On the fifth floor of the Plaza Hotel.
A few meters away, Jeffrey Baker appeared at the end of the hallway.
He walked quickly, without stopping, until he reached the door to Neil Vance's room.
Antonio held his breath.
Baker raised his hand and knocked. Once. Twice.
Nothing.
He knocked again, this time harder.
—Damn it… —Baker muttered, leaning toward the peephole as if he could see through it.
Antonio carefully activated his microphone.
—He's at Vance's room —he whispered—. He just knocked.
A few seconds passed in silence.
Suddenly, Baker turned his head.
His eyes met Antonio's through the reflection in the hallway mirror.
He understood instantly.
The calm expression on Baker's face vanished. He took a step back… then another.
—He saw me —Antonio said urgently.
Baker didn't hesitate. He turned and took off running down the hallway.
—He's heading for the elevator! —Antonio shouted as he chased him—. I repeat, Baker is fleeing toward the elevator.
The metal doors were already closing when Baker lunged forward and desperately pressed the button.
Antonio ran, but it was already too late.
The doors slammed shut.
—He got into the elevator —Antonio said between breaths—. He's going down.
In the earpiece, Hank's voice was tense and firm.
—Copy that. All units, move. We're making the arrest.
Antonio cursed under his breath, urgency bleeding into his voice.
—Get out of the way! —someone shouted from the crowd.
Ethan shrugged off his coat, drew his weapon, and ran toward the elevators.
—Chicago Police! —he commanded firmly—. Don't run. Stay where you are!
If not for that warning, panic would have erupted in the lobby.
Erin ran behind him, flashed her badge, and cleared the area, pushing bystanders back. No one knew whether Baker was armed. Meanwhile, Olinsky and Rusek sprinted up the fire stairs, anticipating a possible escape on another floor.
The elevator numbers kept ticking down.
Ethan and Erin took positions on either side of the doors, weapons raised, holding their breath.
Ding.
The doors opened slowly.
Jeffrey Baker stood in front of them.
He was no longer the calm, confident man he used to be. His face was tense, his eyes restless.
—Don't shoot! —he blurted out immediately, raising his hands when he saw the guns trained on him.
—Mr. Baker —Ethan said coldly—
Ethan holstered his weapon, pulled him out of the elevator, slammed him against the wall, and cuffed him quickly before frisking him.
—I was just… taking a walk —Baker stammered—. I don't know what you're talking about. I was going back to my room, but I forgot something in my taxi.
The pat-down was quick. Just a wallet and a cellphone. No weapon.
Hank stepped closer and stared him down.
—Where is Neil Vance? —he asked, narrowing his eyes.
—I have no idea who Vance is —Baker replied, licking his lips—. I want a lawyer.
In the lobby, several people watched the scene with curiosity. Some even raised their phones to record.
—Get him out of here first —Hank ordered—. This is not the place.
Ethan grabbed Baker by the collar and dragged him out of the hotel without ceremony.
Back at the precinct, Ethan shoved Baker into the interrogation room and returned to the main floor.
Intelligence Unit.
Everyone gathered in front of the board, analyzing the photographs and connections.
—Now we can confirm one thing —Hank said, pointing at Ethan—. It looks like your assumption was right. Baker and Vance were working together.
Rollins nodded slowly, as if fitting the pieces together in her head before speaking. She stepped closer to the board and pointed at the photos.
—When two people commit violent crimes together, they're rarely equals —she began—. There's always a hierarchy. One leads, the other follows.
She pointed to Baker's photo.
—The dominant one usually shows sadistic traits or, at the very least, an intense need for control. He doesn't act on impulse: he plans, organizes, decides when and how. His motivation is clear, almost ideological. He needs to feel superior.
Then she moved her finger to Vance's photo.
—The second profile is different. Submissive. Insecure. Emotionally dependent. He doesn't initiate. He reacts. He needs instructions, approval… someone to tell him what to do and when to do it.
Rollins continued, her eyes never leaving the board.
—This kind of bond is never balanced. The follower justifies everything: the violence, the risk, even failure. He believes that without the leader, he is nothing.
