One month later… / Chicago Bus Terminal
The Chicago Bus Terminal buzzed with the constant flow of passengers, suitcases thudding against the pavement, loudspeaker announcements echoing overhead, and the smell of cheap coffee mixing with the diesel fumes of buses lined up for departure.
Ethan walked through the crowd with Juiet and Danny. The boy refused to let go of the baseball glove Ethan had given him weeks earlier, when he first picked him up from the government foster home.
The day before, Juiet had been released from rehab, and her counselor had advised her to change her environment. She'd contacted an aunt in Wyoming who agreed to take her in—a quiet rural place, a good setting for Danny.
When they reached the bus, Danny stepped up to Ethan with a sad expression.
—Uncle Morgan, if you get the chance, you have to come visit us —Danny said, turning toward him with a shy smile.
Ethan smiled back and crouched to his level.
—Of course I will, I promise. —he replied, ruffling the boy's hair— And don't forget to practice that curveball…
Danny nodded, hugging the glove tightly like it was treasure.
Ethan drew a slow breath, turned to Juiet, and spoke softly:
—I've got something for you.
He pulled a bank check from his pocket, holding it between two fingers before extending it toward her.
—The night I found you, I registered you as an informant with Chicago PD. "Silencer" had a standing reward for anyone who provided information leading to his capture. —Ethan said.
Juiet's eyes widened.
—How much…?
—A hundred thousand dollars. It'll help you start over. —he answered before she could panic or protest—
She swallowed hard. For weeks, he'd watched her struggle with having no money, no support, no stability of any kind. She'd even had to borrow just to buy the bus ticket.
—Ethan… no… I…
—It's fine —he said firmly, placing the check in her hands and closing her fingers around it— You and Danny have been through more than enough. You earned it. And it's department money, not mine.
She blinked quickly, trying to hide the tears threatening to spill.
—Thank you… —she whispered— Thank you for everything.
He nodded, and before he knew it, she hugged him. She held on a couple seconds longer than expected, as if she feared that letting go might make everything fall apart again.
Danny joined the hug, wrapping his thin arms around them both. Ethan gave them one last pat on the back.
—Take care. And call me when you get there.
Juiet nodded, took Danny's hand, and they headed toward the platform. Ethan watched them disappear into the crowd, illuminated by the blinking red lights at the rear of the bus.
Once they were out of sight, he lit a cigarette. The smoke drifted upward, mixing with Chicago's cold night air.
The silence around him broke when his phone started vibrating insistently. Ethan pulled it from his pocket and slid his finger across the screen when he saw the name.
—Hey, Linds…
—Hank wants to know if you're done with Julieta. You need to get here right now, we've got a priority case. —she said, her voice tense, no room for small talk— The address is 1364 N. Dearborn Street.
Ethan dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his boot.
—Alright, I'm on my way…
He hung up and walked out of the terminal with a steady stride, got into his car, and pulled away from the station. Following the GPS, Ethan disappeared into the Chicago night.
As the blue lights came into view in the distance, the Cadillac slowed and stopped beside the patrol unit. An officer immediately approached, signaling for him to move along, but Ethan switched on the interior lights to identify himself.
Dean Masters' Residence
Recognizing him, the officer stepped aside, allowing him through the crime-scene perimeter.
Ethan got out, opened the trunk, and grabbed his vest. He slipped it on without rushing, adjusting the straps as he walked toward Hank, who was speaking with a captain from another precinct.
—The house is registered to a Dean Masters —the captain explained. His patrol uniform was immaculate, distinguished only by the emblems on his sleeves—. Neighbors heard a woman screaming and called 911. Two of my guys went to check, but when they knocked to ask a few questions, the people inside said they were armed… and told us to get lost.
Ethan stopped adjusting his vest and looked at Erin, standing beside Hank, confusion in her expression:
—Why call us for a domestic situation? This doesn't look like an Intelligence case.
Normally, his team handled gangs, drug trafficking, or high-profile cases—not domestic disputes.
—Masters is flagged in our system. If he pops up in anything—anything at all—we get notified. —Hank said, stepping beside him— He's our prime suspect in the art museum heist last year, but we still haven't found a single piece of evidence tying him to it.
