin, heavy block, almost like a brick—and examined it carefully.
—Life always finds a way to surprise you —he replied—
Ethan was impressed by Masters's craftsmanship. The intricate engraving was practically a work of art.
They photographed everything and placed the plates into an evidence bag. They continued searching the entire house, but found no other hidden rooms, so they headed back to the precinct with the evidence.
As soon as they reached the second floor, Hank stepped out of his office.
—Please tell me I was right.
Ethan tossed the evidence bag he was carrying; it traced an arc through the air before landing squarely in Hank's hand.
—You were.
Hank opened the evidence bag, toyed with it for a moment, then set the engraving aside.
—There are three steps to making counterfeit money.
He paused briefly before continuing:
—Paper, engraving, and printing.
He wrote each word on the whiteboard with a black marker.
—We're missing the last step: the printing press.
He tapped the board a couple of times with the marker.
—Very few people still use these methods to counterfeit money; it takes a lot of skill, so finding these old engraving machines shouldn't be easy.
Ethan returned to his desk.
—So we're back to square one.
Erin yawned, rubbing her eyes at her desk.
—We've been reviewing surveillance footage for half an hour.
Just then, Jin came running up the stairs, waving a stack of papers.
—Erin, you just said Nadia only went to Masters's house two or three times, right?
—That's right.
Erin stood up immediately.
—What's the problem?
—I was reviewing Masters's phone records —Jin replied, shrugging—. In the last fourteen days, he and Nadia exchanged more than forty text messages.
—Shit, that girl lied to me —Erin said, getting to her feet—. I'll go talk to her again…
—I'll go with you.
—No, I'll handle this. I don't need a babysitter.
Before Ethan could say anything, Erin hurried down the stairs. Ethan raised his hands in resignation and leaned back comfortably in a chair.
—Wait a minute.
Seeing that Jin was about to head back to the garage office, Ethan called out to him.
Jin walked over.
—What's up, Detective?
—Sit down —Ethan replied, smiling as he pulled a chair closer—
—Okay.
Jin sat cautiously. He usually stayed in the garage and didn't come upstairs unless it was strictly necessary; he was a reserved man, but he knew Ethan's reputation at the station well.
—I've been here so long and I haven't even talked to you —Ethan said, studying the young Chinese man—. I didn't see you at the bar the other night either. You don't like drinking?
—Yeah, I don't usually drink, Detective… I'm sorry I didn't go last time you invited me —Jin nodded with a smile—
—No problem.
Ethan gave the table a light tap.
—Can I ask you something about computers?
—Of course.
Technology was Jin's strong suit, and his expression immediately brightened.
—Tell me. I'll help you figure it out.
—It's this.
Ethan typed quickly and opened a webpage.
—Look, I can access video sites… but I can't download anything from gaming platforms.
Jin's eyes tightened when he saw the blue Steam icon on the screen and understood everything. This feared detective was annoyed because the station's locked-down system wouldn't let him download games.
He stayed quiet for a few seconds before speaking in a low voice.
—Agency computers have restrictions, but I can unlock them. It'll only take a minute. Though honestly, this setup still won't be enough. Do you want me to get you a better computer? With this configuration, I really doubt you'll be able to play anything decent.
He started listing things enthusiastically:
—Processor, hard drive, RAM, graphics card… I can install the best the agency has. There are a lot of good parts available around here; most people only use them for work. To be honest, you're the first one who's asked me for this…
Jin knew Sergeant Voight had recruited him and that, with Ethan, his style was—at the very least—flexible with the rules. From what he'd seen, he gave him more leeway than anyone else, so he didn't hesitate to help.
—Seriously, that would be awesome —Ethan said, extending his hand with a smile—. If you ever need anything, whatever it is, you can count on me.
—Sure. Tomorrow you'll have the best setup I can build —Jin said, bumping fists with him—. And honestly, Detective… in a couple of days I have my annual shooting certification. I'm a bit rusty, and I know you're a great shot. Maybe you could give me a few tips.
Ethan cracked a half-smile.
—No problem —he replied—. Stop by the range with me tomorrow before shift.
After chatting a few more minutes, Jin left, and Erin returned in a hurry.