Erin crossed her arms, thoughtful.
—If that's the case, then Baker is the one pulling the strings.
—Exactly —Odafin nodded—. And that tells us something crucial.
Rollins picked up the thread again.
—If Baker is the dominant one, then he's also the gatekeeper of information. He decides when to move, when to hide… and he's the only one who knows where Vance might be right now. As far as we know, Vance doesn't know where he is either—he was at the hotel looking for him.
Hank scanned the room.
—The answers are with Baker —Rollins concluded—. We just need to apply pressure in the right place to break the bond. And when that happens, the follower won't last long.
—We just have to make him talk —Hank said.
—It won't be easy. He's been asking for a lawyer the whole time. He knows how to behave, and he's prepared.
—Let him suffer a little —Hank said—. Rusek, Burgess, take him to the cage.
—Yes, sir —Rusek replied, exchanging a look with Burgess before heading toward the interrogation area.
Antonio and Erin silently studied the photographs on the board. It looked like they wanted to say something, but in the end they simply returned to their seats.
Odafin looked around, confused.
—What is "the cage"? —he asked Ethan quietly.
Under the curious looks of Rollins and Odafin, Ethan smiled calmly.
Hank left the office and walked over to Ethan's desk.
—So… is it time to talk to Baker?
Baker had been in the cage for over half an hour.
The idea was simple. The iron cage was located in the intelligence garage, and with the cold battering Chicago that night, all it took was leaving the bay door open and letting winter do the rest.
They weren't trying to torture him. Just… cool his head a bit.
A negligence that would be hard to prove.
—Sure —Ethan replied.
He stretched slowly and stood up, as if he were in no hurry. He knew well the original purpose of that cage: temporary containment, deterrence, a silent warning to those who thought they could manipulate the system.
From the upper hallway, Odafin and Rollins exchanged a brief glance; no words were needed to understand what was about to happen.
Both knew the Intelligence Unit was not known for its delicacy. Even so, neither of them expected things to go this far. This bordered on dangerous recklessness… even by Chicago standards.
The metallic echo of Ethan's and Hank's footsteps as they descended toward the garage reverberated through the structure.
Down below, the cold was already doing its work.
The garage. The iron cage.
Jeffrey Baker was inside, expressionless, watching Rusek and Burgess.
The rear garage door opened and Hank and Ethan entered unhurriedly, letting the cold rush in behind them. The door to the tech room remained closed; on the other side, Jin, wearing his headset, slowly shook his head, indicating everything was being monitored.
Hank put on his gloves with deliberate calm.
—You know, Mr. Baker, we've been working with two detectives from New York. Very good at what they do —he said, almost casually—. So good that they reconstructed your criminal patterns with impressive precision. In less than a day, they uncovered your little dirty game.
He stopped in front of the cage.
Baker looked up, cautious, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
—Really? —he asked, as if he didn't care—. I have no idea what you're talking about.
But the slight tremor in his voice betrayed him. For the first time, Baker's professional smile faded.
—You already know who was planning the murders of those poor girls —Hank continued, stepping closer and pointing at him—. It was you. You manipulated Neil Vance into doing all the dirty work while you watched like a damn psychopath.
—I'm not going to waste my time with you. I want to call a lawyer —Baker replied, enunciating every word.
Ethan also put on his gloves and gave Burgess a firm pat on the shoulder.
—That's all for today —he said calmly—. Good job. Go let Platt know your task is finished.
—All right! —Burgess replied immediately.
She wasn't stupid. Something in the air told her this wasn't the moment to ask questions. She nodded once more and almost ran out through the back door.
Then Ethan turned to the rest of the group.
—You too —he added—. It's better if you're not here for this.
His gaze settled on Rusek.
Rusek hesitated. He knew exactly what was about to happen. He didn't try to stop them; in fact, part of him wanted to stay, to see how far they would go… to feel it up close.
—This is none of your business! —Hank growled, losing his patience.
—All right —Rusek replied after a second.
He said nothing more. He turned around and walked away.
Bang!
The door at the top of the stairs slammed shut.
The garage fell silent.
