Page 30 of Hurting Hunter
With every step toward the interrogation room, the familiar, sterile scent of the precinct felt strangely suffocating, intensifying the knot in his stomach. The metallic rattle of the cuffs around his wrists was a constant, chilling reminder of how swiftly the tables had turned. As he approached the door to the interrogation room, the chill in the air matched the frost in the gazes that followed him.
The interrogation room felt colder than the rest of the precinct, its bare walls and sparse furniture amplifying the isolation. Handcuffs bit into his wrists and signaled his new status as suspect rather than detective.
Wordlessly, one of the officers undid his cuffs, but instead of releasing him, he clipped them to rings on the table.
I don’t like being on the receiving end of bondage.
Still silent and oozing resentment, the two officers left. The heavy door slamming closed behind them.
Left alone, the silence was suffocating. Ethan tried to steady his breathing, to settle the storm of thoughts whirling through his mind. What charges were they concocting? How deep did the corruption go?
Outside, the precinct buzzed with the day's usual rhythms, but in the stillness of the room time seemed to stretch. As the minutes dragged on, his initial shock morphed into a simmering anger, a growing resolve to clear his name and expose the real traitors.
The door swung open abruptly, ushering in two detectives clad in nondescript suits. Their expressions were neutral as they took seats opposite him.
"Detective Stephenson, I’m Detective Morris and this is Detective Hall from Internal Affairs," one began, sliding a folder across the table. "You’ve been read your rights, correct?"
Ethan nodded, his throat tightening. "Yes. What's this about?"
Detective Morris stated in a flat voice. “You’re suspected of aiding a criminal organization and sharing classified information, related to your... association with Mr. Maddox.”
Detective Hall opened the folder, revealing several glossy photos. The first few showed Ethan and Hunter in casual closeness, leaving Thorns & Roses, their familiarity evident. Another set captured this morning’s goodbye.
Ethan stared at them.
“These photos suggest more than casual friendship, Detective Stephenson.” Detective Hall spoke for the first time, his voice gravely like a chain smoker’s.
"We’ve been monitoring you for some time," Detective Morris added, watching Ethan closely for a reaction.
Ethan's mind reeled.
They’d been followed? The revelation felt like a punch to the gut. He opened his mouth to respond, but the sudden rap at the door cut him off.
"Excuse me," a firm voice announced as the door swung open. A man in a crisp suit stepped in, his gaze quick and assessing, a leather briefcase in his hand. He approached with a brisk stride.
“Good afternoon, I’m Michael Schaffer from Schaffer & Associates,” the man announced clearly, setting his briefcase down with a definitive click. “I’ll be representing Detective Stephenson. Please ensure he is treated according to his rights.”
Ethan’s tension eased at the attorney’s assertive presence, a silent wave of gratitude washing over him as he realized help had arrived at a critical moment.
The beep of his phone snapped Hunter out of his brooding reverie. He stopped pacing his room and glanced at the screen. Rex was on the move.
With a surge of restless energy, he pushed off from the desk he’d been leaning against. Grabbing his motorcycle helmet, he strode toward his bike. His heavy boots reverberated against the floor.
Hunter tightened his hands on the handlebars after he slotted his phone into the bike’s holder, the screen flickering to life with a map that traced Rex’s latest movements. Swinging his leg over his Harley, the engine roared to life beneath him—a familiar vibration that usually soothed his nerves, but today it was just background noise to his churning thoughts. As he pulled out onto the street, his nerves settled into a focused resolve.
He navigated through the thickening traffic, the exhaust from cars blending with the midday smog that clung to the city’s skyline. The sun was a relentless force above, yet its burn was nothing compared to the fire of anger and betrayal heating his blood. His eyes flicked between the road and the GPS, tracking Rex’s icon moving across the screen like a taunting promise.
As he weaved his bike between lanes, the idea of calling Brick or Slate flickered in his mind, only to be dismissed as quickly as it came. He gritted his teeth, the city’s noise fading against the internal monologue that questioned his next steps.
A seasoned biker who can't handle a stinking prospect on his own, isn't worth his cut!
Chapter 21
Hunter kept his Harley steady, the engine a low growl beneath him as he shadowed Rex through the desolate heart of a once-promising Seattle neighborhood. His gaze locked on the sleek lines of Rex's bike. The machine, more suited for a race circuit than these cracked streets, glinted under the occasional streetlight. Its brand-new sheen made Hunter want to puke as it was a bitter reminder of its possible funding—corruption and human misery.
Every fiber of Hunter’s being tightened as he watched the neon streaks blur past. His fingers clenched around the handlebars. His jaw was set, teeth grinding together in suppressed rage. The back wheel of his bike skidded slightly as he took a corner too sharply. The stench of rubber burning and the protesting screech against the rough asphalt fitted his foul mood.
The neighborhood around them bore the scars of neglect and the weight of despair. The apartment buildings that once stood as beacons of hope and renewal now looked down on streets riddled with the detritus of broken lives. Graffiti tags like battle scars marred every surface, and every shadow seemed to shift with the movements of those forgotten by society. Drug dealers lurked around dimly lit corners, and addicts stumbled around in search of oblivion. Tennis shoes, thrown over power lines, swung like hanged men's last dances, marking territories lost to law and order.
