The morning of December 8 was mild in New Orleans, with a damp warmth that seeping into the old Magazine Street apartments. Steven Bird stirred in his bedroom, the air inside his one-bedroom flat carrying the faint bite of a mild front that had swept in from the Gulf.
The wooden floors creaked under his bare feet as he rose, the sound a familiar groan against the gray light from his cracked window. Outside, the live oaks swayed, their shadows playing across the faded Mardi Gras posters peeling from his walls. A thin layer of dew covered the windowpane. He rubbed sleep from his hazel eyes which were shadowed with fatigue.
Bird moved through his morning routine, his thoughts still racing. The apartment, sparse, smelled of stale coffee grounds and the lingering musk of his worn leather jacket slung over a chair. He shuffled to the kitchenette, the linoleum cold against his soles, and filled a chipped mug with water from the tap, the pipes groaning. The chill made him shiver, prompting him to pull a faded flannel shirt over his undershirt.
He splashed icy water on his face and stared into the cracked mirror. His reflection was a mess—sandy hair sticking up, jaw tight. He was still thinking about yesterday.
As was his custom, Bird shuffled into the living room, the hardwood protesting under his weight, and switched on the box-shaped television perched on a wobbly stand. The bulky CRT set hummed to life with a crackle, its greenish glow falling softly across the room. The news anchor's voice, tinny through the old speakers, droned about Y2K fears and the Saints' latest loss. For Bird, a cop even as a rookie, his duty was to know what was happening on the street. But the news just made him frown—more criminals, more scandals. The whole city felt like it was spiraling.
It was Wednesday, and the weight of the events of recent days pressed heavily on his mind. The memory of Senator Douglas Thomson's shooting, the chase through the French Quarter, and Officer James's death was still raw. But another recollection intruded—Lizzy Swanson kissing him. He knew he shouldn't dwell on it, but the memory stayed with him. Shaking his head, he tried to cast the thought aside and moved toward the bathroom.
The bathroom, small and tiled in faded white, offered little comfort as he stepped into the shower. The water, initially a cold shock against his skin, gradually warmed, steam rising to fog the mirror. Even as the hot water hit him, he couldn't stop thinking about Lizzy's kiss.
Why had he responded? The question gnawed at him, unanswered, as he lathered soap across his chest, the scent of pine mingling with the damp air. He'd only met her twice—once at the station amid her domestic turmoil, and again yesterday in the heat of their escape—and he felt drawn to her. He tried to shake it off. Just a stupid infatuation, the kind of thing that happens, he thought, turning off the water and grabbing a threadbare towel.
His hazel eyes were clouded with doubt. He felt torn. Dressed in boxers, he moved to his wardrobe, the wooden doors creaking as he opened them. There hung his police uniform—navy blue, crisp despite its wear, a symbol of his rookie status set to end the following month. He'd planned to don it today, to stride into the station with authority, but the memory of the bar ruckus stopped him cold.
He couldn't shake Amelia Hartman's warning. The buyer's last signal was supposed to lead to his apartment, and now the tracker was dust. No one had shown up yet, but the thought sent a shiver down his spine. Amelia told him to lay low, but that wasn't an option. He had to see this through.
Stepping out of his apartment, Bird locked the door with a heavy click, the cold air nipping at his exposed neck. His black sedan, a 1995 Ford Taurus with patched bullet scars, waited in the lot under the flickering Gumbo Shack sign. He checked the fuel tank, the gauge hovering at half.
Sliding into the driver's seat, the leather creaked under his weight, and he nearly drove off when a file on the passenger seat caught his eye. It was the Salazar case file, left there by Richard Dickson after their covert visit to Swanson's mansion the previous evening. The memory flooded back—Dickson, his lanky colleague, had insisted Bird keep it secret from Captain Lewis, who'd ordered them to stay out of the investigation. Their suspicion of Lewis' odd behavior fueled their defiance, and Dickson's sway with the captain gave them leverage.
As a rookie, Bird was expected to wear his uniform, but today he opted for plain clothes, hoping to avoid scrutiny. His rookie status required flexibility, and with Dickson's support, they could work undercover. Before parting, Dickson had promised to seek permission from the Chief of Police, an elusive figure rarely seen at the station, the only one with authority to override Lewis. Bird had never met him, a mystery reinforced by station gossip.