—N-no… AAAAAAH—ieeeEEEH! —A guttural scream erupted from inside the house, making all of them tense.
—Let's move. We're going in.
Ethan grabbed the breaching ram from Erin's hand. Everyone except Halstead—still recovering after trying to return to duty too soon—ran up the stairs to the third floor.
Bang, bang, bang!
Hank pounded on the door:
—Masters, this is Sergeant Voight with the Chicago Police Department. Open up and make this easier on all of us.
—No! He's gonna kill me! —a terrified cry came from inside.
— Stay back or I'll kill this bitch. Get out of here—this is your last warning.
The men exchanged looks, and Hank gave a decisive hand signal. Everyone positioned themselves on either side of the door in case Masters decided to fire.
Ethan grabbed both handles of the battering ram and lifted his arms, waiting for Hank's signal. He began a silent countdown… 1… 2… 3… Boom!
The ram smashed into the lock and the door burst open.
— Don't move! Drop the weapon! —Hank shouted as he stepped inside the apartment.
The whole team rushed in, warnings echoing behind them. Ethan tossed the ram aside, drew his 9mm, and moved in behind Lindsay.
In the living room, a white man with a black eye had an Asian woman held hostage. She wore only her underwear, and he kept her pinned by the neck with one arm while pressing a gun to her head.
On the table in front of them sat a large glass plate piled with what must've been half a kilo of cocaine. Next to it—foil wraps and pills scattered everywhere.
— Stay back. I told you if you get any closer, I'll kill her —Masters screeched, tightening his grip on the woman's neck and pressing the gun harder against her temple.
— P-please… please, don't hurt me! —she sobbed, trembling— I don't know anything… I swear, I swear to God!
— Shut up! —Masters barked— I've got information… I've got info about a deal going down, and that's why you're setting me up!
Erin stepped forward slowly, hands raised, her voice firm but steady.
She took a breath, trying to keep him talking.
—And that's why you think they're setting you up, right?
Masters let out a shaky, nervous laugh.
—Yeah! I've got information, you hear me? And I'm screwed. I'm dead anyway.
His behavior was growing more erratic, making everyone tense.
A heavy silence settled for a moment.
—We can help you… but first you need to let her go. There's no reason for this.
The woman sobbed harder, barely able to stand.
—Come on —Erin said gently, extending her hand a little— Give her to me… come on, hand her over.
Masters shook his head violently, paranoia consuming what little reason he had left.
—No! No! If I let her go… I've got nothing. Nothing!
The woman let out another broken, desperate scream, making everyone hold their breath.
— Please, please, save me! —the short-haired Asian woman cried frantically, tears streaming down her face— Please, I don't want to die!
Masters ignored her entirely and screamed at his hostage instead.
He grabbed her by the hair, shoved the gun against her neck, and pressed down hard, on the verge of firing.
— Die, you filthy bitch!
Bang!
A sudden gunshot cracked through the room.
Masters' head exploded instantly, spraying blood across the curtains in a violent burst.
Everything froze for a heartbeat. Two seconds later, the screams followed. The Asian woman pushed the corpse away and scrambled into a corner.
—Hey, why'd you shoot? —Erin snapped as she approached him— We didn't get any information out of him. I'm sure I could've talked him down.
—You're kidding, right? —Ethan holstered his weapon— Look at the table. The guy was completely gone. What exactly were you going to get out of him? All you would've done is get both of you killed.
Erin fell silent, throwing her hands up in frustration.
—And what if you'd hit her by accident?
—I had a clean shot. If I'd hesitated, they'd both be dead.
The danger had passed, and patrol officers entered one after another, beginning to search the apartment.
Across the room, the captain from the 14th District walked up to Hank and nodded toward Ethan.
—Was he the one who fired?
—Yeah. Masters was too wired to reason. —Hank replied quietly— He did exactly what he was supposed to do.
The captain asked with interest:
—Is he the same guy from the Bus Terminal shooting? The one with that Colombian dealer?
—Yeah. How'd you know?
—Well, he was pretty famous for a couple of weeks… everyone talked about it. —the tall, heavyset captain said, giving Ethan a pat on the shoulder— If he ever gets tired of you, I can find him a spot in the 14th.
