Chapter 1: Another Night, Another Body I sat in my ratty old recliner—slumped was probably a better description. I rarely made it to bed these days. The TV was on, but I was half-asleep, not even sure what show I had been watching. The glow from the screen flickered across the bare walls of my living room, casting shifting shadows that played tricks on a tired mind. A few empty Coke cans and the remains of my pizza littered the coffee table. I usually had beer with pizza, but I hadn’t been to the store in weeks. The house was quiet—the kind of quiet that settles in when your wife and daughter have moved on. A hollow, lonely silence. I needed sleep. Buzzzzzzz. Buzzzzzzz. I already knew what this was. I glanced at my watch—0130. Then at the phone screen—DISPATCH SERGEANT. I grabbed the phone from the table and answered. “MacLaren.” The voice on the other end was all too familiar these days. “Detective MacLaren, this is Sgt. Kline. We’ve got a shooting on the east side. Are you available to respond?” “Yeah,” I grumbled, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I reached for the small spiral notebook I always kept nearby. “What is it?” “Head to the 900 block of Pruden Ave. One victim, male, appears to be a gunshot. He was not removed,” Kline continued. “Your brother is also en route, as is the coroner.” I exhaled and pushed myself up from the recliner. “Alright, thanks, Sarge. I’m about 30 minutes out.” I disconnected the call and flipped through the TV channels until I found the weather report. Damn. Ten degrees, with twenty-five mile-per-hour winds. Snow. Just my luck. I jotted it down in my notebook before heading to get dressed. Ten minutes later, I was in the car, the heater barely making a dent in the cold. The old warehouse district. Strange place for an early morning shooting. I pulled the zipper all the way up on my heavy winter coat—my call-out coat, as I liked to call it—bracing against the Arctic cold as I stepped out of my old, unmarked Crown Vic onto the snow-covered street. The wind whipped viciously down the abandoned streets like the killer, cold and unseen, but leaving just enough clues you knew it was there. The gusts were so sharp they felt like they were slicing right through the heavy layers of my call-out coat as if they were nothing more than paper. The cold slammed into my face, taking the breath from my body with a grip as tight as the reaper. It was as if the city was trying to keep its secrets buried deep beneath the snow. Dare to dig too deep, and maybe yours would be the next body found. The farther I moved toward the body, where my brother, Detective Graham MacLaren, and numerous uniformed officers lingered behind yellow scene tape flapping in the wind, the more I was smothered by the scent of exhaust from idling police cars. It hung heavy in the air, mixing with the faint, familiar cold of winter, a silent warning that trouble was near. Whatever lay ahead would offer no comfort against the cold tonight. The street was nearly silent. Just the wind and an occasional announcement from the officer’s radios interrupted the stillness. Dead, like the poor old soul on the ground. No headlights were cutting through the darkness, no shuffling steps from late-night wanderers. I didn’t even see a stray dog digging through the garbage. Nothing, just the stillness of death settling over the block like a heavy fog. The kind that made your skin crawl, the kind that whispered that something had gone terribly wrong. What the hell happened here? I used to shag calls out here when I was a rookie—back when this part of town had life; when it had a purpose. The constant hum of trucks, night-shift workers, light and noise kept the streets moving. The air smelled like oil, hot coffee, and the faint bite of diesel exhaust. You could find a coffee shop open at 3 AM, and see dockworkers hauling crates under sodium lights. There were parking lots full of cars, and nearby bars where guys blew their paychecks before heading home. A place that never really slept. Now? Just another dead corner of the city; hollowed out and left to rot. Boarded-up windows, rusted-out fences, pavement cracked and buckling from years of neglect. Our city was once a center of industry and innovation. Dayton gave the world the airplane, the cash register, the electric ignition, the pop-top can, microfiche, and so much more. But that was another time. Another life in what feels like should have been another city. Now, the factories were just crumbling monuments to what used to be. Their rusted skeletons stand as silent memories of better, more prosperous times. The only things still manufactured in this town: poverty, overdoses, and crime stories no one beyond our borders ever seems to read. The city was dying, and no one noticed. They probably wouldn’t until the stink of death made it impossible to ignore. I shook my head slightly and moved closer to the crumpled body, my breath circling my head like a ghost, silent and fleeting in the frigid night air. The only thing moving in the frozen crime scene was the slow, seeping spread of blood into the slush. The snow, once a brilliant white, was now just a crimson smear as the blood was hungrily absorbed. The streetlights flickered, casting weak cones of light onto the pavement, their glow barely touching the body sprawled beneath them. Footsteps crunched behind me as another officer approached apassed on by. No one spoke. There was nothing to say. Just another night, another body, another name that would fade into the city’s long list of forgotten dead. I knelt beside the body on the snow-covered stoop, the cold seeping through my pants as I looked for wounds beyond the obvious. Brown-skinned—Middle Eastern, maybe. Mid-thirties. He was well-dressed, wearing a dark wool overcoat that probably cost more than my car. The fabric was thick and expensive, but money hadn’t done him any favors tonight. A single shot. Center mass. Cops and soldiers are trained that way. No sign of a struggle, no defensive wounds, no scattered belongings. It didn’t look like he had tried to run or even fight back, suggesting he never saw it coming. Just a man who had stepped outside for a smoke and died before he could take another breath. A clean, efficient kill, like a ghost had done it. Graham crouched beside me, flipping open his notepad. His breath curled in the air as he read from the pages. "Hassan Al-Khatib. No warrants, but he’s got some FI’s in the system," he began. "Vice has stopped him a few times on Keowee and N. Main. No convictions that I can see yet, but I’ll dig deeper when we get back to the office." I exhaled, looking down the dimly lit street with a practiced eye. A few lights glowed weakly, but most of the neighborhood sat in darkness. No movement. Nothing but the slow drip of melting snow from awnings. "So far, we’ve got nothing," Graham added, rubbing his hand across his forehead. "It’s clean. No casings, no prints, no tracks leading in or out." "Do we have ANYTHING?" I asked, my voice low and steady. "Please tell me we at least have the bullet." "The e-crew’s on it," Graham said, flipping through a few more pages. "It’s stuck in the frame of the door." I looked past the body to the splintered hole in the wooden frame. A gaping black hole against chipped white paint. This was a tight shot, precisely controlled. Whoever did this didn’t feel like the usual gang shooter. Is it possible, here in Dayton, that this was a professional? My phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it at first, but finally pulled it out and glanced at the screen, Jenkins. I groaned slightly and ignored the call. Graham