He turned the key, the engine rumbling to life, and drove toward the station. There, he'd meet Dickson to plan their next move, determined to unravel the Salazar lead without Lewis' knowledge.
As he drove, the city was just waking up. The morning frost made everything look quiet, but he knew that beneath the surface, the city was still a mess of crime and corruption. Bird's mind raced with the events of the past week: the senator's shooting, Lizzy's kiss, and Amelia's cryptic warnings.
He pulled into the station's parking lot. The familiar structure was a bulwark of routine in the city's chaos. Dickson's car was already there, a beat-up old Chevy that seemed to hold together by sheer force of will. Bird parked beside it and killed the engine, the sudden silence a contrast to the din of thoughts in his head.
Stepping out into the chill, he scanned the area, a habit formed over weeks of dealing with unpredictable dangers. The station's entrance loomed before him.
The week since the shooting had worn him down. He was exhausted, and the case felt like it was going nowhere, just a complex mess of names like Amelia Hartman, Stuart Salazar, and Colin Swanson. His breath puffed in the cold as he adjusted his jacket. He felt stretched thin, but he was determined not to let the senator's attacker get away.
The station loomed ahead, its weathered brick facade streaked with morning frost, windows glowing faintly with the hum of activity within. Bird trudged forward, the Salazar case file clutched under his arm, its weight a tangible burden.
As he pushed through the heavy glass doors, the warm, stale air of the bullpen hit him. The place was chaos—officers barking orders, phones ringing off the hook, and the air thick with chicory coffee and cigarette smoke. Space heaters hummed in the corners, fighting the drafty windows. The urgency in the room felt different today, and his rookie status felt like a weakness.
Richard Dickson, lanky and quick-witted, emerged from the crowd, his boots clicking on the linoleum as he clapped a hand on Bird's shoulder.
"Steve, I think I might've stumbled onto a lead in the case," he said, his voice low. His eyes darted around, making sure no one was listening. His eyes darted sideways, ensuring privacy. "C'mon, let's check it out." With a nod, he led Bird toward his office, the younger man's pulse quickening with anticipation.
The office door clicked shut behind them, a barrier against prying ears, the faint buzz of the station muffled. Bird leaned against the desk, one leg dangling, the other planted firmly, his posture a mix of curiosity and caution. "So, what've you dug up on Salazar?" he asked, his Southern drawl thickening with the question.
Dickson paced briefly, then turned, his expression serious. "Not much yet," he admitted, "but his name rang a bell with the Chief. Seems the old man's got connections—found out Salazar's slated to be at one of his warehouses north of the city today."
"Today?" Bird's brow furrowed, skepticism creeping in. "How can we trust that? It's a stretch to think the Chief just sniffed out Salazar's moves. A man like him would have security tighter than Fort Knox—info like that doesn't leak easy."
Dickson shrugged, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "Chief probably tapped into a mole in Salazar's crew. Sounds wild, I know, but it's our best shot to nab Stuart."
"Wait—nab Salazar?" Bird's voice rose, incredulity sharpening his tone. "Weren't you the one preaching caution? Now you're pushing to grab him? We can't touch a crime lord without solid evidence—we'd need a strategy, not a suicide run."
Dickson leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "Fair point. So, what's your play, Steve? I'm all ears."
Bird fell silent, his mind racing, leg swinging slightly as he thought. "I don't know, Rick," he finally said, voice heavy. "This isn't some petty crook we're cuffing. He's a crime lord—going after him could spark a war we can't win."
"True," Dickson conceded, "but what choice do we have? We're stuck."
"Rick, hold up—what's going on?" Bird's gaze narrowed, a flicker of concern in his eyes. "Usually, I'm the risk-taker, and you're the voice of reason. Now it's flipped. Why the change?"
Dickson hesitated, his usual confidence wavering. "No big reason, just… we need this win. And I wasn't thinking arrest—Salazar's got pull to bury the station in a day. We need intel, not a collar. Confirm if Colin Swanson's the mysterious 'C.S.' behind this."
"Still dangerous," Bird muttered, but the silence that followed carried a weight of understanding. Their eyes locked, a silent pact forming. Bird saw a true friend in Dickson, a partner he'd back to the end.
Convinced they'd tread carefully, he slid off the desk, grabbed a scrap of paper, and scribbled notes as he spoke. "So, how do we pull this off?"
"Not set in stone yet," Dickson replied, "but we need Salazar alone to question him."
