Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chelsea Smith had always prided herself on being resourceful. Eight years in the VPD had taught her that nothing worth having came easy, especially information. When the department had taken her badge, they'd also taken her access, to databases, to resources, to the network of informants she'd carefully cultivated.

  But they hadn't taken her brain. Or her contacts outside official channels.

  Her apartment was small, functional. The kind of place you crashed in, not lived in. Takeout containers from three different nights littered the coffee table. A corkboard hung on the wall, photos and notes connected by red string like some conspiracy theorist's wet dream.

  Right now, she was focused on the white van. The one that had shown up on that grainy traffic cam footage she'd pulled before her access was cut.

  The van that had blown through an onboarding center, just like the armored man had at the station.

  Chelsea tapped her pen against her teeth, studying the images. The van had come through an onboarding station at the city's perimeter, one of the places where travelers from other worlds connected to the System entered Virion. It had sped through security, ignoring checkpoints.

  But what had caught her attention was the brief glimpse of faces pressed against the back windows. Terrified faces. People inside that van needed help.

  A knock at her door interrupted her thoughts. She moved carefully, checking the peephole before opening it.

  "You look like shit," Jamie Holt said, pushing past her into the apartment. Holt had been her first partner in the VPD, before transferring to border security. They'd stayed in touch, mostly because Holt had a knack for finding trouble and dragging Chelsea into it.

  Holt was tall and angular, with close-cropped blonde hair and eyes that missed nothing. Her border security uniform was crisp despite the late hour, the rune-enhanced fabric designed to withstand both physical and magical attacks.

  "Always a pleasure," Chelsea replied, closing the door. "Tell me you've got something."

  Holt dropped a data stick on the coffee table. "I tracked that van. It took a while, they disabled the tracker shortly after entering the city, but I managed to get some pings from the district surveillance nodes. Last located heading toward the warehouse district, but then it disappeared."

  "Disappeared?" Chelsea frowned. "How?"

  "Like it vanished. One frame it's there, the next it's not. Some kind of stealth tech or enchantment would be my guess."

  Chelsea picked up the data stick, turning it over in her hand. "The Red Hand is trafficking people. D-Graders, probably. People desperate enough to risk coming to Virion, only to end up as slaves."

  "Which is awful, but not our problem anymore," Holt pointed out. "You don't have a badge, remember?"

  "I can't just let this go." Chelsea dropped onto her couch. The cushions sagged beneath her weight, worn from years of use. "Those people need help."

  "And how exactly do you plan to find them? The trail went cold."

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  Chelsea was quiet for a moment, thinking. "There's a pattern to the armored man's attacks. He's targeting Red Hand operations specifically. Three more facilities hit since he escaped from the station."

  "Please tell me you're not thinking what I think you're thinking."

  "He knows something. He's tracking Red Hand properties systematically, working his way up their chain of command. He might know where they took the people in that van."

  Holt pinched the bridge of her nose. "Let me get this straight. You want to find the extremely dangerous man who killed your partner, to ask him if he happens to know where a vanload of trafficked people got taken?"

  "He's our best lead," Chelsea said simply.

  "You're insane."

  "Probably. But I'm also right."

  It took them three days of careful investigation to piece together enough information. News reports of destroyed Red Hand facilities, whispered rumors from street contacts, and the occasional tip from sympathetic ex-colleagues all painted a picture. The armored man, someone had heard him called "Ambrose", was cutting a systematic path through Vorshawn Red's organization.

  Chelsea barely slept during those three days, surviving on caffeine and determination. Her apartment became a war room, walls covered with maps and photos, data streams running on multiple screens. Holt came and went, bringing food that Chelsea often forgot to eat and information that she devoured instantly.

  "Look at this," Chelsea said, connecting red yarn between pins on her map. "He's hit every major distribution center in the outer districts. Now he's moved to the administrative level. Last night he took out Maxwell Crane's entire operation at that high-rise apartment building."

