Calling all units.

  Calling all units.

  I need every available officer on Birch Street.

  Now.

  The room froze with flickering screens and hissing radios.

  Cannon stepped in, jacket half-on, eyes sharp.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  The girl in the chair barely looked up. The IT tech. Fingers hovering over keys.

  “Something just happened, Lieutenant. Detective Hayes sent a distress call from Birch Street. Dean went missing. His mic was cut out.”

  Cannon frowned.

  “Play it.”

  The footage rolled.

  Dean’s car slowed. He tailed Jackson to the saloon. Parked. Went inside. Came back out. Made a call.

  Static swallowed the screen.

  When the picture returned, the street was empty. No Dean. No Jackson. No movement. Just quiet.

  Cannon exhaled through his nose.

  Hayes on the other hand, didn’t wait for backup.

  She drove straight to Birch Street, tires screaming once before she killed the engine. Units sealed the road. Red and blue lights washed the buildings clean.

  "Text me the address,” Cannon said.

  He arrived minutes later.

  Hayes stood in the middle of the street, scanning shadows, trying to read absence like evidence.

  “Detective,” Cannon said.

  She didn’t look at him.

  “I don’t need you on this case.”

  He stepped closer.

  “Do I need to remind you the captain called me?”

  She finally turned. Her face was calm. Too calm.

  “This isn’t our usual pattern.”

  Cannon glanced around.

  “It looks the same to me.”

  “No.” She crouched, ran a gloved hand over the pavement. “It’s too clean. Whoever did this doesn’t erase themselves like this. And there’s a scent.”

  Cannon blinked.

  “A scent?”

  She looked up at him.

  “And you call yourself a detective.”

  He raised his hands slightly.

  “Didn’t expect that.”

  They moved again. Slow. Methodical.

  Then Hayes stopped.

  Something lay near the curb.

  She knelt and picked it up.

  Dean’s phone.

  Cannon squinted.

  “It’s locked,” he added. “Password protected.”

  Hayes didn’t answer. She typed.

  The phone unlocked.

  Cannon stared at the screen, then at her.

  “How did you know his password?”

  She slipped the phone into an evidence bag.

  “Dean never shuts up about his wife. Birthday. Easy.”

  Cannon shook his head, almost smiling.

  “You know your partner that well?”

  Hayes straightened.

  “Yes. I do.”

  Cannon lowered his voice.

  “You know what this means. You prepare for the worst. If this thing is baiting us, pulling us off course, you know how that ends.”

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Hayes faced him fully.

  “You’re asking me to accept that my partner might be dead?”

  “I’m asking you to remember the job,” he said. “You know the risks.”

  She nodded once.

  “I know the risks. I don’t know surrender.”

  Cannon watched her carefully.

  “You’re doing exactly what you did ten years ago. You need to step down.”

  “No.” Her answer was immediate. “I’m not leaving him out there.”

  She turned and walked away.

  Cannon stood there a moment. Then, quietly,

  “Fine. I’m in. Until we find him.”

  She didn’t look back.

  “Do whatever you want.”

  Dean’s phone gave them nothing. The screen was cracked. The data was corrupted. Hayes handed it off to IT with a single instruction. Salvage everything.

  They waited.

  Hayes grabbed her coat.

  “Where are you going?” Cannon asked.

  “To chase a lead,” she said. “Alone.”

  The mansion sat behind iron gates and old money.

  Hayes knocked.

  Jessie opened the door with a slow smile.

  “Detective. Twice in one week. Is this a subscription?”

  “Is Jackson home?”

  Jessie laughed softly.

  “That’s unhealthy. Dragging the police into his life like this.”

  “This is personal,” Hayes said.

  Jessie’s eyebrow lifted.

  “Personal. Like what?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Oh, no explanations needed.” Jessie turned. “Jackson, someone’s here for you.”

  Jackson appeared, relaxed, amused.

  “Detective. Did you come to recruit me?”

  “Where were you thirty minutes ago?”

  He sighed.

  “We’re doing this again?”

  “I don’t have time. You were with Detective Dean.”

  “I told him to go home.”

  “Do you know where he went?”

  Jackson’s smile thinned.

  “Did something happen?”

  “I’m connecting dots.”

  “If something did happen, I can help.”

  “You can help by answering the question.”

  “I went into the saloon. Why does it matter?”

  “Do you have an alibi?”

  He laughed once.

  “You tailed me and now you want an alibi?”

  Hayes straightened.

  “You’re the last person who saw him. I need your statement.”

  Her phone buzzed. She read the message and went still.

  “Scratch that,” she said, already turning. “I’ll be back.”

  She drove hard.

  The IT room buzzed with quiet urgency. Screens glowed. Files rebuilt themselves pixel by pixel.

  “What did you find?”

  They showed her the images.

  Accidental photos. Taken during the call. Blurred. Warped. The resolution torn apart.

