The footsteps echoed again, slow and deliberate. Harris’s flashlight swept across the shadows, its beam flickering over rusted beams and warped machinery.
Vega tightened her grip on her weapon, her voice low but steady. “Whoever it is, they’re not in a hurry to leave.”
Harris nodded, his own pulse quickening. “Let’s find out why they’re here.”
The two moved cautiously toward the sound, their footsteps muffled by the dust-coated concrete. Another faint noise—a metallic scrape, like something being dragged—made Vega stiffen. She gestured for Harris to cover her as she edged closer to the far end of the room.
The silence was almost suffocating. When Vega rounded the corner, her flashlight caught movement—a figure slipping out through a side door, their features obscured by the shadows.
“Hey!” Vega barked, breaking into a sprint.
Harris followed, his flashlight bouncing wildly as they gave chase. The door creaked on its hinges as it swung shut behind the fleeing figure. Outside, the morning light was faint, the alley behind the warehouse cloaked in fog.
The detectives emerged just in time to hear the roar of an engine. A dark car peeled away from the curb, its license plate obscured by mud. Vega raised her weapon, but Harris grabbed her arm.
“Too far,” he said, his tone clipped.
Vega lowered the gun, frustration etched across her face. “Perfect. They vanish, and we’re stuck with more questions.”
Harris scanned the alley, his gaze landing on a small object glinting near the edge of the pavement. He crouched, picking it up—a cigarette lighter, engraved with the same interlocking circles they’d seen before.
“Looks like they left us a souvenir,” Harris said, holding it up for Vega to see.
Her brow furrowed as she studied it. “That symbol again. It’s like they’re taunting us.”
Harris pocketed the lighter, his expression grim. “Or warning us.”
The detectives exchanged a glance, the tension between them heavy with unspoken questions.
“We’ll regroup at the station,” Harris said finally. “I’ve got a feeling this is bigger than we thought.”
***
By the time they returned to the station, it was nearly dawn. Harris sat silently, the newest key resting in his palm. It was identical to the others, its tarnished surface cool against his skin.
“We’ve got four keys,” Vega said, pacing the room. “Four keys, three bodies, and a trail that’s getting colder by the second.”
Harris stared at the evidence board, his mind racing. “Dane’s note—‘I told you to leave it alone.’ He wasn’t just warning us. He was warning someone else.”
“Who?”
Before Harris could answer, a deafening crash echoed through the station.
Vega reached for her weapon, her eyes narrowing. “What the hell was that?”
Harris was already moving, his heart pounding as he stepped into the corridor.
The precinct was empty, the silence oppressive. A trail of shattered glass led to the main door, which swung open in the cold wind.
On the floor, beneath the flickering overhead light, was a single envelope.
Harris picked it up cautiously, his pulse racing as he opened it.
Inside was a photo of Vega, her face circled in red.
Vega’s face turned a dark shade as she snatched the photo from Harris’s hand. She held it longer than she should have, her fingers tightening around the edges. Her jaw clenched, and for a moment, the usual sharp wit in her expression softened into something harder to place. She finally tossed the photo onto the desk, but her gaze flicked back to it, unwilling to fully let it go.
Her chest rose and fell in steady, deliberate breaths. “It’s fine,” she muttered, though her voice wavered just enough to betray her.
Harris didn’t move, watching her carefully.
Vega broke the silence first. Her tone was colder now, sharper, as though building a wall around herself. “I think they just made it personal.”
The envelope felt heavier in Harris’s hands than it had any right to. His gaze lingered on the photograph—a grainy shot of Vega, her face circled in thick, angry red ink.
“Guess I made the wrong person mad,” Vega muttered, though her flippant tone faltered as her jaw tightened. She reached out, plucking the photo from Harris’s grip.
Her dark eyes scanned it carefully, but her usual sharp confidence wasn’t there. Harris caught the small hitch in her breath, the way her fingers pressed into the edges of the picture just a little too hard.
“This isn’t a warning,” Harris said, his voice grim. “It’s a promise.”
Vega didn’t respond immediately. She dropped the photo onto the desk, but her hand lingered, fingers curling into a fist before she turned away abruptly.
“You’re right,” she said, her voice clipped. “Someone went to a lot of trouble to put me on their hit list. But this isn’t about me. It’s about stopping this before it gets worse,” she added, her voice firming.
But the photo still sat on the desk, a silent challenge she couldn’t quite shake. Her fingers brushed against the desk’s edge before she turned away, as if the act might somehow tether her to reality—or keep her from confronting the truth in the image.
Her fingers brushed the desk’s edge again, almost absently. Then she clenched her fist and straightened her posture.