glanced over, smirking. “Sarge?” I nodded and slipped the phone back into my pocket. “He can wait.” Graham didn’t argue. He knew as well as I did—Sarge called before there was anything worth reporting. Before the scene was processed, the evidence bagged, or the first witness even questioned. He wanted answers but we had just started to dump out the puzzle. "Chris our e-crew tonight?" I asked. Graham nodded. "Yeah, and so far, it’s just pictures and the bullet.” I exhaled sharply, shaking my head. "Ghost or not, someone saw something. Nobody vanishes in this city." I turned my attention back to the scene. The snow-covered ground was untouched except for Al-Khatib’s body and the dark stain of blood spreading beneath him. No footprints. No shell casings. No scuff marks from a struggle. The execution had been precise. The shooter was disciplined. One shot. No hesitation. No overkill. That wasn’t luck—that was experience. A street shooter would’ve emptied the mag, spraying rounds in all directions. This was different. Controlled. This wasn’t some junkie looking to make a quick score. It also wasn’t the usual street beef. This was something else. Something worse. Graham smirked, watching me. "You planning to open a gallery?" I didn’t look up, just kept snapping photos, framing the scene through the scratched viewfinder of my old camera. "When we get back, I’ll study these," I said. "Sometimes a picture catches what the eye misses. This way, I won’t have to wait on Chris’ copies." Graham shook his head, amused. "You know, you would get much better pictures with your phone." I let out a short laugh. "Yeah, and then my entire phone would get subpoenaed." I turned toward Graham with a smirk. "And then I’d have some punk defense attorney enjoying my family photos. No thanks." Graham laughed, but we both knew it was true. Defense attorneys might look at all of my personal stuff, but the real concern was how they’d pick apart every little thing, twisting the evidence to make a jury doubt the truth. I wasn’t giving them any extra ammunition. I walked over just as Chris finished digging the bullet from the wooden frame. He held it up for us to see, turning it slightly, and inspecting the mangled metal under the little bit of light we had. "Pretty damaged," he muttered. "But I think the lab can identify it." "Good," I replied, sliding my hands into my coat pockets, hoping for a little warmth. "What about trajectory? Any thoughts on where it was fired from?" Chris glanced down the street, his expression thoughtful. "Not from a rooftop—too level. And too high to be from the street." I frowned. "So what are you telling me, Chris?" He exhaled, looking back at the hole in the doorframe. The shooter had elevation. Not much, but definitely above ground level—something in between," he said. "Maybe even a vehicle—something with a high vantage point. The roof, or maybe the back of a truck. The thought settled in my gut like a stone. A moving shooter meant precision, planning. It meant they were dealing with a pro. This wasn’t a deal gone bad or a moment of rage. This seemed much more like a targeted attack. It was calculated. Methodical. Merciless. I let out a slow breath. The night was still—too still. It felt like the city itself was holding its breath, fearing for its life. No sirens, no murmurs from a gathered crowd—only the quiet hum of idling engines and the occasional squawk from a police radio, the same as when I arrived. I turned back toward my car, the promise of warmth pushing me forward. I’d seen enough for tonight. The scene wouldn’t tell me anything else—not yet. We needed lab work, traffic cams, a reason. But there was one thing I already knew. Whoever did this wasn’t just lucky. They were good. I walked toward the yellow crime scene tape, lifting it as I ducked under. "Hernandez!" The uniformed officer turned, rubbing his gloved hands together for warmth. "Yeah, Detective?" "Check all the parked cars on this block.” Hernandez hesitated. "Anything in particular?" I spread my arms. "Anything out of place." He nodded and moved off, sweeping his flashlight over windshields and license plates. I didn’t expect much—whoever pulled this off wasn’t sloppy. But nobody was perfect. If they used a vehicle, they had to park it somewhere. Maybe a neighbor saw something, maybe a camera caught movement, maybe there was a roof with no snow where there should be. Graham was already moving toward the group of officers, reminding them to show some damn respect—there was still a dead man on the ground. The coroner had left him there longer than necessary. Everyone knew this wasn’t a rescue job, but it still felt wrong, leaving him out in the cold like that. Blood had stopped spreading, the dark stain freezing into the slush beneath him. His coat had fallen open just enough to reveal a crisp white dress shirt beneath it, now ruined by a single, perfectly placed shot. I turned back one last time, looking down at Al-Khatib’s frozen face. His eyes were still open, locked in permanent shock. He never saw it coming. Neither did we. But we would soon.

Chapter 1: Another Night, Another Body I sat in my ratty old recliner—slumped was probably a better description. I rarely made it to bed these days. The TV was on, but I was half-asleep, not even sure what show I had been watching. The glow from the screen flickered across the bare walls of my living room, casting shifting shadows that played tricks on a tired mind. A few empty Coke cans and the remains of my pizza littered the coffee table. I usually had beer with pizza, but I hadn’t been to the store in weeks. The house was quiet—the kind of quiet that settles in when your wife and daughter have moved on. A hollow, lonely silence. I needed sleep. Buzzzzzzz. Buzzzzzzz. I already knew what this was. I glanced at my watch—0130. Then at the phone screen—DISPATCH SERGEANT. I grabbed the phone from the table and answered. “MacLaren.” The voice on the other end was all too familiar these days. “Detective MacLaren, this is Sgt. Kline. We’ve got a shooting on the east side. Are you available to respond?” “Yeah,” I grumbled, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I reached for the small spiral notebook I always kept nearby. “What is it?” “Head to the 900 block of Pruden Ave. One victim, male, appears to be a gunshot. He was not removed,” Kline continued. “Your brother is also en route, as is the coroner.” I exhaled and pushed myself up from the recliner. “Alright, thanks, Sarge. I’m about 30 minutes out.” I disconnected the call and flipped through the TV channels until I found the weather report. Damn. Ten degrees, with twenty-five mile-per-hour winds. Snow. Just my luck. I jotted it down in my notebook before heading to get dressed. Ten minutes later, I was in the car, the heater barely making a dent in the cold. The old warehouse district. Strange place for an early morning shooting. I pulled the zipper all the way up on my heavy winter coat—my call-out coat, as I liked to call it—bracing against the Arctic cold as I stepped out of my old, unmarked Crown Vic onto the snow-covered street. The wind whipped viciously down the abandoned streets like the killer, cold and unseen, but leaving just enough clues you knew it was there. The gusts were so sharp they felt like they were slicing right through the heavy layers of my call-out coat as if they were nothing more than paper. The cold slammed into my face, taking the breath from my body with a grip as tight as the reaper. It was as if the city was trying to keep its secrets buried deep beneath the snow. Dare to dig too deep, and maybe yours would be the next