Bird dropped the pencil, turning to face him. "That's a tall order—his men won't let us within ten yards. They'd shred us if we tried."
"So, we kidnap him," Dickson suggested, his tone casual yet firm.
"Kidnap him?" Bird nearly shouted, voice echoing off the walls. "I thought we were officers, not thugs."
"We are," Dickson countered, a grin breaking through, "but he doesn't know that. We pose as pros hired by 'C.S.' to inspect his delivered goods."
Bird rubbed his chin, considering. "Can't kidnap him if we're playing that role. Why not just say we're 'C.S.' men checking the shipment? He'd spill if the goods—opium, likely—weren't delivered, especially if he's the buyer. We intercepted that deal, so he'd probably fume at 'C.S.' for sending just two. He might give us what we need, then try to kill us. We'd just need an escape plan."
Dickson's eyes lit up. "Smarter than my idea. Where'd that come from?"
"Made it up on the spot," Bird said with a sheepish grin. "Caught a '93 Schwarzenegger flick, Last Action Hero—bad guy monologued his plan. I'm hoping it works here."
"We'll pray it does," Dickson laughed. "Shows you're thinking like a detective, Steve." He clapped a companionable hand on Bird's shoulder, the gesture warm despite the office's chill.
"Thanks, Rick. Means a lot," Bird replied, a flicker of pride in his voice. Dickson stepped to the window, peering out at the frosty streets, then turned back. "Well, the case won't crack itself, Bird. Let's move."
***
Dickson's weathered sedan, a 1997 Chevy Caprice with a faint rattle in its frame, sliced through the morning chill, its heater struggling to fend off the unusual cold that had settled over the city on this December 8th, Bird sat in the passenger seat, the Salazar case file resting on his lap, its edges curling slightly from the damp air seeping through the cracked window. The road stretched ahead, a ribbon of asphalt flanked by skeletal trees and the occasional flicker of neon from roadside diners. Rick's hands gripped the wheel with a tightness that belied his usual calm demeanor, his jaw set as if wrestling with an unspoken burden. Fifteen minutes of weaving through sluggish traffic—honking horns and the occasional glare of headlights—had brought them closer to their destination, the warehouse district where Stuart Salazar was rumored to lurk. Bird's gaze drifted to his partner, noting the furrowed brow and distant stare, a man lost in thought for reasons that gnawed at him.
"You seem a little off today, Rick," Bird ventured, his Southern drawl softening the edge of concern. "Mind sharing why?"
Dickson's response came after a beat, his eyes fixed on the road as the car rumbled over a pothole. "Oh, it's just the Captain," he muttered, his voice carrying a weight that hung in the air like the exhaust fumes trailing behind them. "He's been acting rather suspicious lately. Thinks we're up to something, slipping out of the station every now and then without a word, doing our own little investigations."
Bird shifted in his seat, the leather creaking under him, and glanced out at the passing blur of warehouses and chain-link fences. "Well, he should understand we're doing it for a good cause—to find whoever it was that nearly killed the Senator."
"I think he of all people should get that," Dickson replied, his tone laced with frustration as he navigated a sharp turn. "But it almost feels as if he knows something he's trying to cover up."
"How do you reckon?" Bird asked, his curiosity piqued, the hum of the engine underscoring the gravity of the moment.
Dickson exhaled sharply, the sound cutting through the car's interior. "Went to him earlier today to ask if he'd found any leads on the shooting. You wouldn't believe what he said—'You can't catch shadows lurking in hidden corners.'" The words lingered, heavy with mystery, as the sedan's tires crunched over gravel, signaling their approach to the warehouse district.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Bird pressed, his mind racing with possibilities—secrets buried deep within the NOPD, perhaps a connection to the opium trade that stretched beyond their grasp.
"I still don't know," Dickson admitted, his knuckles whitening on the steering wheel. "But he knows something, something important, and he feels we shouldn't get too close to the truth."
"Well, we can look into him later. For now, Salazar," Bird said, redirecting their focus as the silhouette of their target loomed ahead. The warehouse was a fortress, a multi-story block of weathered concrete and rusted steel. The place looked menacing, with balconies on the upper floors for lookouts. This was no place for a simple bust; but they'd be lucky to get out of here at all.
