Reed said nothing, turning his oversized tea mug in his hands, the lid clanking against the rim.
Marcus Shaw pressed on. "And I have reason to believe there's a mole inside our team. Whoever it is, I'll root them out. I won't rest until this traitor is exposed."
Reed's hand stilled. The room went quiet.
Their eyes locked.
"Aren't you afraid of going down with them?"
"Are you?"
Reed lifted the lid and took a sip. "What do I have to fear? I'm about to retire anyway."
Marcus Shaw said, "If I can close this case properly, that's best. If not—wearing this uniform won't mean a thing."
Reed set the mug down with a thud and scowled. "Right—you don't even like wearing it. Running around like a gym rat every day."
Early the next morning, the wiretap authorization came through. Marcus Shaw drove back to the Technical Division and had the team begin monitoring Dominic Hale's phone.
An entire morning passed with no activity.
The technician wanted to break for lunch and invited Marcus Shaw along, but he shook his head. "You go. I'll keep listening."
"It won't kill you to step away."
Marcus Shaw thought about it. "How about grabbing me a couple of steamed buns?"
The team left. Within minutes of their departure, someone called Dominic Hale.
Marcus Shaw snapped to attention, pulled on the headset, and started the recording, holding his breath.
The caller was another rough-sounding man, with a nasal, congested voice and a short temper.
They seemed to be arranging a transaction.
Whistler accused Dominic Hale of being slippery—taken the deposit but kept stalling on delivery. Dominic Hale explained the goods were almost ready, but the heat was on, his crew had to keep relocating to keep working, so please, two more days.
Whistler exploded, stringing together a cluster of profanity. "No way, you think you can play me? You want to keep operating in this town or not?"
Dominic Hale fired back, "Who are you swearing at? You think I'm some pushover?"
They traded insults for a good five minutes before a grudging agreement was reached.
Dominic Hale said, "Fine. This afternoon, three-thirty, by the Yitong River, under the Riverbank Drive overpass. I'll have someone bring what's ready. The rest, a couple of days."
Whistler was still muttering curses, but apparently he had no leverage. "You said it. Don't go pulling a fast one on me."
The moment the call ended, Marcus Shaw phoned the command center technician for Dominic Hale's location.
But the technician said, "Nothing. I've been watching the whole time. No red dot."
"Are you sure? He just made a call—I was listening for seven or eight minutes."
"I've been right here, working and glancing at the mini-window. Not a blip. Believe it or not."
"I believe you. But how is that possible? Why didn't it show?"
"Probably anti-tracking tech on his phone—probably only did a partial job, blocked location but not calls."
Marcus Shaw wasn't entirely convinced, but he thought, the bastard's thorough.
There was just over an hour before the trade. Initially, Marcus Shaw hadn't known what they were trading, but from their argument—mentioning HD, Western, memory cards—he'd guessed.
An unwanted image surfaced: Daniel Shaw the first time he'd watched porn, fidgeting, red-faced, darting his eyes around, stage-whispering, "Bro, are we breaking the law?"
A hand clapped Marcus Shaw's shoulder, yanking him back to the present.
It was the technician, carrying three steamed buns—pickled cabbage filling. Marcus Shaw stuffed them into his mouth one after another, his mind drifting back to the case.
It was increasingly clear: Daniel Shaw's death was connected to this case. Dominic Hale had caught on that Marcus Shaw was suspicious and had tried multiple times to harm him—but ended up killing an innocent person instead of his intended target.
The thought grew like weeds on fertile soil, climbing upward, making his chest and throat itch. Two buns gone, and the technician was laughing beside him. "Nobody's stealing them—slow down."
After monitoring a while longer—they heard one call from a financial services salesman who got an earful—Marcus Shaw decided it was time to head to Riverbank Drive.
Just outside the door, he nearly collided with Lucas Lutz.
Lucas Lutz adjusted his glasses. "What a coincidence. You're here too?"
Marcus Shaw shot back, "You here for a wiretap too?"
"Yep. Got a burglary case, brass is breathing down my neck. Hey, why are you flying solo? Where's Vik?"
Marcus Shaw didn't answer, already moving toward the exit.
Lucas Lutz called after him, "If you need any help, let me know."
It was the first time Marcus Shaw had seen him smile. He waved it off and thanked him.
On Riverbank Drive, Marcus Shaw drove back and forth twice, scoping out the best spot for the exchange. He settled on the area under the overpass where Riverbank Drive met the riverbank road, parked in a concealed spot, and watched from inside his car.
Traffic was light. Dominic Hale's choice of location made tactical sense.
By three-thirty, nothing had happened except a truck driver pulling over to pee behind a bridge pillar. No suspicious vehicles.
Marcus Shaw began to doubt himself. Was he at the wrong spot? Could they have meant the previous intersection?
