Steven Bird jolted awake to the shriek of his alarm clock, tearing through the silence before dawn. Thursday, December 2, 1999. New Orleans pressed in, cold and damp, winter air clinging to the walls of his cramped apartment. The clock's red numbers glowed 6:45, throwing a faint light over the mess in his bedroom.
He groaned and reached for the bedside table, bumping a chipped mug, a battered copy of The Times-Picayune, and his service revolver—a Smith & Wesson Model 10. Captain Deckard Lewis had given him the gun early—a sign of trust, especially after the senator was shot. Bird was only twenty-four, still learning the ropes, but the captain clearly saw more in him than just a rookie.
That trust felt heavier than the vest he wore on patrol. He swung his legs off the old mattress, feet hitting cold linoleum. The room was bare—just the essentials. A sagging twin bed, a faded quilt, curtains that barely blocked the light, and a closet jammed with uniforms and one lonely suit for Sundays. The walls, painted a tired yellow, had no photos. No family, no history staring back at him.
Bird lived alone in a shotgun house squeezed between a laundromat and a po'boy shop on Magazine Street. The rent—four hundred bucks—swallowed a fifth of his paycheck. Not much left after that, so everything in the place was secondhand or worn out. He didn't mind. Solitude fit him. No roommates, no elevators, just the steady hum of his own thoughts.
He shuffled to the bathroom—a tiny box with a sink chipped at the edges and a shower that spat rust before the water ran clear. He squeezed out some Colgate, the cheapest brand at Winn-Dixie, and scrubbed his teeth while staring at his reflection. Hazel eyes ringed with shadows, jaw clenched tight. Yesterday's ghosts lingered in the mirror: bloody hands, a senator's shooting, Officer James's empty stare, gunfire in the dark.
Bird spat, rinsed, and stepped into the shower. Lukewarm water needled his shoulders, but it couldn't wash away the memory of killing two men last night. He stayed under the spray a minute longer, then wrapped himself in a towel and padded to the kitchen.
The kitchen was barely more than a corner—Formica table, two chairs that didn't match, a gas stove that hissed when he turned it on. The fridge held just the basics: milk, eggs, a loaf of bread, and a jar of Zatarain's mustard. He scrambled two eggs, threw a slice of bread in the toaster, and made coffee in a dented old percolator. Cheap, simple, and all he could swing after dropping five hundred at Marigny Auto to keep his sedan running.
He ate standing up, fork scraping the plate. The bitter coffee grounded him. Outside, a streetcar rattled by, and somewhere a neighbor's radio played Fats Domino. The city woke up slow, bluesy, and sweet.
Bird wandered to the living room—a tight space with a sagging couch, coffee table scorched by old cigarette burns, and a boxy Zenith TV that set him back fifty bucks used. His uniform hung over a chair, pressed but plain. Navy blue pants with a thin red stripe, long-sleeve shirt with shoulder epaulets, black leather belt for his holster and badge. No tie—patrol cops didn't wear them. Ties were for detectives and courtrooms.
He pulled on the shirt, its buttons cold, tucked it in, buckled his belt, and flicked on the TV. Channel 6 news squawked through the static, the anchor's voice cutting through the buzz. Bird half-listened as he pulled on his boots—black, polished, but scuffed at the toes. The broadcast jumped from Y2K panic (still going strong) to news overseas.
A woman in a burgundy blazer spoke from behind the news desk. "In Afghanistan, the Taliban's grip tightens as fighting escalates in the north. Reports from Kabul confirm thousands displaced, with aid agencies struggling to reach civilians caught in the crossfire."
Bird froze, bootlace in hand, eyes glued to the screen. Shaky footage flashed by—dusty villages, kids clinging to their mothers, fighters with old rifles. The anchor kept going: "The insurgency's ripple effects are felt globally, with opium production—Afghanistan's chief export—soaring to fund the conflict."
Opium. The same stuff he'd seized last night, the same stuff tangled up with the senator's shooting. Was there a link?