body found. The farther I moved toward the body, where my brother, Detective Graham MacLaren, and numerous uniformed officers lingered behind yellow scene tape flapping in the wind, the more I was smothered by the scent of exhaust from idling police cars. It hung heavy in the air, mixing with the faint, familiar cold of winter, a silent warning that trouble was near. Whatever lay ahead would offer no comfort against the cold tonight. The street was nearly silent. Just the wind and an occasional announcement from the officer’s radios interrupted the stillness. Dead, like the poor old soul on the ground. No headlights were cutting through the darkness, no shuffling steps from late-night wanderers. I didn’t even see a stray dog digging through the garbage. Nothing, just the stillness of death settling over the block like a heavy fog. The kind that made your skin crawl, the kind that whispered that something had gone terribly wrong. What the hell happened here? I used to shag calls out here when I was a rookie—back when this part of town had life; when it had a purpose. The constant hum of trucks, night-shift workers, light and noise kept the streets moving. The air smelled like oil, hot coffee, and the faint bite of diesel exhaust. You could find a coffee shop open at 3 AM, and see dockworkers hauling crates under sodium lights. There were parking lots full of cars, and nearby bars where guys blew their paychecks before heading home. A place that never really slept. Now? Just another dead corner of the city; hollowed out and left to rot. Boarded-up windows, rusted-out fences, pavement cracked and buckling from years of neglect. Our city was once a center of industry and innovation. Dayton gave the world the airplane, the cash register, the electric ignition, the pop-top can, microfiche, and so much more. But that was another time. Another life in what feels like should have been another city. Now, the factories were just crumbling monuments to what used to be. Their rusted skeletons stand as silent memories of better, more prosperous times. The only things still manufactured in this town: poverty, overdoses, and crime stories no one beyond our borders ever seems to read. The city was dying, and no one noticed. They probably wouldn’t until the stink of death made it impossible to ignore. I shook my head slightly and moved closer to the crumpled body, my breath circling my head like a ghost, silent and fleeting in the frigid night air. The only thing moving in the frozen crime scene was the slow, seeping spread of blood into the slush. The snow, once a brilliant white, was now just a crimson smear as the blood was hungrily absorbed. The streetlights flickered, casting weak cones of light onto the pavement, their glow barely touching the body sprawled beneath them. Footsteps crunched behind me as another officer approached apassed on by. No one spoke. There was nothing to say. Just another night, another body, another name that would fade into the city’s long list of forgotten dead. I knelt beside the body on the snow-covered stoop, the cold seeping through my pants as I looked for wounds beyond the obvious. Brown-skinned—Middle Eastern, maybe. Mid-thirties. He was well-dressed, wearing a dark wool overcoat that probably cost more than my car. The fabric was thick and expensive, but money hadn’t done him any favors tonight. A single shot. Center mass. Cops and soldiers are trained that way. No sign of a struggle, no defensive wounds, no scattered belongings. It didn’t look like he had tried to run or even fight back, suggesting he never saw it coming. Just a man who had stepped outside for a smoke and died before he could take another breath. A clean, efficient kill, like a ghost had done it. Graham crouched beside me, flipping open his notepad. His breath curled in the air as he read from the pages. "Hassan Al-Khatib. No warrants, but he’s got some FI’s in the system," he began. "Vice has stopped him a few times on Keowee and N. Main. No convictions that I can see yet, but I’ll dig deeper when we get back to the office." I exhaled, looking down the dimly lit street with a practiced eye. A few lights glowed weakly, but most of the neighborhood sat in darkness. No movement. Nothing but the slow drip of melting snow from awnings. "So far, we’ve got nothing," Graham added, rubbing his hand across his forehead. "It’s clean. No casings, no prints, no tracks leading in or out." "Do we have ANYTHING?" I asked, my voice low and steady. "Please tell me we at least have the bullet." "The e-crew’s on it," Graham said, flipping through a few more pages. "It’s stuck in the frame of the door." I looked past the body to the splintered hole in the wooden frame. A gaping black hole against chipped white paint. This was a tight shot, precisely controlled. Whoever did this didn’t feel like the usual gang shooter. Is it possible, here in Dayton, that this was a professional? My phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it at first, but finally pulled it out and glanced at the screen, Jenkins. I groaned slightly and ignored the call. Graham glanced over, smirking. “Sarge?” I nodded and slipped the phone back into my pocket. “He can wait.” Graham didn’t argue. He knew as well as I did—Sarge called before there was anything worth reporting. Before the scene was processed, the evidence bagged, or the first witness even questioned. He wanted answers but we had just started to dump out the puzzle. "Chris our e-crew tonight?" I asked. Graham nodded. "Yeah, and so far, it’s just pictures and the bullet.” I exhaled sharply, shaking my head. "Ghost or not, someone saw something. Nobody vanishes in this city." I turned my attention back to the scene. The snow-covered ground was untouched except for Al-Khatib’s body and the dark stain of blood spreading beneath him. No footprints. No shell casings. No scuff marks from a struggle. The execution had been precise. The shooter was disciplined. One shot. No hesitation. No overkill. That wasn’t luck—that was experience. A street shooter would’ve emptied the mag, spraying rounds in all directions. This was different. Controlled. This wasn’t some junkie looking to make a quick score. It also wasn’t the usual street beef. This was something else. Something worse. Graham smirked, watching me. "You planning to open a gallery?" I didn’t look up, just kept snapping photos, framing the scene through the scratched viewfinder of my old camera. "When we get back, I’ll study these," I said. "Sometimes a picture catches what the eye misses. This way, I won’t have to wait on Chris’ copies." Graham shook his head, amused. "You know, you would get much better pictures with your phone." I let out a short laugh. "Yeah, and then my entire phone would get subpoenaed." I turned toward Graham with a smirk. "And then I’d have some punk defense attorney enjoying my family photos. No thanks." Graham laughed, but we both knew it was true. Defense attorneys might look at all of my personal stuff, but the real concern was how they’d pick apart every little thing, twisting the evidence to make a jury doubt the truth. I wasn’t giving them any extra ammunition. I walked over just as Chris finished digging the bullet from the wooden frame. He held it up for us to see, turning it slightly, and inspecting the mangled metal under the little bit of light we had. "Pretty damaged," he muttered. "But I think the lab can identify it." "Good," I replied, sliding my hands into my coat pockets, hoping for a little warmth. "What about trajectory? Any thoughts on where it was fired from?" Chris glanced down the street, his expression thoughtful. "Not from