“We’re not giving them the satisfaction,” she muttered, her voice steady now.
“Zen,” Harris began carefully, stepping closer.
“I said it’s not about me,” she snapped, then exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair. “We’ve got four keys, three dead bodies, and a creepy secret admirer. What’s next? A scavenger hunt?”
Harris hesitated, watching her. “You’re right. Let’s get matching T-shirts and start handing out clues,” he said, deadpan, tossing the keys onto the desk with a soft clink.
Vega smirked, though it didn’t reach her eyes. She leaned back in her chair, forcing a lighter tone. “Great idea. I’ll design the logo—‘Team Lost and Clueless.’”
“Not far off,” Harris muttered, his voice dropping. The humor drained from his face as he turned toward the evidence board, his eyes narrowing on the photographs of the four tarnished keys laid out in their evidence bag. “These aren’t random.”
The shift in his tone was subtle but sharp, and Vega straightened, her smirk fading. “What are you thinking?” she asked, quieter now.
Harris stared at the keys, his jaw tightening. “I’m thinking someone went to a lot of trouble to make sure we found these. And I’m thinking it’s not a breadcrumb trail. It’s a damn noose.”
The morning passed in a blur of unanswered questions and rising tension. Harris and Vega worked in near silence, piecing together every scrap of evidence they had.
It wasn’t until early afternoon that the breakthrough came. Harris was staring at the ledger they’d found in Whitaker’s office, flipping back to the beginning, when something caught his eye—a faint sketch etched into the margin of one page.
It was a symbol, simple yet distinct: four interlocking circles.
“I’ve seen this before,” Harris murmured, pulling the keys from their evidence bag.
“Care to enlighten the rest of the class?” Vega asked, leaning over his shoulder.
Harris gestured toward the circles. “This symbol was tied to a case years ago. It’s a marker—a code used by a group involved in some very illegal activities.”
“Define ‘illegal,’” Vega said, narrowing her eyes.
Harris’s jaw tightened. “Fraud, extortion, murder. It was a network—powerful, untouchable. They called themselves ‘The Concord.’”
Vega’s expression shifted from curiosity to alarm. “And you didn’t think to mention this sooner?”
“I thought they were gone,” Harris said. “The last known members disappeared a decade ago. Dane was one of them.”
“And now someone’s tying up loose ends,” Vega said, the weight of the realization sinking in.
The location tied to the symbol wasn’t far—a crumbling estate on the outskirts of town.
Vega drove in tense silence, her knuckles white against the steering wheel. “So, what’s the plan?”
“Find out what they’re hiding and figure out who’s behind this,” Harris said, loading his weapon.
Vega shot him a look. “Simple as that, huh?”
“I like simple,” Harris replied.
“Simple gets you killed,” she muttered.
The estate loomed ahead, its once-grand façade now draped in ivy and decay. The gates were ajar, swinging slightly in the wind as if inviting them in.
The faint creak of metal against stone set Harris’s teeth on edge. It felt like the house was waiting for them, holding its breath.
“Love what they’ve done with the place,” Vega said, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she eyed the ivy crawling up the decayed façade.
“Yeah. Real cozy,” Harris replied, tilting his head as if genuinely considering it. “Think they take Airbnb bookings?” His flashlight cut through the darkness, the beam landing on a broken window.
“You first,” Vega said, gesturing toward the entrance.
“Chivalry isn’t dead,” Harris said dryly, stepping through the gates.
“Not yet,” Vega quipped, following close behind.
The interior of the estate was eerily silent, the air thick with dust and mildew. Harris and Vega moved cautiously, their flashlights casting long, wavering shadows across the walls.
It didn’t take long to find the lock.
A heavy iron door stood at the end of a narrow hallway, its surface etched with the same interlocking circles from the ledger.
“Well, that’s not foreboding at all,” Vega said, her voice echoing in the stillness.
Harris pulled the keys from his pocket, his fingers brushing the cool metal. “Only one way to find out.”
He inserted the first key, turning it with a metallic click. The second and third followed, each one fitting perfectly.
The final key slid into place, and the door creaked open, revealing a darkened chamber.
The room was cavernous, its walls lined with filing cabinets and shelves crammed with boxes. In the center stood a large table, papers scattered across its surface.
Vega picked up one of the papers, her eyes narrowing as she scanned its contents. “Bank records, offshore accounts, names… Harris, this isn’t just a secret—it’s the whole damn operation.”
Harris’s breath caught as he spotted a date—just three weeks ago—beside a transfer of funds. His stomach tightened. “This isn’t ancient history,” he said, his voice tight. “They’re still moving.”