—A few days ago, a group of men went to Masters's house and threatened him to hand over the plates we found there —she said bluntly—. They match Nadia's description, and the men from the security cameras.
She paused for a second before continuing:
—She didn't tell us anything because they took photos of her and threatened to kill her if she ever turned them in —she said, still visibly angry.
Erin felt betrayed. She had trusted her, shown her sympathy, and the fact that the girl had lied to her hurt more than she wanted to admit.
Erin stepped up to the whiteboard and drew a strange mark.
—When they went to Masters's house to threaten him, she managed to see their vehicle through the window: a black van, no plates, with the Christian fish symbol on the back.
Click.
Rusek snapped his fingers quickly. He tried to stand up, but hissed in pain and sat back down.
—I saw that vehicle on the security cameras.
At that, everyone crowded around him.
Enduring the discomfort, Rusek focused back on the computer and worked quickly until he found the relevant footage. He typed a few commands, froze the screen, and turned it so everyone could see.
—Fish… a black van —he said, tapping the image—. Exactly as Erin described it.
—Wait a second.
Jin took control of the keyboard and, with a few clicks, zoomed in on the image.
—The Hand of God —Antonio read the words painted on the side of the van out loud, forming a crooked smile—. I recognize this vehicle. It belongs to a congregation at the intersection of 63rd Street and California Avenue.
He paused briefly before adding:
—They use it to hand out food to homeless seniors. Looks like they've found a new line of business.
Hank nodded several times.
—Do you know anyone at that church?
—I wouldn't say I know anyone —Antonio replied, shrugging—. The pastor's name is Mike. He's a former GD member. He did time a few years ago… seems getting closer to God didn't help him.
The GDs were one of the oldest gangs on Chicago's South Side. They had been operating far longer than any other gang in the city, and according to department estimates, they had more than fifteen hundred members.
—Jin, see if you can pull some traffic camera footage near the church… let's see who's going in and out of that place —Hank decided quickly—. Have Nadia identify them and see if we can spot our suspects.
Two days later.
Two blocks away, Ethan was watching Pastor Mike's church out of the corner of his eye. Officer Atwater nervously adjusted his bulletproof vest; he was Ethan's partner since Olinsky couldn't take part in the operation.
Ethan had simply gone to reception and taken Atwater off Platt's hands, who happily approved it just to mess with Burgess by pairing her with a lazy patrol officer.
Since this was an arrest, Atwater's solid build was a considerable advantage.
While they waited for the signal, Ethan commented curiously:
—I heard that thanks to the call about the hoarder elderly woman, you discovered she had a kidnapped child.
—That's right. A stack of newspapers fell on the woman, and when we went in to rescue her, we heard the kid —Atwater nodded quickly—. If it hadn't been for that call, we never would've known. According to the file, he'd been missing for two years.
He shook his head, still incredulous.
—You see? There are no bad days, just bad moments. Thanks to you guys and doing your job right, that kid is safe and sound with his parents.
He paused briefly.
—Yeah, I don't think I'll complain like that again —Atwater admitted, blushing as he remembered his apathy that morning—. From now on, we take everything seriously.
—Hank thinks highly of you… if you don't screw it up, you'll be in Intelligence soon —Ethan replied, lifting his arm to pat him on the shoulder—. Keep it up.
—Thanks.
—Ethan, you're clear.
Hank's voice crackled through the earpieces.
—In position, Sergeant.
—Move in….
Both got out of the car quickly and slipped into a nearby alley overgrown with weeds. Behind an iron gate, they spotted a black van parked there, identical to the one from the surveillance video.
From the opposite end, Hank, Erin, and Antonio moved stealthily until the five of them met at the central gate. Antonio put on protective goggles and brought the blowtorch to the lock; instantly, a tongue of flame burst from the metal.
Ethan crouched beside him, weapon raised, alert to the surroundings.
After a few tense seconds, Antonio put the torch away and pushed. The iron gate behind the church opened without a sound.
—Careful —he warned, removing his goggles and wiping sweat from his brow—. It's still hot. Don't touch it.
There was no need to say it. With a minimum of common sense, they avoided the bars still glowing red and moved quickly toward the back door of the church.