Dressed in plainclothes—faded jeans and worn jackets—they blended into the gritty surroundings, their cop identities concealed beneath the guise of ordinary men. The cold bit at their necks as they trudged forward, the gravel crunching underfoot, a sound swallowed by the warehouse's oppressive silence. Ahead, a sleek black limo purred to a stop, its polished surface a stark contrast to the dilapidated facade. Stuart Salazar emerged, a figure of opulence amid the squalor, his presence announced by the glint of gold chains and rings that adorned his fingers. Dickson parked the Chevy a discreet distance away, tucking it behind a rusted dumpster, its unassuming bulk blending into the shadows. They waited, breath held, as Salazar exchanged curt words with the guards—burly men in dark coats, their shotguns slung casually over shoulders—before being escorted inside by his entourage.
Bird nudged Dickson. "We need to move fast if we're to catch Salazar before he bolts. He's not the type to linger unless there's a reason." They slipped out of the car, the cold air a sharp slap against their skin, and advanced with cautious steps. The warehouse was massive, its two upper floors showing the scale of the operation. Illegal substances flowed in and out, orchestrated by a man whose influence dwarfed their own. Guards were omnipresent: sentinels on balconies with binoculars scanning the approach, enforcers at the entrance with shotguns cradled like extensions of their arms, and likely more within, all armed to the teeth. Bird's hand brushed the concealed revolver in his pocket, a cold comfort as he wondered if a search awaited them, a hurdle to their fragile plan.
They reached the entrance, where two burly guards blocked their path, shotguns leveled with practiced ease. "State your business," one growled, his voice a gravelly bark that echoed off the concrete walls.
Dickson stepped forward. "We're here to see Stuart Salazar." The words sparked a ripple of interest; heads turned on the balconies above, and within moments, the scene erupted. Guards stormed the front, guns of every caliber—pistols, rifles, submachine guns—trained on the intruders. The burly man repeated his demand, his lips curling into a sneer, while others formed a tightening circle, their presence a suffocating noose. It was clear—no one saw Salazar unless he willed it.
"We're here to see Stuart Salazar," Bird said, forcing confidence into his voice despite the barrels pointed at his chest. "Now, are you letting us in, or do we have to fight our way through?"
The guard's laugh was a harsh, guttural sound, a mockery of their bravado. "Fight us? You'd be dead in seconds," he taunted, but Bird pressed on, his tone hardening. "Then bring us to him, or we'll find him ourselves and deal with you lot."
The tension coiled tighter, a spring ready to snap, when the man himself appeared. Stuart Salazar stepped into the light, a vision of extravagance—gold chains glinted at his neck, rings flashed on his fingers, and his tailored suit looked liked it cost a fortune. His Portuguese accent laced his words as he spoke, a velvet threat. "You boys must be exceptionally brave or completely stupid to seek out my den. Now, why do you want to see me?"
"A message," Dickson said, his voice steady, "from C.S."
Salazar's eyes flickered with interest, a predator scenting prey, but his expression darkened almost instantly. "What does that slimy son of a bitch want?"
"Just a bit of an audience and a little business," Bird interjected, "but we can't talk with your men waving guns."
"Very well," Salazar said, his tone unconvinced yet curious enough to indulge them. He motioned them inside, his entourage—a phalanx of guards with weapons drawn—trailing like a predatory shadow. Bird's mind raced as they followed, the warehouse unfolding before them. The ground floor buzzed with activity—workers in gloves packaging white powder into bricks, others repackaging with meticulous orderliness, the air thick with the bitter scent of illicit wealth. This was Salazar's empire, built on the backs of drugs, its opulence a facade for the darkness within.
They ascended to the third floor, the office a stark contrast—plush carpet, mahogany desk, and walls lined with framed maps of trade routes. Bird noted the excessive security, a dozen eyes watching their every move, rendering his opinion to exclude them futile. Salazar sank into a cushioned chair, lighting a cigar whose smoke curled like a serpent through the room. "So, what's the business C.S. wants to discuss?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
"Regarding the last delivery…" Dickson began, choosing his words with care.
"You mean the delivery that never happened?" Salazar snapped, his cigar pausing mid-air. "What I paid for wasn't delivered, and now he wants to talk more transactions?"
"Not necessarily," Dickson countered. "We have reason to believe the packages were intercepted."
"By who?" Salazar's eyes narrowed, the gold on his fingers catching the light.