Vega leaned closer, her brows furrowing as she scanned another line. “And fast,” she said, pointing to a list of names paired with international bank accounts. “Looks like a few people didn’t make the Christmas card list this year.”
“This is what they’ve been protecting,” Harris said, his voice heavy. “Or destroying.”
Vega turned to him, the pieces falling into place. “The victims—they were all connected to this. Whitaker, Lowe, Dane—they must have had access to these records.”
“And someone wanted to make sure they couldn’t talk,” Harris said grimly.
Before Vega could respond, the sound of footsteps echoed from the hallway behind them.
“Looks like we’ve got company,” she said, drawing her weapon.
The ambush was swift and brutal.
Harris and Vega took cover behind the table as bullets tore through the room, shattering glass and sending papers flying.
Vega ducked behind the table as a bullet splintered the wood near her head. Her breath came in sharp gasps as another shadow moved closer. She fired blindly, her fingers trembling around the trigger. “Harris! A little help?”
“I’m working on it!” he shouted, kicking over a shelf to block their pursuers. A bullet grazed his shoulder, but he didn’t stop moving.
“Great plan, Harris!” Vega shouted over the chaos. “Really loving the simplicity!”
“Not the time!” he snapped, returning fire.
The attackers were shadows in the doorway, their faces obscured by ski masks. Harris counted three, but more could be lurking.
Vega moved with precision, her shots forcing the attackers to retreat momentarily. “We need to move!” She swore as another shadow flanked their position, forcing her to split her fire. “They’re circling us!” she shouted.
Harris shoved a metal shelf down, blocking the path. “Move now, or we’re pinned!” Then, grabbing the nearest box of documents, he shouted, “Cover me!”
Vega fired a volley of shots, giving Harris enough time to reach the exit. They bolted down the hallway, their footsteps pounding against the stone floor.
By the time they reached the car, Vega was bleeding from a shallow graze on her arm, and Harris’s adrenaline was running thin.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice tight.
“Peachy,” Vega muttered, tearing a strip from her sleeve to staunch the bleeding. “Please tell me you grabbed something useful.”
Harris held up the box. “We’ll find out.”
Vega glared at him. “You better hope this was worth it.”
The car ride back was silent, save for the hum of the heater. Vega stared out the window, her bandaged arm resting on her lap. Harris gripped the wheel, his knuckles white.
“That was close,” Vega said finally, her voice quieter than usual.
Harris nodded. “Too close.” He glanced at her. “You good?”
Vega hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. You?”
“No,” Harris said simply, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
The station felt colder than usual. Vega cradled a lukewarm coffee in one hand, her bandaged arm resting on the desk. “So, what’s in the box?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
Harris’s fingers brushed over the documents, his eyes scanning line after line. “Answers. Maybe.”
“Answers are good,” she muttered, her tone heavy with doubt. “If we live long enough to use them.”
The documents they recovered painted a damning picture. The Concord wasn’t just a relic of the past—it was still alive, its network spanning powerful figures across industries.
“The Concord,” Harris murmured, the name feeling foreign and bitter on his tongue. “They were untouchable—a shadow pulling strings everywhere.” He shook his head, staring at the papers in disbelief. “I thought we buried this a decade ago.”
Harris’s mind flickered to late nights in the precinct, Aldridge’s calm voice walking him through his first major case. A mentor, a friend—or so he’d thought. The bitterness now felt like a knife between his ribs.
“Looks like they didn’t stay buried,” Vega said, her voice low. “So what now?”
“Now?” Harris echoed, his voice distant. He set the paper down, his hands trembling just slightly. “Now we find out how deep this goes—and who’s next.” His jaw tightened as he added, almost to himself, “Before it’s us.”
At the center of it all was a name that stopped Harris cold.
“It can’t be,” he whispered, staring at the page.
Vega leaned over his shoulder, her eyes widening as she read the name: J.J. Aldridge.
“Your old captain?” she asked, her voice sharp.
Harris nodded, his mind reeling. Aldridge had retired years ago, leaving the force with an untarnished record and a reputation for integrity.
But the evidence said otherwise.
“This is big, Harris,” Vega said, her voice low. “If Aldridge is involved, this goes higher than we thought.”
Harris set the papers down, his jaw tightening. “We’re not done yet.”
“Not even close,” Vega agreed.
The Concord wasn’t just a shadow anymore—it was a storm creeping closer, and Vega and Harris were standing in its path.
***
The precinct was unusually quiet, the hum of computers and occasional phone calls a weak imitation of its usual buzz. Harris and Vega were sorting through scattered pieces of evidence when the phone rang, its shrill tone breaking the silence.