Within a month or two, the Intelligence team had accepted a reality: Ethan had become the spearhead of the group. He had sharper reflexes and instincts than the others, an almost supernatural intuition for detecting danger—as if he had a danger detector or "radar"—so he was always the first to move.
Not even Hank was an exception; he pressed himself against the wall, watching for Ethan's signals. Ethan activated the radar and scanned the interior. Then he raised his hand… and brought it down hard.
Atwater reacted immediately. He grabbed the battering ram, took position by the door, and, gathering momentum, slammed the lock with his full weight.
Bang!
The door burst open.
Ethan, AR-15 in hand, went in first, leaving Atwater behind at astonishing speed.
After orienting himself, he moved like an arrow. He leapt toward a side door and delivered a brutal kick to the lock.
Bang!
Splinters flew and the mechanism was blown apart.
He burst into the room like a tiger.
—Don't move, Chicago Police!
Bang, bang!
—Damn it!
Hank followed close behind, afraid Ethan would take everyone down before they could get to the brains of the operation.
Atwater froze for a second, forgetting to lower the ram. When the others rushed in, he dropped it to the side, grabbed his shotgun, and went after them.
In the card room, five or six men were smoking and playing dominoes. In front of them were stacks of bills with Ben Franklin's face, and several weapons lay on the table.
Just as one of them was about to place his tile, a sharp impact on the other side of the door made him freeze.
—Don't move, Chicago Police!
Ethan saw the group huddled together and, as a precaution, finished kicking the door in. Despite the threat of the weapons, some of them tried to reach for the pistols on the table.
Ethan pulled the trigger without hesitation. The bullets struck the weapons, sending them flying in a shower of sparks and freezing the outstretched hand of one of the men.
—I told you not to move. Next time I won't miss… hands up.
than had expected at least one of them to resist, but to his surprise, all the GD men obeyed without a word. They remained seated around the table, motionless, not daring to make the slightest move.
Hank breathed a sigh of relief as well.
It was not a good sign when his people became too lethal. Over the last month or two, the number of casualties tied to the Intelligence Unit had risen worryingly, and even the chief had called him into his office, delicately hinting that he needed to keep a lower profile.
The fact that Ethan had managed to take them down this time without a single casualty was a real relief. He had already spoken to him about it before; it seemed to have had an effect.
—Pastor Mike.
Antonio stepped up behind the heavyset Black man wearing a tan suit vest, cuffed him, and picked up a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills from the table.
—Gifts from God?
—They're donations from the faithful. What does that have to do with you? —Pastor Mike shot a stern look at the men seated around him—. You'd all better keep your mouths shut. Not a word.
—Tsk, tsk, tsk.
Pastor Mike lowered his gaze toward his waist and narrowed his eyes.
—Reaper?
To be precise, he was referring to a nickname the gang members had given Ethan after his last operation, where he had taken out half a dozen men.
At that, the other GD members turned curious looks toward Ethan.
—Plaf!
Ethan smacked him on the head without thinking.
—Reaper? Who called me that…? —he flashed a half smile—. I like how it sounds.
Hank cleared his throat softly.
—Call patrol. Take them all in.
In addition to the weapon Ethan had knocked away earlier, several more were found on the GD crew. All of them were secured and placed into evidence bags for later ballistic analysis.
The two guns that had killed Harris were probably among them. These people were not getting away.
As the bundles of cash from the table were packed into an evidence bag, two of the GD men kept staring at Ethan. Their looks were unsettling.
—What the hell are you staring at?
Irritated, Ethan turned toward the less attractive of the two and roughly grabbed his face, squeezing until his knuckles turned white.
—Don't misunderstand, they're just curious —Reverend Mike intervened when he saw the man's pained expression—. You've built quite a reputation on the streets, kid… many of our brothers have died by your hands. There's a bit of admiration for you.
Ethan looked at Hank, who gave a slight shake of his head, signaling that he didn't know either.
—So, Reaper? —Ethan tilted his head slightly—
He didn't wait for an answer. The gun appeared in his hand as if by reflex, the barrel pressing against Reverend Mike's skin just below the temple.