  "Crane disappeared," Holt added. "Witnesses say he was there when the armored man arrived, and then he wasn't. Same pattern as the other lieutenants this guy has gone after."

  Chelsea nodded. "He's working his way up to Vorshawn himself."

  "So where does that leave us and the trafficked D-Graders?"

  "Our best bet is still finding Ambrose. If he's taken out most of the Red Hand's leadership, he must know where their operations centers are. Including where they process incoming... merchandise."

  Holt grimaced at the word. "And how do we find him? It's not like the guy left a calling card."

  Chelsea moved to her desk, pulling out a stack of reports her contact in forensics had slipped her. "Actually, I think I have something. The explosive residue analysis from his first known attack, the warehouse on the docks. There were traces of a specific compound in the debris that's only licensed for use in industrial applications."

  "Chemical plants," Holt said, catching on quickly.

  "Exactly. And we know he's staying somewhere in the city. He'd need a safe house, somewhere quiet, somewhere that wouldn't attract attention." Chelsea unfolded a map of Virion, her finger tracing a section on the western edge. "The old manufacturing district. Mostly abandoned now, but the infrastructure is still there. Utilities still running."

  "That's still a lot of ground to cover."

  "Not if we narrow it down to properties that have shown unusual power consumption in the last week." Chelsea held up another report. "I got this from a contact in the utility authority. Five properties in that district have registered significant increases in power usage recently. Three of them are legitimate businesses. The other two..."

  "Worth checking out," Holt admitted grudgingly. Her expression remained skeptical, but there was a glint of excitement in her eyes. Despite her protests, Holt had always been drawn to challenging cases.

  "I'll take the first address. You take the second." Chelsea stood, grabbing her jacket. The familiar weight of it was comforting, even without her badge and gun. "And Holt? If you find him, don't engage. Call me immediately."

  "You don't need to tell me twice. I've seen what that guy can do."

  ---

  The house was small, nondescript. The kind of place nobody would look at twice. Perfect for someone who didn't want to be found. Chelsea circled it once, keeping her distance, checking for security systems or traps. Nothing obvious, but that didn't mean they weren't there.

  The neighborhood around it was quiet, mostly abandoned factories and warehouses with the occasional small residence tucked between them. The streetlights here were dim and sporadic, many of them broken. Perfect cover for someone with dangerous enemies.

  Her comm unit buzzed. "Nothing at my location," Holt's voice came through. "Just an old woman with too many appliances. You?"

  "Might have something," Chelsea murmured. "Stand by."

  She approached cautiously, staying in the shadows. The curtains were drawn, but she could see a faint light through a gap. Someone was home.

  Taking a deep breath, she made her decision. Direct was best. This guy had already proven he could handle himself against a whole station full of cops. If he wanted her dead, sneaking around wouldn't help.

  She walked up to the front door and knocked.

  For a long moment, there was silence. Then the door opened slightly, revealing a slice of the man's face. Up close, without his helmet, he looked almost normal. Handsome, even, with sharp features and intense green eyes. Only the eyepatch gave him away.

  "Detective Smith," he said, his voice flat. "How did you find me?"

  Chelsea's heart raced, but she kept her expression neutral. This was the moment of truth, the dangerous fugitive who had killed her partner and decimated the Red Hand was standing before her. But she hadn't come for revenge. She'd come for answers.

  "It's just Smith now," she replied, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. "They took my badge after what happened at the station."

  A flicker of something, recognition, perhaps even regret, crossed his visible eye. Then it was gone, replaced by the same impassive stare.

  "What do you want?" he asked.

  Chelsea met his gaze without flinching. "I want to talk about the people in that van. The ones the Red Hand is trafficking. I want to help them."

  For several heartbeats, he said nothing, simply studying her face as if searching for deception. Then, to her surprise, he stepped back, opening the door wider.

  "You'd better come in," Ambrose said.

  Chelsea hesitated only briefly before stepping across the threshold. The door closed behind her with a soft click that somehow sounded like the sealing of fate.