a rooftop—too level. And too high to be from the street." I frowned. "So what are you telling me, Chris?" He exhaled, looking back at the hole in the doorframe. The shooter had elevation. Not much, but definitely above ground level—something in between," he said. "Maybe even a vehicle—something with a high vantage point. The roof, or maybe the back of a truck. The thought settled in my gut like a stone. A moving shooter meant precision, planning. It meant they were dealing with a pro. This wasn’t a deal gone bad or a moment of rage. This seemed much more like a targeted attack. It was calculated. Methodical. Merciless. I let out a slow breath. The night was still—too still. It felt like the city itself was holding its breath, fearing for its life. No sirens, no murmurs from a gathered crowd—only the quiet hum of idling engines and the occasional squawk from a police radio, the same as when I arrived. I turned back toward my car, the promise of warmth pushing me forward. I’d seen enough for tonight. The scene wouldn’t tell me anything else—not yet. We needed lab work, traffic cams, a reason. But there was one thing I already knew. Whoever did this wasn’t just lucky. They were good. I walked toward the yellow crime scene tape, lifting it as I ducked under. "Hernandez!" The uniformed officer turned, rubbing his gloved hands together for warmth. "Yeah, Detective?" "Check all the parked cars on this block.” Hernandez hesitated. "Anything in particular?" I spread my arms. "Anything out of place." He nodded and moved off, sweeping his flashlight over windshields and license plates. I didn’t expect much—whoever pulled this off wasn’t sloppy. But nobody was perfect. If they used a vehicle, they had to park it somewhere. Maybe a neighbor saw something, maybe a camera caught movement, maybe there was a roof with no snow where there should be. Graham was already moving toward the group of officers, reminding them to show some damn respect—there was still a dead man on the ground. The coroner had left him there longer than necessary. Everyone knew this wasn’t a rescue job, but it still felt wrong, leaving him out in the cold like that. Blood had stopped spreading, the dark stain freezing into the slush beneath him. His coat had fallen open just enough to reveal a crisp white dress shirt beneath it, now ruined by a single, perfectly placed shot. I turned back one last time, looking down at Al-Khatib’s frozen face. His eyes were still open, locked in permanent shock. He never saw it coming. Neither did we. But we would soon.

Chapter 1: Another Night, Another Body I sat in my ratty old recliner—slumped was probably a better description. I rarely made it to bed these days. The TV was on, but I was half-asleep, not even sure what show I had been watching. The glow from the screen flickered across the bare walls of my living room, casting shifting shadows that played tricks on a tired mind. A few empty Coke cans and the remains of my pizza littered the coffee table. I usually had beer with pizza, but I hadn’t been to the store in weeks. The house was quiet—the kind of quiet that settles in when your wife and daughter have moved on. A hollow, lonely silence. I needed sleep. Buzzzzzzz. Buzzzzzzz. I already knew what this was. I glanced at my watch—0130. Then at the phone screen—DISPATCH SERGEANT. I grabbed the phone from the table and answered. “MacLaren.” The voice on the other end was all too familiar these days. “Detective MacLaren, this is Sgt. Kline. We’ve got a shooting on the east side. Are you available to respond?” “Yeah,” I grumbled, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I reached for the small spiral notebook I always kept nearby. “What is it?” “Head to the 900 block of Pruden Ave. One victim, male, appears to be a gunshot. He was not removed,” Kline continued. “Your brother is also en route, as is the coroner.” I exhaled and pushed myself up from the recliner. “Alright, thanks, Sarge. I’m about 30 minutes out.” I disconnected the call and flipped through the TV channels until I found the weather report. Damn. Ten degrees, with twenty-five mile-per-hour winds. Snow. Just my luck. I jotted it down in my notebook before heading to get dressed. Ten minutes later, I was in the car, the heater barely making a dent in the cold. The old warehouse district. Strange place for an early morning shooting. I pulled the zipper all the way up on my heavy winter coat—my call-out coat, as I liked to call it—bracing against the Arctic cold as I stepped out of my old, unmarked Crown Vic onto the snow-covered street. The wind whipped viciously down the abandoned streets like the killer, cold and unseen, but leaving just enough clues you knew it was there. The gusts were so sharp they felt like they were slicing right through the heavy layers of my call-out coat as if they were nothing more than paper. The cold slammed into my face, taking the breath from my body with a grip as tight as the reaper. It was as if the city was trying to keep its secrets buried deep beneath the snow. Dare to dig too deep, and maybe yours would be the next body found. The farther I moved toward the body, where my brother, Detective Graham MacLaren, and numerous uniformed officers lingered behind yellow scene tape flapping in the wind, the more I was smothered by the scent of exhaust from idling police cars. It hung heavy in the air, mixing with the faint, familiar cold of winter, a silent warning that trouble was near. Whatever lay ahead would offer no comfort against the cold tonight. The street was nearly silent. Just the wind and an occasional announcement from the officer’s radios interrupted the stillness. Dead, like the poor old soul on the ground. No headlights were cutting through the darkness, no shuffling steps from late-night wanderers. I didn’t even see a stray dog digging through the garbage. Nothing, just the stillness of death settling over the block like a heavy fog. The kind that made your skin crawl, the kind that whispered that something had gone terribly wrong. What the hell happened here? I used to shag calls out here when I was a rookie—back when this part of town had life; when it had a purpose. The constant hum of trucks, night-shift workers, light and noise kept the streets moving. The air smelled like oil, hot coffee, and the faint bite of diesel exhaust. You could find a coffee shop open at 3 AM, and see dockworkers hauling crates under sodium lights. There were parking lots full of cars, and nearby bars where guys blew their paychecks before heading home. A place that never really slept. Now? Just another dead corner of the city; hollowed out and left to rot. Boarded-up windows, rusted-out fences, pavement cracked and buckling from years of neglect. Our city was once a center of industry and innovation. Dayton gave the world the airplane, the cash register, the electric ignition, the pop-top can, microfiche, and so much more. But that was another time. Another life in what feels like should have been another city. Now, the factories were just crumbling monuments to what used to be. Their rusted skeletons stand as silent memories of better, more prosperous times. The only things still manufactured in this town: poverty, overdoses, and crime stories no one beyond our borders ever seems to read. The city was dying, and no one noticed. They probably wouldn’t until the stink of death made it impossible to ignore. I shook my head slightly and moved closer to the crumpled body, my breath circling my head like a ghost, silent and fleeting in the frigid night air. The only thing moving in the frozen crime scene was the slow, seeping spread of