Ethan spoke briefly with the woman and noticed she kept staring at Masters' body, so he guided her to the sofa on the other side of the room.
Erin walked toward Ethan slowly, still taking deep breaths to settle the last remnants of adrenaline. In her hands she carried the woman's coat, which she had picked up from the floor among the blood and dust.
She held it out gently.
—Here… I found this —she murmured, avoiding his eyes for a moment.
Ethan took the coat, but his gaze never left her.
Erin finally looked up, shoulders tense, her voice softer than usual.
—Hey… —she sighed— I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled earlier.
A short silence between them.
—It's alright —he said quietly, sincere—
They'd been seeing each other a little over a month. Nothing official. Just a few dates, constant messages, and that strange—but good—feeling that things were falling into place on their own.
But work… work was different. There, they didn't get to take things slow. And scenes like this only reminded them that even if they cared about each other, they had very different ways of reacting under pressure.
Ethan wrapped the coat around the still-shaking Asian woman.
—Can you tell me what happened? —he crouched again— You're safe now. There's nothing to be afraid of.
The woman swallowed, still trembling.
—I… I don't really know. After he did a few lines of coke, he lost it. He kept yelling that people were coming for him, that they were going to take him out. Then he pulled a gun and pointed it everywhere. I got scared and tried to slip away. You know the rest, detective.
Footsteps approached behind them and two paramedics walked over.
—We need to take her to the hospital for evaluation.
—Alright.
In her mental state, they wouldn't get anything useful yet. The woman nodded, adjusted the coat, and followed the paramedics. They'd speak to her again tomorrow at the hospital.
Ethan stood and checked the notes on his report.
Hank and Antonio approached.
—What'd she say?
—Looks like our art thief was in trouble —Ethan replied, tapping the notebook— Whatever it was, it was something that could've gotten him killed. But given her condition, I doubt she can give us anything solid.
—Figures —Antonio said, eyeing the drugs on the table—
The next morning, in the Intelligence bullpen,
Hank pulled the whiteboard from the corner and pinned a lone photograph to it.
He flicked open a marker and wrote a name:
—Dean Masters —he explained— I've dealt with this guy before. He was a gifted promotional artist once—real talent—but his ego got the better of him. He couldn't keep it together. Stopped working, stopped selling… and you can guess the rest: professional scammer, art thief, forger—documents, paintings, identities, the whole package.
—So how does he tie into our Intelligence cases? —Antonio asked, spreading his hands— Last night you said he was involved in the Art Institute robbery.
—A Gustav Klimt painting was stolen —Hank said gruffly— We know it was him and a few accomplices, but we never found a new lead. The painting was never recovered, and the case was shelved.
—Which one? —Erin asked, frowning.
— Portrait of a Lady with a Tall Hat —Ethan replied, looking through the printed case photos— The piece was insured for over two million.
—We're going after the stolen painting? —Antonio spun his pen— It's been a year. Not much hope there.
—Yeah, I think so too —Hank nodded— He probably sold it to a private collector by now.
—However —Hank continued, shifting the focus— last night, he was terrified… and I think the fear was real. Someone might've actually been trying to get rid of him. We should follow that angle.
While they spoke, Alvin escorted the woman from the night before—Gisella Young—up the stairs. She wore a black leather jacket over a short skirt, massive earrings, and a bandage across her nose, the center still swollen and stained with red.
—Erin, take care of her. Find out everything she knows about Masters. I'm sure it wasn't the first time he hired her services. —Hank turned back to the board—
—Come on, I'll help you.
But Ethan stood up and walked with Erin toward the interrogation room.
Erin looked at Hank, and he nodded back.
Ethan stepped forward and, with a calm smile, offered his hand to the nervous-looking young woman.
—Hi, I'm Detective Ethan Morgan. You can call me Ethan.
Erin, beside him, nodded politely. The woman hesitated for a second, then shook his hand.
—M-my name is Melissa Carter —she said.
Erin offered her a warm look.
—Melissa, thanks for coming. Come in, have a seat.
The interview room didn't have traditional tea, but Ethan showed up with two cups of coffee he had prepared a moment earlier. He set them on the table.
Melissa looked at them in surprise.