—What… what are you going to do? —Baker asked, his eyes wide with panic.
The iron cage door was still open.
Hank stepped forward and shut it completely. The metal screeched as it moved. Baker pressed his lips together and lifted his chin, feigning defiance.
—I love that look —Hank said, tapping his nose—. You're not so brave now, are you?
—I want a lawyer.
Slap!
The slap echoed through the garage.
—Where is Vance? —Hank asked calmly.
—I have rights… you can't do this —Baker spat, his cheek burning.
Slap!
Another blow. Baker's head snapped to the side, and his once-perfect blond hair fell completely out of place.
—You're an animal! —he shouted.
Hank grabbed his face roughly and squeezed his cheeks.
—Don't lecture me about human rights.
—I need a lawyer! —Baker stammered, his vision blurring—.
—It's my right—
—I gave you a chance —Hank cut him off.
Then Ethan spoke from the entrance, wearing a calm smile.
—And you didn't take it.
He moved forward in quick steps, jumped, and landed on the bench in front of Baker. In one smooth motion, he planted one hand on Baker's back and, with the other, grabbed the cuffs, yanking them hard until they tightened painfully against his arms.
—Ahhh! —Baker screamed, breaking for the first time.
The echo of his voice was swallowed by iron and concrete.
And the Chicago winter kept pouring in through the open garage door.
Baker lunged forward with a strangled cry. His arms were twisted behind him, muscles spasming, his whole body trembling as he tried—uselessly—to break free.
It was pointless.
The force holding him left no room for resistance. In that moment, Baker was nothing more than a trapped animal.
—Where is Neil Vance? —Ethan demanded, pulling him upright and forcing him to look him in the eyes.
—Go to hell! —Baker spat, still struggling.
Ethan didn't look away.
—I've never understood guys like you —he said quietly—. What goes through your head that makes you think you can touch, rape, or destroy a woman and keep breathing like nothing ever happened?
Hank grabbed Baker's blond hair and yanked his head back hard.
—And the ears? —he added—. Was that part of the game too? Or did you just need a souvenir?
—I didn't do it! —Baker roared—. You've got the wrong man!
The blow landed before he could say another word.
—You chose the victims —Hank continued, relentless—. Then you called Vance.
Baker was breathing hard. His eyes avoided theirs.
—Does violence turn you on? —Ethan asked.
—Sick bastard! —Hank spat, his eyes burning with rage.
Slowly, he pulled a folding knife from his pocket. The metallic click as it opened echoed through the garage.
—Now you're going to understand what it feels like to be helpless.
—No! —Baker screamed—. You're cops, you can't do this! I have rights!
Ethan delivered a hard kick to the back of Baker's knee. Baker collapsed to his knees with a howl as Ethan grabbed him by the neck and forced his head down.
Hank stepped closer.
Baker began to hyperventilate, and terror finally shattered his façade as he felt the blade press against his ear.
—You can't… you can't do this…
—Wait —Ethan said suddenly, with unsettling calm—. You're doing it wrong.
—What…? —Hank murmured.
Ethan tilted his head, as if recalling something.
—It's the other ear —he said—
Hank looked at him for a second.
—You sure?
—Very sure —Ethan replied—. Trust me.
Baker's panic was absolute.
—No, please! Stop! Stop!
The silence shattered with a guttural scream as the blade began to graze his skin.
—Marina Pier Park! —Baker screamed, broken—. He's there! On the damn pier!
Hank froze.
He leaned in and grabbed Baker's hair again.
—You'd better not be lying to me —he whispered—. Because if you are… there won't be a second chance.
Baker nodded frantically, sobbing.
The Chicago cold kept pouring in through the open door.
And for the first time, Baker understood that the game was over.
—I swear… I'm not lying…
Baker was flushed, tears and mucus running down his face.
—We agreed that if he wasn't at the hotel, we'd meet near the Navy Pier Ferris wheel.
—What time?
—Four p.m.
Hank looked at him coldly. Baker was completely shattered.
At this point, they could have pulled anything out of him.
—Let's move!
Ethan shoved Baker to the ground and checked his watch. After all that, they didn't have much time left.