The news rolled on. Now Nigeria—ethnic clashes in the Delta, oil pipelines burning, militias fighting government troops. "The unrest," the anchor said, "threatens global oil markets, with prices spiking in London and New York."
Bird stood there, boots laced, uniform ready, but the TV held him. Israel's segment followed: More violence in the West Bank, Palestinian protests clashing with IDF troops after failed peace talks. Then Europe—Serbia's unrest post-Kosovo War, Slobodan Milošević's regime teetering amid protests.
Bird shook his head, his badge clipped to his chest. "How much harm men cause," he muttered, still hearing the anchor's voice: "Conquest at any cost." War, drugs, blood—everything felt huge. Like Thomson's shooting was just a ripple in some bigger, uglier mess.
He switched off the Zenith. The screen went dark with a little crackle, and the apartment sank into quiet, except for that damn faucet dripping in the kitchen. Bird grabbed his revolver, holstered it, and shrugged on his NOPD jacket—navy blue, "POLICE" stenciled in big white letters across the back.
His keys jingled as he locked up. That sound always calmed him a little. The place was old clapboard, green paint peeling off in strips, porch sagging, a lone rusted chair still hanging on. Out on Magazine Street, the city was waking up: a vendor pushed his praline cart, a cyclist dodged potholes, and the Mississippi sent its thick, muddy smell on the breeze.
Bird's black '95 Taurus waited in the driveway, shining—no sign of the old dents and scratches, not with Al working his magic at Marigny Auto. Bird slid behind the wheel, breathing in the mix of fresh vinyl, motor oil, and just a hint of Al's cigarettes.
The car was bare bones—cracked dashboard, basic radio, St. Christopher medal swinging from the mirror. Just yesterday, it looked wrecked, all banged up from chasing those opium smugglers through the city. Al, always wiry and smeared with grease, worked half the night, hammering out the dents, patching the frame, tuning the engine. Charged him $500. Worth every cent.
"Good as new," Al had said, flashing that crooked grin. Bird had to admit, the guy was right. He ran his fingers over the wheel, smooth and cool. So different from the chaos just hours ago.
His mind drifted back, uninvited, to Decatur Street in the dead of night. Rain hammered down, thunder covering his footsteps as he crouched behind a dumpster, listening to four smugglers whisper in rough, low voices. They kept saying "C.S."—buyer, seller, who knew? And they spat out Thomson's name like it tasted bad. Bird tried to surprise them, but the whole thing fell apart—gunfire, flashes, two dead in the alley, the other two cuffed and cursing all the way to the station. He caught fragments: high-grade opium, ten kilos, headed for Cypress Point Lane. But who was C.S.? Why target Thomson? The dead guys might've had answers, but Bird's gut kept him alive and left him with nothing but scraps. The guilt gnawed at him—not for pulling the trigger, that was just survival—but for losing the trail in all the chaos
He turned the key. The engine rumbled awake, shaking through the seat. Bird rolled onto Magazine, tires humming over busted-up asphalt. New Orleans was coming alive: Creole cottages with iron balconies, moss trailing from live oaks, a streetcar clanking down St. Charles. Jazz floated from a bar, praline sellers called out, sunlight bounced off the river. Bird barely noticed.
His head was somewhere else—tunnel vision, just one goal: find the hooded shooter who nearly killed Thomson. The smugglers in holding were a lead, but a shaky one. They'd threatened him—get too close, you disappear. Maybe for saving Thomson. Maybe for poking around C.S. Bird told himself to wait. Be a detective, not a hero.
The NOPD station on Broad looked tough and squat, all brick and barred windows, parking lot jammed with cruisers. Bird parked, the paint job still clean, no new dents. He got out, boots crunching on gravel. The air was thick with exhaust and the bitter smell of chicory coffee wafting from the diner next door.
Inside, the place buzzed—phones ringing, typewriters clattering, detectives shouting over paperwork. The whole place stank of sweat, ink, cigarettes. It was a mess, but it was his kind of mess. His desk waited at the end of the hall, but Corporal Richard Dickson spotted him first, strolling through the bullpen with a toothpick spinning in his mouth.