blood into the slush. The snow, once a brilliant white, was now just a crimson smear as the blood was hungrily absorbed. The streetlights flickered, casting weak cones of light onto the pavement, their glow barely touching the body sprawled beneath them. Footsteps crunched behind me as another officer approached apassed on by. No one spoke. There was nothing to say. Just another night, another body, another name that would fade into the city’s long list of forgotten dead. I knelt beside the body on the snow-covered stoop, the cold seeping through my pants as I looked for wounds beyond the obvious. Brown-skinned—Middle Eastern, maybe. Mid-thirties. He was well-dressed, wearing a dark wool overcoat that probably cost more than my car. The fabric was thick and expensive, but money hadn’t done him any favors tonight. A single shot. Center mass. Cops and soldiers are trained that way. No sign of a struggle, no defensive wounds, no scattered belongings. It didn’t look like he had tried to run or even fight back, suggesting he never saw it coming. Just a man who had stepped outside for a smoke and died before he could take another breath. A clean, efficient kill, like a ghost had done it. Graham crouched beside me, flipping open his notepad. His breath curled in the air as he read from the pages. "Hassan Al-Khatib. No warrants, but he’s got some FI’s in the system," he began. "Vice has stopped him a few times on Keowee and N. Main. No convictions that I can see yet, but I’ll dig deeper when we get back to the office." I exhaled, looking down the dimly lit street with a practiced eye. A few lights glowed weakly, but most of the neighborhood sat in darkness. No movement. Nothing but the slow drip of melting snow from awnings. "So far, we’ve got nothing," Graham added, rubbing his hand across his forehead. "It’s clean. No casings, no prints, no tracks leading in or out." "Do we have ANYTHING?" I asked, my voice low and steady. "Please tell me we at least have the bullet." "The e-crew’s on it," Graham said, flipping through a few more pages. "It’s stuck in the frame of the door." I looked past the body to the splintered hole in the wooden frame. A gaping black hole against chipped white paint. This was a tight shot, precisely controlled. Whoever did this didn’t feel like the usual gang shooter. Is it possible, here in Dayton, that this was a professional? My phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it at first, but finally pulled it out and glanced at the screen, Jenkins. I groaned slightly and ignored the call. Graham glanced over, smirking. “Sarge?” I nodded and slipped the phone back into my pocket. “He can wait.” Graham didn’t argue. He knew as well as I did—Sarge called before there was anything worth reporting. Before the scene was processed, the evidence bagged, or the first witness even questioned. He wanted answers but we had just started to dump out the puzzle. "Chris our e-crew tonight?" I asked. Graham nodded. "Yeah, and so far, it’s just pictures and the bullet.” I exhaled sharply, shaking my head. "Ghost or not, someone saw something. Nobody vanishes in this city." I turned my attention back to the scene. The snow-covered ground was untouched except for Al-Khatib’s body and the dark stain of blood spreading beneath him. No footprints. No shell casings. No scuff marks from a struggle. The execution had been precise. The shooter was disciplined. One shot. No hesitation. No overkill. That wasn’t luck—that was experience. A street shooter would’ve emptied the mag, spraying rounds in all directions. This was different. Controlled. This wasn’t some junkie looking to make a quick score. It also wasn’t the usual street beef. This was something else. Something worse. Graham smirked, watching me. "You planning to open a gallery?" I didn’t look up, just kept snapping photos, framing the scene through the scratched viewfinder of my old camera. "When we get back, I’ll study these," I said. "Sometimes a picture catches what the eye misses. This way, I won’t have to wait on Chris’ copies." Graham shook his head, amused. "You know, you would get much better pictures with your phone." I let out a short laugh. "Yeah, and then my entire phone would get subpoenaed." I turned toward Graham with a smirk. "And then I’d have some punk defense attorney enjoying my family photos. No thanks." Graham laughed, but we both knew it was true. Defense attorneys might look at all of my personal stuff, but the real concern was how they’d pick apart every little thing, twisting the evidence to make a jury doubt the truth. I wasn’t giving them any extra ammunition. I walked over just as Chris finished digging the bullet from the wooden frame. He held it up for us to see, turning it slightly, and inspecting the mangled metal under the little bit of light we had. "Pretty damaged," he muttered. "But I think the lab can identify it." "Good," I replied, sliding my hands into my coat pockets, hoping for a little warmth. "What about trajectory? Any thoughts on where it was fired from?" Chris glanced down the street, his expression thoughtful. "Not from a rooftop—too level. And too high to be from the street." I frowned. "So what are you telling me, Chris?" He exhaled, looking back at the hole in the doorframe. The shooter had elevation. Not much, but definitely above ground level—something in between," he said. "Maybe even a vehicle—something with a high vantage point. The roof, or maybe the back of a truck. The thought settled in my gut like a stone. A moving shooter meant precision, planning. It meant they were dealing with a pro. This wasn’t a deal gone bad or a moment of rage. This seemed much more like a targeted attack. It was calculated. Methodical. Merciless. I let out a slow breath. The night was still—too still. It felt like the city itself was holding its breath, fearing for its life. No sirens, no murmurs from a gathered crowd—only the quiet hum of idling engines and the occasional squawk from a police radio, the same as when I arrived. I turned back toward my car, the promise of warmth pushing me forward. I’d seen enough for tonight. The scene wouldn’t tell me anything else—not yet. We needed lab work, traffic cams, a reason. But there was one thing I already knew. Whoever did this wasn’t just lucky. They were good. I walked toward the yellow crime scene tape, lifting it as I ducked under. "Hernandez!" The uniformed officer turned, rubbing his gloved hands together for warmth. "Yeah, Detective?" "Check all the parked cars on this block.” Hernandez hesitated. "Anything in particular?" I spread my arms. "Anything out of place." He nodded and moved off, sweeping his flashlight over windshields and license plates. I didn’t expect much—whoever pulled this off wasn’t sloppy. But nobody was perfect. If they used a vehicle, they had to park it somewhere. Maybe a neighbor saw something, maybe a camera caught movement, maybe there was a roof with no snow where there should be. Graham was already moving toward the group of officers, reminding them to show some damn respect—there was still a dead man on the ground. The coroner had left him there longer than necessary. Everyone knew this wasn’t a rescue job, but it still felt wrong, leaving him out in the cold like that. Blood had stopped spreading, the dark stain freezing into the slush beneath him. His coat had fallen open just enough to reveal a crisp white dress shirt beneath it, now ruined by a single, perfectly placed shot. I turned back one last time, looking down at Al-Khatib’s frozen face. His eyes were still open, locked in permanent shock. He never saw it coming. Neither did we. But we would soon.