"Local gang, the police," Bird replied, improvising. "Someone knows of your transactions with C.S. beyond us and saw fit to intercept. We don't know who yet, but we're working on it."
"So, what do you need me for?" Salazar leaned forward, the cigar's glow illuminating his skeptical gaze.
"You know C.S. is a mysterious figure," Bird said, "even to us. His ties with other crime lords might've caused the interception. Perhaps there was—"
"A mole somewhere?" Salazar cut in. "I don't follow. Was it from my people or his?"
"Not sure yet," Bird admitted. "But we might need to look into your operations to ensure no one's leaking to other sources."
"There's no way that's happening," Salazar growled. "You tell C.S. he's paying for the undelivered goods unless he wants war."
"I'm pretty sure we can handle this amicably without escalating tensions," Dickson said smoothly. "If Colin Swanson…" He let the name slip, a calculated probe, watching for a reaction. Salazar's face remained impassive, giving nothing away.
"Is Swanson the C.S.?" he asked, his tone probing.
"For security reasons, we can't acknowledge or deny that," Bird replied, his heart pounding. "But—"
"I'm starting to think you both aren't what you appear to be," Salazar interrupted, his hand sliding into his inner pocket. He produced a revolver, placing it on the desk with a deliberate clink, the barrel glinting ominously. "C.S. assured me our transactions would be electronic, not physical meetings. So, you're both either spies or cops. Now come out with the truth, and I might spare you."
The room thickened with tension, Salazar's men closing in, guns drawn and restless. Bird and Dickson exchanged a glance, their concealed revolvers a frail defense against the five guards surrounding them. The consequences of this gambit were clear—they would die if they fought, and be trapped if they didn't. They'd learned Colin Swanson wasn't C.S., but the true identity remained elusive. Escape seemed impossible as the office walls closed in around them.
***
The office on the third floor felt tight. The air was thick with cigar smoke, and the five guards had them circled. Salazar's hand rested on the revolver on his desk. "You're either spies or cops," he snarled, the words dripping with menace. "Come out with the truth, and I might spare you."
Bird's hand hovered near his concealed revolver, sweat beading on his brow despite the cold December air seeping through the cracked window. Dickson stood rigid, his seasoned gaze flicking between the guards and Salazar, calculating odds that dwindled with each passing second.
A sharp crack split the air, not from within the room but from beyond the shattered window, the sound of a distant gunshot echoing through the warehouse's cavernous expanse. Glass exploded outward from a window on the adjacent building, a hundred yards off, where a shadowy figure perched on a rusted fire escape, the muzzle flash of a sniper rifle briefly illuminating the hood obscuring their face. The bullet whizzed past, embedding itself in the wall behind Salazar, splintering the wood and sending a shower of debris into the smoky haze. Another shot followed, striking a guard in the chest—his shotgun dropped with a clatter as he crumpled, blood seeping into the carpet, his dying gasp a choked gurgle. A third shot grazed another guard's arm, forcing him to stagger back, his rifle clattering to the floor as he clutched the wound. The hooded shooter—the same assassin who had nearly killed Senator Douglas Thomson—fired with precision from afar, their intent clear: to eliminate Salazar, the linchpin of the opium network.
Panic erupted as the remaining guards returned fire, their shots wild and erratic, bullets ricocheting off the concrete walls and shattering more glass. Salazar ducked behind the desk, his gold chains jangling, a curse escaping his lips as a bullet nicked his shoulder, drawing a thin line of blood. Bird and Dickson hit the floor, glass shards slicing into their palms, the chaos a deafening roar of gunfire and shattering timber. The shooter's rifle clicked empty after a fifth shot—another guard down, his body slumped against the doorframe, blood pooling beneath him—yet Salazar remained alive, shielded by the desk and the cops' reflexive actions. The assassin, realizing the kill was missed, abandoned the perch, their hooded form vanishing into the shadows of the adjacent building.
Bird, peering through the broken window as the gunfire subsided, caught a fleeting glimpse of the shooter's retreat—a figure darting down the fire escape, rifle slung over their shoulder, disappearing into the labyrinth of alleys below. His heart raced, adrenaline surging as he registered the location, a rusted brick structure across the street, its windows dark and foreboding. "There!" he shouted, pointing, but the smoke and chaos obscured the moment from Dickson and Salazar. The office fell silence, broken only by the groans of the wounded and the distant wail of sirens drawing closer.