The caller’s voice was tense, delivering the news quickly: Alan Drury, the editor of the city’s daily paper, The Vein, had been found dead in his home. Another brutal crime scene. Another cryptic message. This time, it read: “YOU TALKED.”
When they arrived at Drury’s apartment, the scene was eerily familiar. Drury’s lifeless body lay sprawled across his office floor, his fingers inches from his phone. Blood soaked the carpet, pooling beneath shards of a shattered glass paperweight. The glow of a half-written article still lit the room, the words on the screen casting an eerie light.
Vega stared at the screen, her jaw tightening. “He was trying to blow the whistle.”
“Looks like someone blew it for him,” Harris said grimly, scanning the room.
His eyes landed on a USB drive half-hidden under a pile of scattered papers. Picking it up carefully, he turned it over in his hand. “This might be what they didn’t want him to share.”
Harris snapped a photo of a nearby whiteboard cluttered with scribbled notes—names, dates, and connections branching out like a spiderweb. Vega leaned closer, tracing a name with her gloved finger. “J.J Aldridge,” she murmured, her voice sharp. Her gaze flicked to Harris. “Your mentor’s name keeps popping up, Harris. Coincidence?”
Harris didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he pocketed the USB drive and gestured to the whiteboard. “We’re taking this back to the precinct.”
Back at the station, Vega worked silently, scrolling through encrypted files while Harris paced the room. Every so often, she glanced at him, noting the tightness in his shoulders, the tension in his jaw.
“Spill it,” she said finally.
Harris stopped mid-step, his back to her. “Spill what?”
“Whatever’s eating you alive,” Vega said, leaning back in her chair. “You’ve been chewing on it all day, and it’s not helping.”
He turned slowly, his eyes sharp. “You really want to know?”
She crossed her arms. “Yeah. Lay it on me.”
He hesitated, then spoke, his voice low. “Aldridge was like a father to me. He taught me everything I know. And now…” He gestured vaguely toward the evidence board. “Now he’s at the center of this.”
Vega’s gaze softened. “You think he’s pulling the strings?”
“I don’t know,” Harris admitted. “But the man I knew wouldn’t have let this happen.”
“People change,” Vega said quietly. Her voice carried a weight she didn’t elaborate on.
The USB drive finally yielded results, revealing a trove of documents: bank records, offshore accounts, and photos of high-profile figures at lavish events. Among the names was J.J. Aldridge.
“Here we go,” Vega said, her tone grim.
Harris leaned over her shoulder, his breath catching as he scanned the files. “This is bigger than I thought.”
One document caught his eye—a schedule for a charity gala. The names listed were a who’s-who of the city’s elite, including Aldridge.
“Guess where we’re going next,” Harris said, grabbing his coat.
Vega followed, slipping a sleek pistol into her holster. “Please tell me it involves an open bar.”
The gala was a glittering affair held in a historic ballroom downtown. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over the crowd, and a string quartet played softly in the corner. Harris and Vega entered separately, blending into the sea of suits and gowns.
Harris adjusted his tie, his sharp suit a stark contrast to his usual rugged look. He scanned the room, his eyes landing on Aldridge near the bar, chatting with a senator.
Vega’s voice crackled in his earpiece. “I see him. Twelve o’clock, by the bourbon.”
“Stay close,” Harris muttered. “But not too close.”
Vega snorted softly. “Relax, Dad. I’ve done this before.”
As the night wore on, they moved carefully, eavesdropping on conversations and watching Aldridge’s every move. They overheard fragments of discussions: mentions of “leaks,” “loose ends,” and “a reckoning.”
Harris’s stomach churned. The stakes were higher than he’d imagined.
Vega turned a corner, her heart pounding as she spotted Aldridge stepping into a private room with two men. She pressed a finger to her earpiece. “He’s on the move. Back hallway, second door.”
“Wait for me,” Harris replied, already cutting through the crowd.
Before Vega could respond, the door swung shut behind Aldridge. She moved quickly, her hand on her weapon as she reached the door.
It creaked open under her touch.
Inside, Aldridge stood at a table covered in documents. He didn’t flinch at the sound of the door or even glance up immediately. He finished writing something in bold, deliberate strokes before turning to face her.
“Detective Vega,” he said, his voice calm, his expression unreadable. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”
Vega froze, her grip tightening on her weapon. Her heart pounded, but she kept her voice steady. “Step away from the table.”
Aldridge smiled faintly, not moving. “You have no idea what you’re stepping into.”
Behind her, the door slammed shut.
Who’s pulling the strings, and how far will they go to silence the truth? Don’t miss Part 3 of Shards of Truth: The Concord Conspiracy—coming soon, only on PodiumExpress.com!