—Thank you… —she said, taking the cup and trying to steady her breathing.
Ethan sat across from her and asked gently:
—How are you feeling?
—Better… thanks —she admitted, taking a sip—. I still can't believe what happened. And… thank you for saving me last night.
—We were just doing our job —Ethan replied sincerely.
She took a deep breath before continuing.
Erin exchanged a quick glance with Ethan, then leaned forward.
—Melissa, we need to know what you remember from last night, starting from the moment you arrived at Masters' apartment —Erin said.
Melissa hesitated a few seconds. When she finally spoke, her voice trembled.
—I met him last night. I'd never seen him before.
Just remembering it made her face fall apart. Tears began to stream down her cheeks. Ethan handed her a tissue without saying a word.
She breathed shakily.
—I'm a professional esthetician. I worked at a spa in River North. But the pay was so low I could barely afford the room I live in… A week ago I agreed to do private appointments. Last night was only my third time.
Ethan and Erin stayed quiet, letting her talk at her own pace.
When Melissa finally calmed down, Ethan asked:
—Why do you think Masters insisted that you were trying to set him up? We know you realized he was acting strange and tried to leave.
Melissa shook her head slowly.
—I don't know… he was paranoid. From the moment I got there he was angry that I wasn't the girl he had asked for.
Erin frowned, catching the clue.
—You're saying he was expecting someone else?
—A… "playmate," I think that's what they call them —Melissa said, forcing the words out—. Yes. Her name is Nadia. He asked about her.
Ethan nodded, adding:
—Melissa, we need you to write down the address of the spa where you worked and anything you know about the agency or whoever coordinated these appointments. It's important.
She hesitated, then took the notebook and wrote down what she knew.
After what happened last night, she was planning to quit anyway.
Once they made sure she hadn't missed anything, Ethan walked her to the door and handed her his card:
—If you remember anything else, call me.
As Melissa walked away, Ethan shook his head and was about to turn around when a patrol car pulled up beside him.
Atwater and Burgess got out looking frustrated—clearly, their day wasn't going well.
—Hey, guys, what's wrong? —Ethan greeted them— Why the long faces?
—See this? —Burgess said, brushing garbage out of her hair— Someone threw a trash can at us from an overpass while we were ticketing a driver.
Atwater scoffed, like he could still smell it.
—And then we got a call about a patient who escaped from a psych ward. The guy was running completely naked down the street and almost jumped from a second-floor window because he thought we were aliens.
Burgess nodded grimly.
—And during the chase, I stepped in wet cement. I've got cement crumbs living in my socks now.
Ethan looked at them and couldn't help stifling a laugh.
—And that's not even the worst part —Atwater kept going—. Then we answered a call for "strange noises." Turns out a neighbor has a raccoon that learned how to open cereal boxes. When we went inside, it attacked me like some kind of furry ninja. I had to go to urgent care to get a rabies shot.
—Wow, you really have had a bad day.
—Tell me about it, detective.
A patrol officer's day was like that: not always emotional—sometimes just nasty and bizarre.
—Detective, don't you have some kind of intelligence assignment? —Burgess bumped him with that flirty smile of hers— You know… to motivate us.
After the nudge, Ethan understood exactly what she meant and smiled instantly.
The two patrol officers straightened up immediately, like they had just been hit by lightning.
—Sorry, guys. No major operations for now. But if something comes up, I'll make sure the sergeant calls you first…
—Oh… too bad —one muttered, shoulders slumping.
—Yeah, I know —Ethan said, clipping his keys onto his belt—. But hey, cheer up. The worst of your shift is probably over… Just remember one thing: don't piss off Platt.
—We'll try —they said in unison, though neither sounded very convinced.
Back on the second floor, Ethan gathered everyone with a quick call and walked to the board. Before starting, he stepped to the office window, tapped the glass lightly, and motioned for Hank to rejoin the team.
—Where's Olinsky? —he twisted the cap of his pen, looking around.
In the bullpen, only Antonio, Erin, and Rusek were there.
—He had personal matters and went home —Antonio replied.
Hank stepped out of the office, his voice rough.
—Don't worry about him. What did that girl tell you?