Salazar, clutching his bleeding shoulder, rose unsteadily, his eyes blazing with a mix of rage and survival instinct. "Who the hell was that?" he demanded, his voice a low growl, the gold on his fingers catching the light as he steadied himself against the desk. Bird and Dickson exchanged a glance, their cover teetering on the edge, the earlier accusation of being cops or spies now a palpable threat. The guards, three dead and two wounded, lay scattered, their weapons silent, leaving Salazar vulnerable yet defiant.
"We don't know," Dickson lied smoothly, holstering his revolver as he helped Bird to his feet. "But they're after you—obviously someone wants you gone."
Salazar's gaze hardened, the revolver still within reach, his suspicion undimmed. "You two saved me, but that doesn't clear you. That shooter knew this place—knew me. If you're cops, you led them here." His hand hovered near the gun, the tension crackling like static.
Bird wiped blood from a cut on his cheek, his mind racing. "We're not your enemies, Salazar. But if we don't move, that shooter will try again. Let us handle this—give us your men's word they won't touch us."
For a moment, the room held its breath, the sirens growing louder, red and blue lights flashing through the grimy windows below. Salazar's lips curled into a reluctant sneer, the gold chain at his neck glinting as he nodded. "Fine. My men won't shoot—yet. But you bring me that bastard, or you're next." He barked an order in Portuguese, and the wounded guards staggered to relay it, their footsteps echoing down the stairwell.
Bird and Dickson seized the moment, bolting for the door, the stairwell a cold, echoing descent of metal and shadow. The warehouse below buzzed with panic—workers abandoning crates, the scent of opium and oil thick in the air as they navigated the loading bay, dodging spilled powder and overturned pallets. Outside, the cold December air bit at their skin, the car's silhouette a beacon in the shadows. Dickson limped, his leg grazed but functional, while Bird scanned the adjacent building, the shooter's escape route etched in his mind. Salazar's permission hung like a fragile truce, his men eyeing them warily but holding fire.
They piled into Dickson's Chevy, the engine roaring to life with a throaty growl, and Bird took the wheel, his eyes locked on the building across the street. The chase began as he peeled out, tires screeching on the cold asphalt, the warehouse receding in the rearview mirror. The shooter's figure reappeared, darting into a black sedan parked in the alley, its engine revving as it sped off. Bird floored the accelerator, weaving through the industrial sprawl, the city's northern edge giving way to narrower streets lined with crumbling warehouses and flickering streetlights. The hooded figure's car weaved with skill, a ghost in the dusk, leading them into a complex chase—sharp turns, blind alleys, and the occasional honk of startled drivers.
The pursuit stretched across New Orleans, the skyline shifting from industrial gray to the vibrant chaos of the French Quarter, then the quieter residential streets. Traffic thickened as they neared Canal Street, the shooter's sedan slicing through winding lanes, horns blaring as Bird struggled to keep pace. The cold air rushed through the cracked window, stinging his face, his knuckles white on the wheel. Dickson gripped the dashboard, gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg, barking directions—"Left! Cut him off!"—but the shooter's agility outmatched them. The traffic ground to a halt, a snarl of taillights and impatient drivers, and the black sedan vanished into the maze, its taillights winking out as the gridlock swallowed it.
Bird slammed the wheel, the engine idling as the traffic cleared minutes later, revealing an empty stretch ahead. The shooter was gone, a ghost lost to the city's depths. With a heavy sigh, he turned the Chevy back toward Salazar's warehouse, the sirens now a distant echo, the aftermath settling over New Orleans like a shroud. The chase yielded no capture. The truce with the crime lord was fragile, and Bird knew their return would demand answers they didn't yet have.
***
Bird gripped the wheel, his knuckles white. He couldn't stop thinking about the ambush, and the shooter. A nagging suspicion hit him: it had to be the same hooded figure who shot Senator Thomson. The coincidence was too much. Someone had hired this shooter, but the motive was buried somewhere in the city's criminal underbelly.
He wondered if 'C.S.' had ordered the hit on Salazar. But the timing was too perfect. How did the shooter know he'd be in that office? Then it hit him: the Chief's informant. What if the info was a setup, just to get them—and Salazar—in that room? The thought made him uneasy.