Chapter 1: Another Night, Another Body I sat in my ratty old recliner—slumped was probably a better description. I rarely made it to bed these days. The TV was on, but I was half-asleep, not even sure what show I had been watching. The glow from the screen flickered across the bare walls of my living room, casting shifting shadows that played tricks on a tired mind. A few empty Coke cans and the remains of my pizza littered the coffee table. I usually had beer with pizza, but I hadn’t been to the store in weeks. The house was quiet—the kind of quiet that settles in when your wife and daughter have moved on. A hollow, lonely silence. I needed sleep. Buzzzzzzz. Buzzzzzzz. I already knew what this was. I glanced at my watch—0130. Then at the phone screen—DISPATCH SERGEANT. I grabbed the phone from the table and answered. “MacLaren.” The voice on the other end was all too familiar these days. “Detective MacLaren, this is Sgt. Kline. We’ve got a shooting on the east side. Are you available to respond?” “Yeah,” I grumbled, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I reached for the small spiral notebook I always kept nearby. “What is it?” “Head to the 900 block of Pruden Ave. One victim, male, appears to be a gunshot. He was not removed,” Kline continued. “Your brother is also en route, as is the coroner.” I exhaled and pushed myself up from the recliner. “Alright, thanks, Sarge. I’m about 30 minutes out.” I disconnected the call and flipped through the TV channels until I found the weather report. Damn. Ten degrees, with twenty-five mile-per-hour winds. Snow. Just my luck. I jotted it down in my notebook before heading to get dressed. Ten minutes later, I was in the car, the heater barely making a dent in the cold. The old warehouse district. Strange place for an early morning shooting. I pulled the zipper all the way up on my heavy winter coat—my call-out coat, as I liked to call it—bracing against the Arctic cold as I stepped out of my old, unmarked Crown Vic onto the snow-covered street. The wind whipped viciously down the abandoned streets like the killer, cold and unseen, but leaving just enough clues you knew it was there. The gusts were so sharp they felt like they were slicing right through the heavy layers of my call-out coat as if they were nothing more than paper. The cold slammed into my face, taking the breath from my body with a grip as tight as the reaper. It was as if the city was trying to keep its secrets buried deep beneath the snow. Dare to dig too deep, and maybe yours would be the next body found. The farther I moved toward the body, where my brother, Detective Graham MacLaren, and numerous uniformed officers lingered behind yellow scene tape flapping in the wind, the more I was smothered by the scent of exhaust from idling police cars. It hung heavy in the air, mixing with the faint, familiar cold of winter, a silent warning that trouble was near. Whatever lay ahead would offer no comfort against the cold tonight. The street was nearly silent. Just the wind and an occasional announcement from the officer’s radios interrupted the stillness. Dead, like the poor old soul on the ground. No headlights were cutting through the darkness, no shuffling steps from late-night wanderers. I didn’t even see a stray dog digging through the garbage. Nothing, just the stillness of death settling over the block like a heavy fog. The kind that made your skin crawl, the kind that whispered that something had gone terribly wrong. What the hell happened here? I used to shag calls out here when I was a rookie—back when this part of town had life; when it had a purpose. The constant hum of trucks, night-shift workers, light and noise kept the streets moving. The air smelled like oil, hot coffee, and the faint bite of diesel exhaust. You could find a coffee shop open at 3 AM, and see dockworkers hauling crates under sodium lights. There were parking lots full of cars, and nearby bars where guys blew their paychecks before heading home. A place that never really slept. Now? Just another dead corner of the city; hollowed out and left to rot. Boarded-up windows, rusted-out fences, pavement cracked and buckling from years of neglect. Our city was once a center of industry and innovation. Dayton gave the world the airplane, the cash register, the electric ignition, the pop-top can, microfiche, and so much more. But that was another time. Another life in what feels like should have been another city. Now, the factories were just crumbling monuments to what used to be. Their rusted skeletons stand as silent memories of better, more prosperous times. The only things still manufactured in this town: poverty, overdoses, and crime stories no one beyond our borders ever seems to read. The city was dying, and no one noticed. They probably wouldn’t until the stink of death made it impossible to ignore. I shook my head slightly and moved closer to the crumpled body, my breath circling my head like a ghost, silent and fleeting in the frigid night air. The only thing moving in the frozen crime scene was the slow, seeping spread of blood into the slush. The snow, once a brilliant white, was now just a crimson smear as the blood was hungrily absorbed. The streetlights flickered, casting weak cones of light onto the pavement, their glow barely touching the body sprawled beneath them. Footsteps crunched behind me as another officer approached apassed on by. No one spoke. There was nothing to say. Just another night, another body, another name that would fade into the city’s long list of forgotten dead. I knelt beside the body on the snow-covered stoop, the cold seeping through my pants as I looked for wounds beyond the obvious. Brown-skinned—Middle Eastern, maybe. Mid-thirties. He was well-dressed, wearing a dark wool overcoat that probably cost more than my car. The fabric was thick and expensive, but money hadn’t done him any favors tonight. A single shot. Center mass. Cops and soldiers are trained that way. No sign of a struggle, no defensive wounds, no scattered belongings. It didn’t look like he had tried to run or even fight back, suggesting he never saw it coming. Just a man who had stepped outside for a smoke and died before he could take another breath. A clean, efficient kill, like a ghost had done it. Graham crouched beside me, flipping open his notepad. His breath curled in the air as he read from the pages. "Hassan Al-Khatib. No warrants, but he’s got some FI’s in the system," he began. "Vice has stopped him a few times on Keowee and N. Main. No convictions that I can see yet, but I’ll dig deeper when we get back to the office." I exhaled, looking down the dimly lit street with a practiced eye. A few lights glowed weakly, but most of the neighborhood sat in darkness. No movement. Nothing but the slow drip of melting snow from awnings. "So far, we’ve got nothing," Graham added, rubbing his hand across his forehead. "It’s clean. No casings, no prints, no tracks leading in or out." "Do we have ANYTHING?" I asked, my voice low and steady. "Please tell me we at least have the bullet." "The e-crew’s on it," Graham said, flipping through a few more pages. "It’s stuck in the frame of the door." I looked past the body to the splintered hole in the wooden frame. A gaping black hole against chipped white paint. This was a tight shot, precisely controlled. Whoever did this didn’t feel like the usual gang shooter. Is it possible, here in Dayton, that this was a professional? My phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it at first, but finally pulled it out and glanced at the screen, Jenkins. I groaned slightly and ignored the call. Graham glanced over, smirking. “Sarge?” I nodded and slipped the phone back into my pocket. “He can wait.” Graham didn’t argue. He knew as well as I did—Sarge called before