"Morning, cher," Dickson called, all loose limbs and lazy grin, but his eyes sharp. "How'd the night treat you?" He studied Bird's face, reading every line.
Bird managed half a smile, surprised. "Didn't think you cared about my night, Corporal."
Dickson laughed, falling in step as they walked. "Drop the titles, Steve. Call me Rick, I'll call you Steve. Deal?" The words came easy, but it felt like he was offering something—partnership.
"Alright, Rick," Bird said. The name felt strange, but it worked. They walked for a bit in silence, shoes echoing on linoleum. Finally, Bird spoke, voice low.
"I've been thinking."
Rick lifted an eyebrow, toothpick still spinning. "That explains the look on your face, cher. Out with it."
"Those opium smugglers from last night," Bird said, weaving around a pile of rookies loaded with files. "It's too neat. We're working Thomson's shooting, they're tossing his name around—mine too. One of them told me straight up I'd be eliminated if I got too close."
Rick's grin faded. "You? What'd you do to piss them off?"
"Saving Thomson, maybe. Or just getting too close to whatever deal they've got going." They made it to Bird's office—a cramped little space with barely enough room for a desk, a chair, and that one stubborn bulb flickering overhead. Bird dropped into the chair, facing Rick, who lounged in the doorway like he owned the place.
"They mentioned 'C.S.'—some big shot, maybe the buyer, maybe the seller. Said he's the one running things. I've got no clue what the opium's for—drugs, guns, who knows—but it all circles back to Thomson."
Rick let out a low whistle, spinning his toothpick. "You're poking a hornet's nest, Steven. Thomson's made enemies—cartels, money guys—they don't mess around. Think this C.S. is the trigger man?"
Bird shook his head, feeling the frustration knot up in his chest. "No, but he's calling the shots. The shooter? Still just a shadow—masked up, fast, gone before anyone blinked. We've got the smugglers as a lead, but they're clammed up tight in holding."
Rick's eyes narrowed. "They drop your name and Thomson's? Sounds like you've got a target on your back, cher. But Thomson's locked down in Tulane, plenty of guards. They won't go after him there."
Bird leaned in, elbows on the desk. "Wouldn't they? The shooter hit a convention center, Rick. Broad daylight, full of people. If they want Thomson dead, a few guards aren't stopping them."
Rick just nodded, eyes hard. "Then we put eyes on Thomson, round-the-clock. Not many guys here want that shift, but it's gotta be done."
"Yeah. And C.S.—whoever he is—he's the key. The opium isn't just dope. It's bankroll for something bigger, maybe tied to Thomson fighting corruption."
Rick put a hand up, steady. "Slow down, Steve. You're running on fumes. We'll figure it out, but we do it smart." He straightened, flicked his toothpick into the trash. "What's next?"
Bird drummed his fingers on the desk, thinking out loud. "The alley on Decatur, where I grabbed the smugglers. Down by the river. Maybe we missed something. Witnesses, evidence, anything."
Rick grinned, showing teeth. "Good idea, but we're gonna need Lewis to sign off. He's already got an investigation into Thomson's shooting, and after the chewing-out he gave you yesterday, you're not his favorite guy."
Bird's jaw clenched. Lewis' voice still echoed—You let him down, Bird. "Think he'll go for it?"
Rick winked. "Let me handle it. Me and Lewis go way back. I'll call in a favor." He slipped out the door. "Sit tight, cher."
The wait dragged on. Phones rang, voices bounced off the walls, coffee bubbled somewhere close. Bird's desk was a disaster zone—reports everywhere, a half-eaten muffuletta, a notepad scrawled with names: C.S., opium, shooter, Cypress Point Lane. He couldn't stop the thoughts swirling—smugglers' threats, Thomson bleeding out, the news banging on about opium.
Eight minutes later, sunlight caught Rick's mustache as he walked back in. Bird stood. "Well?"
"Lewis took it like a champ. He owed me. We're cleared to dig around Decatur, but first, we stop by Tulane. Check on Thomson. Then it's 'Operation C.S. Hunting.'"