—Alright —Ethan drew an arrow beside the photo of the man he'd shot the night before and wrote a name— Our art thief was waiting for another girl. Her name is Nadia, but for some reason she didn't show up.
—We think because Nadia never arrived, Masters went into psychosis from the amount of drugs he'd taken… and, well, we know how that ended —Erin added, finishing the explanation—. But Melissa had just joined the agency, so she didn't know her.
—Did she give you anything about the agency?
—Just a name. Her boss is Adam Masur. He runs a strip club, apparently underground. He must know how to contact this Nadia. If we find Masur, we find Nadia —Ethan concluded.
—Alright —Hank nodded and sat at the table—. Looks like the only person who can give us a lead now is that girl.
Hank looked at Ethan and continued, but before he could finish, Antonio raised a hand, laughing confidently.
—Leave it to me. I've got this. This guy was an old acquaintance back when I was on patrol. We used to call him Rat Pimp because he always found a way to slip through our fingers.
He pulled out his phone, scrolled through his contacts, and clicked his tongue.
—Tracking him is easy. I just need to make a couple of calls to some old friends.
—Perfect —Hank stood—. Get ready. Erin, stay here and dig up everything you can on Masur.
Twenty minutes later, on a side street, Antonio bumped fists with an undercover agent in a complicated greeting. They exchanged a few quick words before the agent returned to his car and drove off.
On the way back, Antonio pointed discreetly toward the opposite sidewalk.
Ethan and Rusek followed his gesture. At the entrance of an alley, there was a tall iron gate with a small red light glowing even in daylight.
Ethan understood immediately. His lips curved slightly, adrenaline sparking in his chest. The decision weighed in his mind: call for backup and stage a formal raid, or kick the door in himself?
Antonio talked to Hank over the radio from the lead van, then pressed his mic.
—Ethan, you and Rusek go in first.
—Copy.
Ethan opened the car door and adjusted his jacket. He crossed the street with Rusek right behind him. The iron gate was slightly open. A camera watched them from above. Ethan looked at it, smiled, and pushed the door.
The alley was a mess: puddles of black water, torn trash bags, overflowing bins, and rats sprinting between shadows.
—Why choose a place like this? —Rusek muttered, grimacing—. Who comes willingly to a dump like this?
—Maybe there's a surprise inside —Ethan replied, giving him a pat on the neck—. Beauty hidden in filth… that's the charm of alleyways.
—Sure… —Rusek rolled his eyes.
Unfortunately for him, Ethan was right.
At the end of the alley, a black-painted wooden door, marked with another small red light, signaled the real entrance. Ethan opened it confidently, and they stepped inside.
Two tattooed men sat near the door, acting as guards. The bald, bulky one greeted them with a bored yawn.
—Membership number —he said, without looking up.
—Nine, nine, five, two, seven —Ethan replied. Then he lifted his shirt, showed his badge, and recited his officer ID.
He stepped forward, arm extended.
—And if either of you touches that alarm button, I swear I'm keeping the hand that does it. Want to bet?
The bald man looked at Ethan's hand resting on the grip of his pistol. He hesitated… then slowly lifted his hands away from the table and set them on his head.
—Cuff them —Ethan ordered.
Rusek moved quickly, securing both men.
Ethan pressed the mic on his collar and checked the security monitor.
—We're good. You can come in.
Seconds later, Hank and Antonio appeared on the screen, moving fast.
—Good work —Antonio gestured—. Keep going.
Rusek lifted a thick curtain, sound-proofed. Behind it, lively music filled the hallway, mixed with low-colored lights.
The place looked like a private club. Even in the middle of the day, seven or eight customers were drinking beer at scattered tables. Several women in revealing outfits wandered around looking bored.
Hank raised his badge.
—Chicago Police! Nobody move. Hands where I can see them.
The announcement had the opposite effect. Several customers jumped up nervously, scrambling to run.
Then a bald man in a cheap two-piece suit tried to slip away among them, but he didn't get far.
—Boom!
Ethan slammed him into the wall with the force of a freight train. He pulled out his cuffs and locked the man in place before he could react.
—I think you understand the language —Ethan said, pressing the man's head against the wall—. Or should I repeat it slower?
—Y-yes… yes… I understand! —the man groaned, wincing—. Please… ease up…