  “What could do this?” Hayes asked.

  “High-tech optics,” the IT tech said. “Glasses maybe from whoever took him. We can reconstruct it, but it’ll take hours.”

  “We don’t have hours.”

  Cannon stepped in.

  “If Dean had the sense to leave this behind, he bought himself time. He’ll hold.”

  Hayes didn’t answer. She walked out.

  Back at her desk, the pattern emerged.

  Birch Street. 23rd Street.

  Every disappearance trapped between those lines.

  The creature never crossed them. Never wandered.

  It seemed like that was its territory.

  Hayes leaned back, staring at the map.

  A thought crossed her mind “If I found the hunter, I'd find the missing”.

  It wasn’t clean anymore. It was a boundary.

  And Dean was somewhere inside it.

  Hayes sat alone with the evidence spread across her desk.

  Lines. Times. Streets.

  Nothing fit.

  Then, her phone rang.

  She answered.

  “Hello, Detective. It’s been a while.”

  The voice again. Calm. Familiar in the worst way.

  “I thought you might need me,” it continued. “I’ve been listening. And it would seem we’re hunting the same people. That simplifies things. Don't you think so?”

  Her pulse jumped. She kept her tone level and tapped the speaker on. Cannon looked up. She met his eyes and tilted the phone slightly. He understood.

  “What information do you have?” she asked.

  A quiet chuckle.

  “They took your partner. Bad luck. Or maybe good timing. Either way, I can help you find him. If you help me.”

  “I don’t negotiate with terrorists.”

  “Do you really have a choice?” the voice said. “Your partner could be anywhere. Or nowhere! There’s a reason they took him instead of you and I know why.”

  Silence stretched.

  “You need me,” the voice said. “And I need you. Call it mutual survival.”

  Hayes exhaled.

  “All right. What do you offer?”

  “Trust,” it replied. “And you’ve already failed the first test. Your new partner is listening. Isn't he?”

  Her jaw tightened.

  “What do you want?”

  “Information. What do you know about the ones who took him?”

  “We're not sharing classified details.” Cannon interrupted.

  A pause.

  “Fair. Then here’s mine. They’re an organization. Old. Hidden. They call themselves The Order of Valkyrie. Do your homework. When you’re done, I’ll find you.”

  “How do I find you?” she snapped. “You’ve told me nothing about Dean.”

  “Funny,” the voice said. “A few days ago you wouldn’t work with me. Now look at us.”

  “When I get my partner back, I’m coming for you,” Hayes said

  “With that resolve,” it replied, “you’re doomed to repeat history.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. When I catch you, you’ll answer for everything.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  The line went dead.

  Cannon stared at her.

  “The Order of Valkyrie?”

  They dug through archives until dust coated their hands and time lost meaning.

  Then Hayes found it.

  An unsolved report from the year 1517. A figure with wings. Red eyes. Vanishing streets.

  She read it twice.

  “The same description,” she said quietly. “Five centuries ago.”

  Cannon scoffed.

  “You’re trusting a criminal now?”

  “Aren’t you the one who told me to think wider?” she said. “We’re short on allies. I’ll use anything to find Dean.”

  “You’re doing it again,” Cannon warned. “This gets people killed.”

  “If I don’t move," she said, standing, “Dean dies!”

  She left before he could answer.

  Outside, she opened her laptop.

  A search tab was already there.

  The Order of Valkyrie.

  Her stomach dropped.

  She had no memory of that search, but suddenly remembered when Jackson was leaning over her computer. The cuffs. The lie about the keys.

  Hayes closed the laptop and drove.

  The mansion was empty.Too quiet. Furniture untouched. No people.

  Kyle came down the stairs.

  “Where is everyone?” Hayes demanded.

  “Party’s over,” he said. “They went home.”

  “Jackson?”

  “He left. Same time you did.”

  “Where?”

  Kyle shrugged. Then smiled.

  “If you’re that desperate, I could give you his number.”

  “I’ll be back,” she said, already turning.

  Above, Isaac watched her disappear.

  “What did she want?” he asked when he appeared inside.

  “She’s after Jackson again,” Kyle said.

  Jessie leaned against the counter.

  “Third time this week. You sure he’s not causing trouble?”

  Kyle waved it off.

  “He’s changed.”

  Isaac’s gaze stayed distant.

  “Wings. Red eyes. Those don’t surface by coincidence. Something’s off. Call Jackson.”

  Elsewhere,

  Jackson walked alone.

  He stopped short when he saw her.

  “Valerie?” he said softly. “That’s not possible.”

  She blinked.

  “My name is Isabelle.”

  Confusion crossed his face.

  A voice called out.

  “Isabelle, who are you talking to?”

  She turned.

  “Just some guy.”

  When she looked back, the street was empty.

  Jackson was gone.

  She scanned the sidewalk, heart racing.

  “Where did he go?”