Bird cracked a smile, some of the tension finally breaking. "'C.S. Hunting'? Seriously, that's what you're calling it?"
Rick shrugged, grinning. "Got a better one? Didn't think so. Let's go." Bird grabbed his jacket, feeling his heart steady. The noise of the station faded behind them as they headed out to the lot, his old sedan waiting under a live oak. Out there, New Orleans pulsed—jazz in the air, river rolling, secrets everywhere. But Bird's focus cut through it all: Thomson, the shooter, C.S. He'd chase those shadows, even if the trail went cold.
****
Bird shoved open the double doors at Tulane Medical Center, and the antiseptic hit like a slap. The lights overhead buzzed and flickered, throwing harsh shadows across the scuffed linoleum. Still Thursday—December 2, 1999—not even a full day since Senator Douglas Thomson went down in a storm of bullets, with Officer James caught in the crossfire.
Every step echoed down the quiet hall, a reminder of the chaos that tore through New Orleans just yesterday. Rick kept stride beside him, slouched and long-limbed, that toothpick working between his teeth no matter how calm he tried to seem.
"You good, cher?" Rick asked, his accent softening the words as they neared the ICU. Bird just nodded, tight-lipped. Blood on the pavement, Thomson gasping—he couldn't shake it.
He tugged at his NOPD jacket, the leather groaning, felt the weight of his service revolver on his hip. Duty pressed down, heavier than the muggy city air. At the ICU doors, a nurse looked up, face pinched.
"Officers," she said, sharp-eyed. "Purpose?"
"We're here for Senator Thomson," Rick answered, flipping his badge open with that easy flick. She thawed, just a bit. "Room 312. He's stable, but it's touch and go. Keep it short."
Inside, machines beeped and hissed. Senator Thomson looked nothing like the man Bird remembered—pale, lost in the sheets, tubes everywhere, machines doing most of the work. Bird stepped closer, his voice low.
"We'll get them, Senator. Whoever pulled this off—I swear it." Dickson rested a hand on Bird's shoulder, gentle but firm. "Easy, cher. He needs rest, not promises." As they turned to leave, something caught Bird's eye. A silver chain, oddly out of place on the bedside table, nestled among all the sterile hospital gear.
He frowned. "That his?" The nurse, still hanging by the door, stepped forward and picked it up. "No. Somebody left it yesterday. Said she was press, but bolted when we pressed her for ID." Bird's heart kicked up a notch. "What'd she look like?"
"Blonde, maybe thirty. Scar over her lip—right here." The nurse tapped her own face. "Gray coat, too."
Dickson's toothpick froze. He locked eyes with Bird. "Might be our first thread in this mess," he murmured, voice low.
****
The next few days blurred together, just a constant chase through New Orleans. The city throbbed around them as they hunted. Bird and Dickson stalked the French Quarter's cramped alleys, jazz leaking from open doors, gumbo scent tangled up with the damp river air. They slogged through the Garden District beneath heavy oaks, grilling shopkeepers and vagrants, boots scraping over old cobblestones. Every lead—bartender, cabbie, street vendor—just faded out. The nurse's description stuck with them: blonde, scar, gray coat. Over and over, they flashed grainy Polaroids from hospital security, "Seen her?" Most folks shook their heads. Some spat. A few just stared at their uniforms with open resentment.
By Monday night, Bird looked beat. Lines dug deep into his face, his eyes shadowed under the brim of his NOPD cap. Dickson, always solid, tugged at his wrinkled jacket and leaned against a lamppost on Decatur Street. The Mississippi stung the air. "We're spinning our wheels, cher," he muttered. "City's swallowing her whole."
Bird set his jaw and scanned the crowd: tourists snapping photos, locals watching them with suspicion. "She's out there, Rick. That chain wasn't random. She knows something about Thomson."
Their luck finally turned late Monday, when a nervous barmaid at a dive on Chartres Street tipped them off. "Saw a woman like that," she whispered, hands shaking as she cleared glasses. "Hangs out at The Black Pelican—rough crowd, officers. Careful."