there was anything worth reporting. Before the scene was processed, the evidence bagged, or the first witness even questioned. He wanted answers but we had just started to dump out the puzzle. "Chris our e-crew tonight?" I asked. Graham nodded. "Yeah, and so far, it’s just pictures and the bullet.” I exhaled sharply, shaking my head. "Ghost or not, someone saw something. Nobody vanishes in this city." I turned my attention back to the scene. The snow-covered ground was untouched except for Al-Khatib’s body and the dark stain of blood spreading beneath him. No footprints. No shell casings. No scuff marks from a struggle. The execution had been precise. The shooter was disciplined. One shot. No hesitation. No overkill. That wasn’t luck—that was experience. A street shooter would’ve emptied the mag, spraying rounds in all directions. This was different. Controlled. This wasn’t some junkie looking to make a quick score. It also wasn’t the usual street beef. This was something else. Something worse. Graham smirked, watching me. "You planning to open a gallery?" I didn’t look up, just kept snapping photos, framing the scene through the scratched viewfinder of my old camera. "When we get back, I’ll study these," I said. "Sometimes a picture catches what the eye misses. This way, I won’t have to wait on Chris’ copies." Graham shook his head, amused. "You know, you would get much better pictures with your phone." I let out a short laugh. "Yeah, and then my entire phone would get subpoenaed." I turned toward Graham with a smirk. "And then I’d have some punk defense attorney enjoying my family photos. No thanks." Graham laughed, but we both knew it was true. Defense attorneys might look at all of my personal stuff, but the real concern was how they’d pick apart every little thing, twisting the evidence to make a jury doubt the truth. I wasn’t giving them any extra ammunition. I walked over just as Chris finished digging the bullet from the wooden frame. He held it up for us to see, turning it slightly, and inspecting the mangled metal under the little bit of light we had. "Pretty damaged," he muttered. "But I think the lab can identify it." "Good," I replied, sliding my hands into my coat pockets, hoping for a little warmth. "What about trajectory? Any thoughts on where it was fired from?" Chris glanced down the street, his expression thoughtful. "Not from a rooftop—too level. And too high to be from the street." I frowned. "So what are you telling me, Chris?" He exhaled, looking back at the hole in the doorframe. The shooter had elevation. Not much, but definitely above ground level—something in between," he said. "Maybe even a vehicle—something with a high vantage point. The roof, or maybe the back of a truck. The thought settled in my gut like a stone. A moving shooter meant precision, planning. It meant they were dealing with a pro. This wasn’t a deal gone bad or a moment of rage. This seemed much more like a targeted attack. It was calculated. Methodical. Merciless. I let out a slow breath. The night was still—too still. It felt like the city itself was holding its breath, fearing for its life. No sirens, no murmurs from a gathered crowd—only the quiet hum of idling engines and the occasional squawk from a police radio, the same as when I arrived. I turned back toward my car, the promise of warmth pushing me forward. I’d seen enough for tonight. The scene wouldn’t tell me anything else—not yet. We needed lab work, traffic cams, a reason. But there was one thing I already knew. Whoever did this wasn’t just lucky. They were good. I walked toward the yellow crime scene tape, lifting it as I ducked under. "Hernandez!" The uniformed officer turned, rubbing his gloved hands together for warmth. "Yeah, Detective?" "Check all the parked cars on this block.” Hernandez hesitated. "Anything in particular?" I spread my arms. "Anything out of place." He nodded and moved off, sweeping his flashlight over windshields and license plates. I didn’t expect much—whoever pulled this off wasn’t sloppy. But nobody was perfect. If they used a vehicle, they had to park it somewhere. Maybe a neighbor saw something, maybe a camera caught movement, maybe there was a roof with no snow where there should be. Graham was already moving toward the group of officers, reminding them to show some damn respect—there was still a dead man on the ground. The coroner had left him there longer than necessary. Everyone knew this wasn’t a rescue job, but it still felt wrong, leaving him out in the cold like that. Blood had stopped spreading, the dark stain freezing into the slush beneath him. His coat had fallen open just enough to reveal a crisp white dress shirt beneath it, now ruined by a single, perfectly placed shot. I turned back one last time, looking down at Al-Khatib’s frozen face. His eyes were still open, locked in permanent shock. He never saw it coming. Neither did we. But we would soon.

Chapter 1: Another Night, Another Body I sat in my ratty old recliner—slumped was probably a better description. I rarely made it to bed these days. The TV was on, but I was half-asleep, not even sure what show I had been watching. The glow from the screen flickered across the bare walls of my living room, casting shifting shadows that played tricks on a tired mind. A few empty Coke cans and the remains of my pizza littered the coffee table. I usually had beer with pizza, but I hadn’t been to the store in weeks. The house was quiet—the kind of quiet that settles in when your wife and daughter have moved on. A hollow, lonely silence. I needed sleep. Buzzzzzzz. Buzzzzzzz. I already knew what this was. I glanced at my watch—0130. Then at the phone screen—DISPATCH SERGEANT. I grabbed the phone from the table and answered. “MacLaren.” The voice on the other end was all too familiar these days. “Detective MacLaren, this is Sgt. Kline. We’ve got a shooting on the east side. Are you available to respond?” “Yeah,” I grumbled, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I reached for the small spiral notebook I always kept nearby. “What is it?” “Head to the 900 block of Pruden Ave. One victim, male, appears to be a gunshot. He was not removed,” Kline continued. “Your brother is also en route, as is the coroner.” I exhaled and pushed myself up from the recliner. “Alright, thanks, Sarge. I’m about 30 minutes out.” I disconnected the call and flipped through the TV channels until I found the weather report. Damn. Ten degrees, with twenty-five mile-per-hour winds. Snow. Just my luck. I jotted it down in my notebook before heading to get dressed. Ten minutes later, I was in the car, the heater barely making a dent in the cold. The old warehouse district. Strange place for an early morning shooting. I pulled the zipper all the way up on my heavy winter coat—my call-out coat, as I liked to call it—bracing against the Arctic cold as I stepped out of my old, unmarked Crown Vic onto the snow-covered street. The wind whipped viciously down the abandoned streets like the killer, cold and unseen, but leaving just enough clues you knew it was there. The gusts were so sharp they felt like they were slicing right through the heavy layers of my call-out coat as if they were nothing more than paper. The cold slammed into my face, taking the breath from my body with a grip as tight as the reaper. It was as if the city was trying to keep its secrets buried deep beneath the snow. Dare to dig too deep, and maybe yours would be the next body found. The farther I moved toward the body, where my brother, Detective Graham MacLaren, and numerous uniformed officers lingered behind yellow scene tape flapping in the wind, the more I was smothered by the scent of exhaust from idling police cars. It hung heavy in the air, mixing with the faint, familiar cold of winter, a silent warning