No—he rejected that idea quickly. That intersection had a kitchenware wholesale market. Too many eyes, no room to inspect the goods. This spot made more sense.
As he was thinking this, a silver Dongfeng minivan rounded the corner and pulled up steadily beside a bridge pillar. Marcus Shaw hunched over, pressing his face to the steering wheel, squinting through the windshield.
He watched for a while. The minivan sat still, and no other car appeared. Impatient, Marcus Shaw quietly opened his door, grabbed his backpack, and crept closer, using a strip of trees for cover.
But before he could get close enough to peer inside the van, two men jumped out and startled him.
The taller, thinner one asked, "Who are you? What are you snooping around for?"
Marcus Shaw pasted on a smile. "Just passing through. I'm in small business, wanted to check out this type of van."
As he spoke, he glanced into the van's interior—empty. These were the buyers.
The other man climbed out of the passenger side: bald, stocky, wearing a dark green bamboo-patterned linen pajama set with a gold chain around his neck. He craned his neck and said, "Stop fucking around. Dominic Hale sent you, didn't he?"
His voice was nasal—that was Whistler. He squinted toward Marcus Shaw's car. "Sneaking over here—think my eyes are bad?"
Before Marcus Shaw could respond, a sudden dust devil whipped up, hurling ice cream wrappers and grit into everyone's faces. Marcus Shaw, already sweating, said, "Yes, yes—our boss sent me to scout ahead. The goods will arrive shortly."
Whistler spat on the ground. "Scout ahead, my ass. Playing games, being all secretive. The guy's got no balls."
Marcus Shaw's mind raced. Dominic Hale could arrive at any moment, and he was alone and outmatched.
Whistler produced a folding fan—a meter long with tassels, which he snapped open with a flourish. Black silk covered in golden calligraphy. A few vigorous fanning motions sent a wave of cheap sandalwood scent toward them.
Marcus Shaw said, "Brother, I've got some new stock in my car. Malaysian, prime stuff. Want me to grab it for a look?"
Whistler's eyes widened. "Then what are you waiting for?"
"Right away," Marcus Shaw said, starting toward his car.
He'd taken one step when Whistler's phone rang. He answered, and whoever was on the line clearly said one sentence, because he immediately erupted: "Son of a bitch, not again!"
Marcus Shaw knew it was trouble. He bolted for his car.
The two goons were fast. They grabbed his arms, and the thin one kicked him square in the backside.
The kick sent Marcus Shaw sprawling face-first into the dirt. Whistler bellowed, "Beat him! Beat him within an inch of his life!"
The two men launched a flurry of kicks—thighs, knees, ribs. Everything hurt.
Marcus Shaw yelped for mercy while his hand found his backpack. He yanked out his nunchaku. One sweep left, one sweep right, and both men were hopping, clutching their legs.
"You useless pieces of shit!" Whistler roared.
Emboldened, they regrouped and came at him again.
Marcus Shaw sidestepped, gripped the nunchaku in one hand, and whipped it in a figure-eight pattern. The end cracked against the shorter man's wrist. He howled.
The thin one backed up half a step, then scooped up a thick branch from the treeline, wielding it like a spear, and charged.
Marcus Shaw swung hard, splintering the branch's tip and sending white wood chips flying, making his opponent grit his teeth.
He swung again, but the remaining branch was too thick. The nunchaku lost momentum on impact, going slack. The thin man seized the opening, grabbed the nunchaku's end, levered it against the branch, and stripped it from Marcus Shaw's grip.
Marcus Shaw turned to run, but the shorter man had recovered, seized him by the collar, and yanked backward. Marcus Shaw toppled, and a kick to the gut sent blinding pain through his abdomen. He crumpled, clutching his stomach.
This was it. He was done for.
Then he heard a shout—someone yelling, "Who do you think you are, touching anyone you want?"—and a body tumbled past him.
Marcus Shaw opened his eyes. Through the swirling dust, he saw Viktor Dunn in full police uniform, swinging nunchaku into the thin man, muttering, "Think you're tough, think you're tough, let's see how tough you are."
Marcus Shaw turned his head. The shorter man was being thoroughly subdued as well. He gathered his strength and hauled himself upright.
Whistler saw the shift and tried to scramble into the van. Viktor Dunn was faster—a long stride, a high kick, and the door slammed shut with a thunderous bang, trapping the man's hand. He staggered back in confusion.
Two pairs of handcuffs went on two men. The third was bound with rope, his shoelaces knotted tight.
Marcus Shaw was covered in dust, hands braced against his aching ribs and stomach. Viktor Dunn rushed to steady him, asking if he was okay. Marcus Shaw forced a grin through the sweat beading on his forehead. "I'm fine. I'm fine."