The Black Pelican crouched at the edge of Tremé, paint peeling, neon sign flickering like it was on its last legs. The air reeked of stale beer and cigarette smoke leaking from cracked windows. Inside, danger seeped from every corner. Bare bulbs swung overhead, casting shadows over a sticky floor. Men in battered leather and faded jeans lined the bar, eyes hard, watching everything. A jukebox wheezed out a Hank Williams tune, twang battling the low rumble of voices. Plenty of them were armed—Bird spotted a holster under one guy's duster, a knife glinting at another's hip. This place didn't want cops. It was a haven for upstate criminals and folks who flat-out hated the law.
Bird walked in first. His uniform looked sharp but he was tense, the revolver at his hip a cold weight. He scanned the room and spotted her. By the counter, dark fedora tilted low. Black clothes, blending into the gloom. The scar above her lip caught the light as she leaned in to order coffee. After days of chasing ghosts—smoky backrooms, rain-soaked alleys—there she was. He nudged Dickson, who hung back by the door, and muttered, "That's her. Let me handle it."
Dickson just nodded, eyes sharp, holding his spot to watch Bird's back. Bird moved in, footsteps slow and steady. The creak of his boots vanished into the bar's noise. He stopped at her side, voice calm but clear. "Ma'am, I'd like a word."
She didn't turn. Just traced the rim of her mug. Bird cleared his throat, a little more official now. "Officer Steven Bird, NOPD. We're following a lead, and your visit to Tulane Medical Center a few days back—where Senator Thomson's recovering—looks pretty suspicious."
She just sat there, silent, letting the tension grow. Bird didn't blink. "Look, ma'am, there's one way you walk out of here without more trouble: tell me what I need to know."
She took a slow sip, eyes still hidden. Her voice, when it came, was cool and careful. "And what's that, Officer?"
"For starters," Bird leaned in, "what were you doing at the hospital when a senator showed up full of bullet holes?"
Her lips twitched, just a hint of a smile, sharp as a razor. "That's for me to know and for you not to know."
"That attitude's not helping," Bird shot back, steady as ever. "I can detain you right now."
"You don't seem exactly 'professional,' sir," she cut in, turning to face him. The brim of her fedora hid her eyes, but her mouth—scar and all—lined up perfectly with the nurse's description. "You can't arrest me without evidence."
"People get detained for less," Bird shot back, sounding pretty sure of himself. "I'd bring you in as a person of interest, not a suspect. See the difference?"
She raised her coffee again, her voice low and dark. "Means you've got nothing solid. You can't touch me." She twisted her boot on the floor and turned away, ready to bolt. Bird's gut told him she was about to run. He lunged, grabbed her arm—firm, but careful.
Suddenly, someone from the crowd stepped in—a guy dressed like a cowboy, no hat, face weathered and pissed off. He shoved Bird back, voice rough. "Lady's made her choice, Officer. She don't want your company."
Bird stumbled but caught himself, trying to look unfazed. "This isn't your business."
The cowboy planted himself between them, not moving an inch. "We respect lawmen who mind their own business."
Bird squared up, hand hovering near his holster. "You really think you can just ignore the law?"
"Only when cops turn into pests," the cowboy growled. Around them, the bar's crowd shifted, tension thickening. Bird felt the mood turn ugly—hands slid under jackets, eyes narrowed. The cowboy flashed a revolver from his pocket, just a glint of steel, and suddenly, others followed—guns, knives, whatever they had. The whole place felt ready to explode.
Bird wasn't used to this kind of open defiance. He knew he was outnumbered. Facing them alone meant suicide. He straightened, met the cowboy's eyes. "This isn't over." Kept his voice steady, even though the threat was real, and backed toward the door. Dickson fell in beside him without a word as they stepped out into the cooler night air.
Outside, the city air smacked Bird in the face. He stormed over to his black '95 Taurus under a flickering streetlamp, slammed his fist down on the hood. Let out a grunt—anger boiling over. Dickson grabbed his shoulder, steady. "Take it easy, Steve. Breathe."
