Page 39 of Cat and Mouse

Captain Harris lets out a long breath, looking at me with something like disbelief.

"Well, that's convenient," he mutters before calling an officer. "Take him down to holding."

Miguel starts to freak out, screaming in Spanish, "You lied! You said you'd protect me!"

I raise my hand, trying to calm him down. "We didn't lie. We just need to work this out first."

The officer drags him out. He's still screaming as they disappear down the hallway. I turn back to Harris, my mind racing a mile a minute. In the silence of Harris's office, it hits me. The whole damn time, I had the clues. I had them.

"Shit," I mutter under my breath, sinking into the chair. I feel... dumb, like every moment I spent chasing my tail was a fucking waste.

Harris looks at me, his voice low. "You alright?"

I shake my head. "No. No, I'm not."

Because Leonardo DeLuca—the Phantom—is real. And he's been pulling the strings all along.

I'm still processing what Miguel just told me when an alarm blares through the station, cutting through the tension like a knife. My heart races, adrenaline kicking in.

"What the hell is that?" I shout over the cacophony, glancing at Captain Harris.

"Shit," he says, springing to his feet. "Let's move."

We dash down the narrow hallways, my boots pounding against the tiled floor, echoing off the walls. A knot of anxiety twists in my gut as we round the corner, heading toward the holding cells. My mind races—could it be another escape attempt or something worse?

As we burst into the holding area, the scene is chaos. Officers are struggling to break up a brawl, a flurry of limbs and shouts filling the air. My eyes dart around until they lock on to a crumpled figure on the ground. My stomach drops.

"Miguel!" I scream, rushing forward, but it's too late. Blood pools beneath him, soaking into the cracked linoleum. His eyes are wide and unseeing, the life completely drained from his body. It's clear—he's been murdered.

"Get back! Everyone, get back!" Captain Harris barks, his voice cutting through the chaos. He pushes me aside, and I watch as the officers wrestle the other inmates back into their cells. The air is thick with panic and anger, but all I can think about is Miguel, my only link to Leonardo.

"Miguel was our informant," I say, shaking my head in disbelief. "He was just about to talk!"

Captain Harris runs a hand through his hair, frustration evident in his features. "We don't even know where Jose's house is. Without that, we can't verify what Miguel said. We're back at square one."

I swallow hard, trying to process the loss. "But he mentioned collusion. The Mexicans were in bed with someone, and that's what got them killed. We need to figure out who."

Harris nods, his eyes scanning the room. "I'll send the fingerprints down to DNA. Maybe we can track down Miguel's family, find out what we can."

I can't shake the feeling of dread as we step back from the chaos. The implications of Miguel's death sink in like lead. Someone in the station is working against us.

"I need to take the files home. It's clear we can't trust everyone here."

"Good idea," he agrees, urgency lacing his tone. "You can't let this slip away from you, Kane. Keep your head down and watch your back. I don't want you caught up in any of this. As soon as you get the results, take them and work them out away from here."

I nod, though the pit in my stomach deepens.

I drive home, each bump in the road reminding me of how precarious everything feels. Once inside, I kick off my shoes and drop my gun and badge on the table. I need to study Miguel's file, figure out what clues I'm missing.

The folder is thick, filled with pages of information about Miguel. I flip through them, my eyes skimming over his criminal record, the notes on his connections to the cartel, and a few scribbled observations from previous interrogations. My stomach churns as I read.

"Miguel was a low-level peddler, nothing more," I mutter to myself, frustration boiling. "He was in over his head."

My phone buzzes, interrupting my thoughts. I glance at the screen—an ad for pizza delivery. I'm starving. I toss the folder aside and place the order, waiting impatiently for the food to arrive.

Ten minutes later, I hear a knock at the door.

"Finally," I say, sliding my wallet into my back pocket as I stride to the door, ready to chow down.

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