—Go up and tell them to get ready.
Hank, still unsatisfied, gave Baker a few more kicks.
Ethan ran up the stairs and shouted:
—Marina Pier!
Everyone except the two New York detectives jumped to their feet and followed him down the stairs.
Back in the underground parking lot, the screams had stopped.
Baker remained curled up in a corner of the iron cage, staring at nothing, as if he had finally understood the kind of life that awaited him from now on.
There was no discussion.
Hank gave clear, concise orders, and the team moved out immediately.
Navy Pier Park was one of the busiest areas in Chicago, even at that hour. Tourists, families, couples… too many people. Going in fully armed wasn't an option. Only Olinsky would stay back to secure a better vantage point and, if necessary, take down Vance.
To avoid alerting Vance, they didn't call in nearby patrol units.
The objective was clear.
Ethan pulled up the collar of his coat to conceal his badge and weapon and entered the park alongside Erin. They walked like any other couple, though their pace was faster and more alert than normal.
They hadn't gone far when distant screams spread through the air.
—Shit… —Ethan muttered, picking up speed.
—Hey —Erin grabbed his arm—. Easy, cowboy.
She pointed toward the horizon. The Ferris wheel was lit up, and beyond it, a swing ride turned slowly. The screams were coming from that direction.
Ethan nodded and resumed moving, staying close to Erin.
Lake Michigan was nearby; docked yachts rocked gently on the water. They moved forward, alert to every movement.
Ethan checked his watch. It was already past four.
Too late.
—Target spotted —Rusek whispered over the earpiece.
Seconds later, hurried footsteps echoed.
—Rusek? —Hank cut in—. Where are you?
The channel had to stay clear. Erin scanned the area; nothing looked out of place.
Then Rusek's voice exploded:
—Chicago Police!
Shouting. Several voices.
—Don't come any closer or I'll kill her!
The situation escalated in seconds.
In front of Rusek, Vance was completely unhinged, with a wound near his eye and a woman held hostage. The edge of the knife was pressed against her throat.
—Easy —Rusek said, raising his hands—. Nobody wants this to end badly.
Vance stared at Rusek's weapon.
—Drop it. Now.
—All right —Rusek replied calmly—. Don't hurt her.
He carefully let the gun fall and nudged it away with his foot.
—Just… let her go.
In his agitation, the knife made a small cut. The woman stifled a cry, frozen by pure instinct.
—I'm sorry —Rusek said.
His mind was racing.
—I've cooperated with you —he added—. I can pick up the gun and hand it to you.
—Don't even think about it —Vance spat—. Drop your backup.
—I don't carry one —Rusek improvised.
Then he noticed the name on a nearby yacht.
Marlene.
—My girlfriend, Marlene, always says a gun never fixes anything —he added with a half-smile, as if talking about something trivial—. That if one doesn't work, carrying two only makes things worse. That's why I don't carry one.
Hank's voice cut in immediately:
—He's near the yacht Marlene. Everyone, move into position.
Ethan was already climbing a railing to get a better angle. In the distance, several figures were running.
—Damn it… —he whispered.
He jumped down onto the grass from over three meters up.
She hesitated for a second, took a deep breath, and jumped. Ethan caught her, and they both ran along the lakeshore.
When they arrived, they saw Hank and Antonio taking position. Rusek was facing Vance.
—Target locked —Olinsky announced from his elevated vantage point.
Everyone froze at the sight of him: braced against a railing, rifle aligned, breathing controlled.
—Now —Hank ordered.
The flash was almost imperceptible.
A single shot cut through the air.
Vance screamed as the bullet tore through his arm. The knife slipped from his hand and slid several meters across the ground before stopping. He lost his balance and collapsed onto his side, clutching the wound as blood soaked his sleeve.
Rusek reacted instantly, shoving the woman out of danger and shielding her with his body.
Ethan kept his weapon trained on Vance, assessing every movement. The man groaned in pain but made no attempt to get up. The knife was far away. The threat was over.
Ethan gave Olinsky a thumbs-up.
—Neil Vance, you're under arrest.