Bird exhaled hard, his anger fading a little under Dickson's calm. "We almost had her, Rick. Could've brought her in, asked some questions. She knew something."
"Don't let it eat at you," Dickson said, voice firm but not unkind. "Be glad you're walking out of there. She picked that bar for a reason—she knew the cops don't have friends there. For a second, I thought you were going to start something with that cowboy."
"I thought about it," Bird admitted, leaning against the car, arms crossed. "I could've handled him."
"In a fair fight, one mistake and you're done," Dickson warned. "Sure, you handled four guys in an alley, but some of these folks are real shooters. They'd drop you before you even draw. That's the job—chasing shadows, digging in the dark. Sometimes it's smarter to walk away."
Bird nodded, letting it sink in. "So how do we bring her in? That crowd would tear us apart if we tried again. Maybe showing up in uniform was a mistake."
Dickson agreed, opening the car door. "Tomorrow, we go plainclothes. Blend in, unless we have to show the badge. For now, we need a new lead."
Bird checked his watch—almost seven, sky turning deep blue. The drive back to central New Orleans stretched ahead. "I still think we should bring her in."
"You just want a fight, don't you?" Dickson said, laughing as he settled in. "That bar showed us what happens if we push too hard."
"They can't just shoot cops and get away with it," Bird argued, getting behind the wheel.
"Some do," Dickson said quietly. "Don't die for nothing."
"So we're just letting a criminal walk?" Bird said, frustration clear in his voice.
"If she's involved, there's no proof she's part of the shooting," Dickson said. "She could just be a bystander. We don't know."
"I feel like there's more going on," Bird said, starting the engine.
"If there is, this isn't how we find it," Dickson replied. "Let's go."
Bird nodded, not happy, but he pulled away. The engine's low hum filled the silence as they reached the station—the old brick building, windows barred and glowing under the streetlights. They split up with a nod; Dickson headed for his own car, Bird dragging himself back to the Taurus.
He felt the weight of the day—a hospital's harsh smell, Thomson's pale face, the chain's mystery, the bar's cold welcome. He drove home down Magazine Street, letting the city's shadows swallow up the rest of the day.
***
Steven Bird's shotgun house looked just as tired as he felt—faded green siding, porch sagging, one rusty old chair guarding the place like it had nothing better to do. Inside, not much to see. A beat-up couch, coffee table full of scratches, and a battered oak table where he kept his revolver. The air smelled damp, mixed with the sour leftovers of yesterday's coffee.
He peeled off his uniform and dropped it on the nearest chair, then shuffled to the bathroom. Small space, chipped sink, a shower that coughed up rusty water. Still, the hot water helped. It washed off the bar smoke, took the edge off the night, but couldn't shake the memory of that woman's scar.
Later, in faded flannel pajamas, Bird dropped into the only cushioned chair in the living room. The springs groaned under him. The clock over the mantel ticked past 8:30, each second stretching out, the silence thick enough to choke on. He almost drifted off, but then—a faint scrape from the bedroom snapped him awake. Instinct took over. He grabbed the revolver, its cold metal steadying him, and moved down the hall, bare feet against cold linoleum.
The bedroom door hung open just enough to let a slice of light spill out, flickering like something—or someone—was moving inside. The fridge hummed in the background. Papers rustled. A drawer clicked. Someone was in there, turning his stuff over. Bird crept closer, gun up, heart hammering. What were they even after? His uniforms, a couple of books, that silver chain—none of it worth much. Still, the fact that someone broke in made his resolve harden.
He pressed himself behind the door, barely breathing, time stretching thin. He couldn't stand there all night. With one breath, he pushed the door wide. The hinges whined. "Hands where I can see them!" he shouted, gun aimed.
The intruder froze, just a shadow against a room that, weirdly, looked tidier than before. "Turn around!" he ordered.
She did. Bird's heart stuttered. The fedora on the cabinet gave her away, and there, plain as day, was the scar above her lip—the woman from the bar. "You," he blurted out, feeling a mix of relief and vindication. He almost let his guard down, but stopped himself. "I knew you were trouble. My gut was right."