—Ethan, enough —Antonio said tensely.
Hank raised his hand, stopping him. His eyes never left Ethan for a second.
Erin held her breath. Rusek, on the other hand, kept working, calmly snapping cuffs shut with forced composure. He was struck by how naturally Ethan had drawn his weapon.
The reverend swallowed. His fingers trembled, but his posture didn't give.
—That wasn't a threat.
Ethan smiled without humor.
—Everyone's playing something here. You watch… and so do we. That's the game.
He leaned in a little closer, closing the distance. He knew he wasn't going to fire. Not there. Not in front of everyone.
He lowered the gun slowly, holstered it, then grabbed the reverend by the collar and straightened him out, patting his chest a couple of times.
To Ethan, gangs were not an enemy that could simply disappear.
The GD had thousands of members; Chicago was infested with different names, different colors, the same bullets. They killed each other with a consistency the police would never be able to stop.
You didn't eliminate the darkness. You contained it.
When the gun disappeared, the air began to move again. Everyone except Hank seemed to realize they had been holding their breath.
If Ethan had pulled the trigger, no one would have known what to do next.
The group reacted late, moving with unnecessary haste. The GD men were taken out one by one and handed over to patrol. Erin shoved Reverend Mike into the car and slammed the door shut with a sharp, final sound.
On the way back, Atwater spoke, still shaken:
—Man… you really scared me. I didn't even see you draw.
—Nah, I just wanted to scare him a little… honestly, I liked the nickname —Ethan said, looking at him—
Atwater shook his head quickly.
Back at the station, the others took Reverend Mike through the main entrance, while Ethan drove around to the rear garage.
Curious about what would happen next, Atwater followed him inside.
Ethan stopped in front of the cage.
—Did you catch him?
Nadia's voice came out hoarse, rough, as if her throat were scraped raw from the inside.
—Yes.
She was curled up on the bench, arms wrapped around her torso. Her hands trembled involuntarily, and she wouldn't stop bouncing one leg, unable to keep still. Her skin was pale, a damp sheen on her forehead despite the cold in the room, and her lips were dry, bitten nearly to the point of bleeding. Every so often she swallowed, as if fighting off nausea.
After confirming she was still conscious, Ethan looked away.
A white kid in a baseball jacket was sitting on a chair outside the cage. He looked sixteen or seventeen. Attractive—the kind of guy who usually stood out in high school.
He seemed uneasy. He watched Nadia with a mix of distaste and barely concealed fear, as if her condition made him more uncomfortable than he wanted to admit.
—Who are you? —Ethan asked, puzzled by his presence.
—He's Lexi's boyfriend, my daughter.
Olinsky's voice sounded slightly irritated as he stepped out of the tech room.
—Lexi texted me asking where you were.
He handed the phone to the kid, his expression serious.
—Answer her. Tell her you're busy. What's going on?
Even though they weren't particularly close, Ethan knew who Lexi was. Still, he didn't understand why Olinsky had brought his daughter's boyfriend to the station.
Confused, he watched the curly-haired kid beside Olinsky. Under their gazes, the boy's fingers trembled as he took the phone and typed his reply.
A moment later, the notification chimed.
Olinsky, hands buried in his pockets, eyes fixed on the red brick wall behind the cage, spoke without turning around:
—Read it out loud.
Not only Ethan—Nadia lifted her head as well. Her eyes were glassy, pupils dilated, but curiosity managed to cut through the discomfort.
The boy swallowed and read with difficulty:
—"I think my dad already knows you helped me stash the weed. Be careful."
Ethan understood instantly. Olinsky's evasive, distracted behavior throughout the day suddenly made perfect sense.
—I'm really sorry —the boy stammered, lowering his head—. I didn't know the school would check the lockers out of nowhere. I'm applying to college… this can't go on my record.
Ethan crouched in front of him and gave him a firm pat on the shoulder.
—So you let your girlfriend take the blame?
The boy flinched and looked up, eyes wet.
—This affects my future. I didn't have a choice, you understand?
—Yes, you did —Ethan replied, tightening his grip on the boy's shoulder—. You just chose to be an asshole. And even if you get into college, that won't change the fact that you're still an asshole.