His eyes flicked to Dickson, slumped in the passenger seat, a faint trickle of blood seeping from a shallow graze on his leg sustained during the shootout. "You holding up okay?" Bird asked, his voice cutting through the hum of the engine. Dickson nodded, a grimace tugging at his lips. "I'll manage." Satisfied, Bird eased the Chevy to a stop outside Salazar's warehouse, the building's rusted steel facade looming like a fortress against the muted daylight.
Stuart Salazar stood near his limo, a bandage hastily wrapped around his injured shoulder, his gold chains glinting as he paused mid-step. His eyes narrowed as Bird and Dickson approached, the air thick with unspoken accusations. "Looks like you didn't catch that shooter," he said, his voice a low rumble laced with a Portuguese edge.
"Not yet," Bird replied, the disappointment clear in his tone.
"You two sound like cops to me—I wouldn't be shocked if that's the case," Salazar shot back, his gaze piercing.
"That's not the point right now," Rick cut in, his tone steady. "Someone's gunning for you, and they're not backing off. Any idea why?"
Salazar's lips curled into a bitter smirk. "I've dealt with plenty of folks—some I've crossed, some who've crossed me. Take your pick on who'd want me gone now."
"Depends on their reason for targeting you," Bird noted, his mind racing. "You might not be safe even at home. If they tracked you here today, it's a sure sign someone in your crew is spilling secrets to your enemies. Trust is hard to come by these days."
"So why'd you show up?" Salazar pressed, suspicion hardening his features. "You're not with 'C.S.'—you've got your own angle, and I plan to figure it out. Did it cross your mind you might've led that shooter straight to me?"
"We've got no motive to put you at risk, Salazar," Dickson said with confidence. "We're after that shooter, but you'd be smart to lay low for now. Someone's out to get you." He turned to Bird. "Could be the same one who went after Thomson. We need to dig deeper."
To acknowledge Dickson's point, Salazar spoke up. "I heard Thomson took a hit last week. You thinking it's the same guy? And why me?"
"We can't confirm that yet," Bird replied. "But the shooter's still out there. We'll get to the bottom of it."
"Better do it fast," Salazar said, stepping into his limo. He wound the window down with a button's soft click and added, "My men won't trouble you unless you give them cause. If you catch that shooter, find out who's paying them." The window slid up, and the limo purred away, its taillights fading into the gray.
Bird and Dickson stood in the warehouse's shadow as the remaining guards returned to their duties, their footsteps echoing against the concrete. The two cops trudged back to Dickson's Chevy, the man sliding into the driver's seat, the engine coughing to life.
The drive back to the station was tense. Dickson was quiet, focused on the road, while Bird stared out the window. The billboards for 'The Matrix' and $1.17 gas felt like they were from a different world. The Chevy rolled past row houses with peeling paint, their porches adorned with tinsel.
"Do you think 'C.S.' might have hired the shooter to target both Thomson and Salazar?" Rick asked, his voice thoughtful as he kept his eyes on the road.
"If that's the case, there has to be a solid reason behind it," Bird replied, his tone reflective. "We get why they'd go after the senator, given his investigations, but Salazar? That feels off. He's got every right to be furious about the undelivered opium shipment, and you'd expect him to retaliate against 'C.S.', not the other way around. It doesn't add up."
"Life rarely does, kid," Dickson said with a wry chuckle. "As officers, our job is to dig deep and uncover what we can. Has it occurred to you that, like Salazar suggested, we might have unintentionally guided the shooter to him?"
"It has," Bird admitted, his expression growing serious. "That would imply the Chief's informant is playing both sides. They could have tipped him off just to get us to Salazar's office, setting up the hit—though we managed to disrupt it."
"I'm not convinced that theory holds," Dickson countered. "Salazar could have been targeted regardless of our presence."
"Not while he was still inside that heavily surveilled warehouse," Bird argued. "They hit his open office specifically, not any other spot. How would they know he'd be there? A man like him doesn't just hang around his office unless there's a reason. He might have come to check new deliveries today, but he could've left quickly. He stayed because we showed up—not a coincidence, but a calculated move, if you ask me."
"You've got a sharp mind for this, Bird," Dickson said with a nod. "Now we should inform the Chief to cut ties with that informant. Someone that slippery could be working multiple angles."
"Agreed," Bird said. "And what about the Captain?"
"You never let anything slip, do you?" Dickson grinned faintly. "If we bring him into our plans, he might shut us down. There's something off about him, and I'm determined to find out what."