She just stared, not saying a word. Bird glanced around—bed made, books stacked, his clothes folded. She'd been through everything, but you'd never know it. Suspicion gnawed at him. "You don't have to say anything," he said, voice even, "but I need to know what you're looking for."
Nothing. The tension built up, squeezing his patience thin. "Are you going to talk or not?"
"Where's the chain?" she asked. Her voice was sharp, no nonsense.
"Chain?" He thought of the silver one from those alley thugs. "What chain?" He played dumb, testing her.
"Don't play games," she shot back, lowering her hands, daring him. "I know you have it. Where is it?"
"How do you know that?" Bird's grip tightened.
"You took it from the goons in the alley. I didn't realize its importance until now."
"And what's so special about it?"
"There's a tracker inside," she said, sounding more like an investigator than a thief. "TSCM-99, old model. Built into the links."
"A tracker?" Bird frowned. "Who's keeping tabs on me?"
"I don't know," she admitted, "but since the opium never got delivered, the seller probably thinks it's still with whoever's got the tracker. Right now, that's you."
"Prove it," Bird challenged, not buying it.
She just stared him down. "Where's the chain?
Bird eyed her, then gave in. He lowered his gun, pulled the chain from under his shirt, and handed it over, every move careful. She worked her fingers over the cross, pried it open, and sure enough—there was a tiny chip tucked inside. Bird snatched it away, slammed it against the wall. The thing smashed, pieces flying.
"You shouldn't have done that," she said, voice sharp with warning. "You're playing with fire, and you're not being careful."
"I hate being watched," Bird shot back, pulse still racing.
"That tracker was your shield, like it or not. With it active, the seller thought everything was fine. I could've used the signal to find out who's behind all this, but now? That's gone. Not smart."
Bird thought of Dickson, always harping on about keeping things quiet. "You been following me?"
"I have," she said, not even flinching. "It's the only way to keep you alive."
"Who are you?" Bird asked, letting the gun sink a little.
"Amelia Hartman," she said, and her voice gave nothing away.
"Very well, and I'm—"
"Yeah, I know who Steven Bird is," she cut in, not missing a beat.
"So, who are you really?" He leaned in, his curiosity edging out any caution he had left.
She didn't hesitate. "I'm a private detective. The Senator hired me to dig into the city's dirty dealings. I was tracking opium smugglers, making headway, until you got in the way. I needed those guys on the street so I could follow the trail, but you stepped in. Now you're making things harder for me."
Bird frowned. "That still doesn't explain how you knew about the tracker in the chain."
"It's mine," she said, admitting it with a shrug. "Kind of. I planted it in the shipment, figured someone would find it. Stirred up trouble in their crew, just like I hoped. They switched the tracker to another chain to keep tabs on the delivery. Meanwhile, I was letting the seller run wild, thinking he was untouchable. I was collecting evidence the whole time."
Bird pressed on. "So who's running this show?"
Her face hardened. "I can't tell you that."
"Why not?" he said, not backing down.
"It's safer if you don't know," she said quietly. "The Senator wanted proof—enough to take down the smugglers and everyone backing them. I was close, until you blew up my plan. Now you're involved because I don't want you getting yourself killed."
She glanced at the door and started to leave. Bird called after her, "Look, whatever you're into, I can help."
She paused, half-turning. "I know you're good at what you do, but stay out of this. The Senator's a target now, which means they probably know about me too. I need to disappear for a bit. If I need you, I'll be in touch."
"So you have my number?" Bird asked, hope flickering in his eyes.
She just smiled, a little cold. "I've got what I need."
"And if I need to reach you?"
"You won't." Her voice was flat, no room for argument. "Just stay out of trouble. This is bigger than you think." She slipped out, the door closing behind her with a soft click.
Bird stood there, the room neat and quiet, nothing like the mess spinning in his head. Amelia Hartman—her name, her tracker, her warning—tangled everything up. The Senator, the opium, whoever was pulling the strings—it all felt huge, way past what he thought he was dealing with. But one thing was clear: he couldn't walk away now. He was going to dig until he found the truth, no matter what it cost.