that trouble was near. Whatever lay ahead would offer no comfort against the cold tonight. The street was nearly silent. Just the wind and an occasional announcement from the officer’s radios interrupted the stillness. Dead, like the poor old soul on the ground. No headlights were cutting through the darkness, no shuffling steps from late-night wanderers. I didn’t even see a stray dog digging through the garbage. Nothing, just the stillness of death settling over the block like a heavy fog. The kind that made your skin crawl, the kind that whispered that something had gone terribly wrong. What the hell happened here? I used to shag calls out here when I was a rookie—back when this part of town had life; when it had a purpose. The constant hum of trucks, night-shift workers, light and noise kept the streets moving. The air smelled like oil, hot coffee, and the faint bite of diesel exhaust. You could find a coffee shop open at 3 AM, and see dockworkers hauling crates under sodium lights. There were parking lots full of cars, and nearby bars where guys blew their paychecks before heading home. A place that never really slept. Now? Just another dead corner of the city; hollowed out and left to rot. Boarded-up windows, rusted-out fences, pavement cracked and buckling from years of neglect. Our city was once a center of industry and innovation. Dayton gave the world the airplane, the cash register, the electric ignition, the pop-top can, microfiche, and so much more. But that was another time. Another life in what feels like should have been another city. Now, the factories were just crumbling monuments to what used to be. Their rusted skeletons stand as silent memories of better, more prosperous times. The only things still manufactured in this town: poverty, overdoses, and crime stories no one beyond our borders ever seems to read. The city was dying, and no one noticed. They probably wouldn’t until the stink of death made it impossible to ignore. I shook my head slightly and moved closer to the crumpled body, my breath circling my head like a ghost, silent and fleeting in the frigid night air. The only thing moving in the frozen crime scene was the slow, seeping spread of blood into the slush. The snow, once a brilliant white, was now just a crimson smear as the blood was hungrily absorbed. The streetlights flickered, casting weak cones of light onto the pavement, their glow barely touching the body sprawled beneath them. Footsteps crunched behind me as another officer approached apassed on by. No one spoke. There was nothing to say. Just another night, another body, another name that would fade into the city’s long list of forgotten dead. I knelt beside the body on the snow-covered stoop, the cold seeping through my pants as I looked for wounds beyond the obvious. Brown-skinned—Middle Eastern, maybe. Mid-thirties. He was well-dressed, wearing a dark wool overcoat that probably cost more than my car. The fabric was thick and expensive, but money hadn’t done him any favors tonight. A single shot. Center mass. Cops and soldiers are trained that way. No sign of a struggle, no defensive wounds, no scattered belongings. It didn’t look like he had tried to run or even fight back, suggesting he never saw it coming. Just a man who had stepped outside for a smoke and died before he could take another breath. A clean, efficient kill, like a ghost had done it. Graham crouched beside me, flipping open his notepad. His breath curled in the air as he read from the pages. "Hassan Al-Khatib. No warrants, but he’s got some FI’s in the system," he began. "Vice has stopped him a few times on Keowee and N. Main. No convictions that I can see yet, but I’ll dig deeper when we get back to the office." I exhaled, looking down the dimly lit street with a practiced eye. A few lights glowed weakly, but most of the neighborhood sat in darkness. No movement. Nothing but the slow drip of melting snow from awnings. "So far, we’ve got nothing," Graham added, rubbing his hand across his forehead. "It’s clean. No casings, no prints, no tracks leading in or out." "Do we have ANYTHING?" I asked, my voice low and steady. "Please tell me we at least have the bullet." "The e-crew’s on it," Graham said, flipping through a few more pages. "It’s stuck in the frame of the door." I looked past the body to the splintered hole in the wooden frame. A gaping black hole against chipped white paint. This was a tight shot, precisely controlled. Whoever did this didn’t feel like the usual gang shooter. Is it possible, here in Dayton, that this was a professional? My phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it at first, but finally pulled it out and glanced at the screen, Jenkins. I groaned slightly and ignored the call. Graham glanced over, smirking. “Sarge?” I nodded and slipped the phone back into my pocket. “He can wait.” Graham didn’t argue. He knew as well as I did—Sarge called before there was anything worth reporting. Before the scene was processed, the evidence bagged, or the first witness even questioned. He wanted answers but we had just started to dump out the puzzle. "Chris our e-crew tonight?" I asked. Graham nodded. "Yeah, and so far, it’s just pictures and the bullet.” I exhaled sharply, shaking my head. "Ghost or not, someone saw something. Nobody vanishes in this city." I turned my attention back to the scene. The snow-covered ground was untouched except for Al-Khatib’s body and the dark stain of blood spreading beneath him. No footprints. No shell casings. No scuff marks from a struggle. The execution had been precise. The shooter was disciplined. One shot. No hesitation. No overkill. That wasn’t luck—that was experience. A street shooter would’ve emptied the mag, spraying rounds in all directions. This was different. Controlled. This wasn’t some junkie looking to make a quick score. It also wasn’t the usual street beef. This was something else. Something worse. Graham smirked, watching me. "You planning to open a gallery?" I didn’t look up, just kept snapping photos, framing the scene through the scratched viewfinder of my old camera. "When we get back, I’ll study these," I said. "Sometimes a picture catches what the eye misses. This way, I won’t have to wait on Chris’ copies." Graham shook his head, amused. "You know, you would get much better pictures with your phone." I let out a short laugh. "Yeah, and then my entire phone would get subpoenaed." I turned toward Graham with a smirk. "And then I’d have some punk defense attorney enjoying my family photos. No thanks." Graham laughed, but we both knew it was true. Defense attorneys might look at all of my personal stuff, but the real concern was how they’d pick apart every little thing, twisting the evidence to make a jury doubt the truth. I wasn’t giving them any extra ammunition. I walked over just as Chris finished digging the bullet from the wooden frame. He held it up for us to see, turning it slightly, and inspecting the mangled metal under the little bit of light we had. "Pretty damaged," he muttered. "But I think the lab can identify it." "Good," I replied, sliding my hands into my coat pockets, hoping for a little warmth. "What about trajectory? Any thoughts on where it was fired from?" Chris glanced down the street, his expression thoughtful. "Not from a rooftop—too level. And too high to be from the street." I frowned. "So what are you telling me, Chris?" He exhaled, looking back at the hole in the doorframe. The shooter had elevation. Not much, but definitely above ground level—something in between," he said. "Maybe even a vehicle—something with a high vantage point. The roof, or maybe the back of a truck. The thought settled in my gut like a stone. A moving shooter meant precision, planning. It meant they were dealing with a pro. This wasn’t a deal gone bad or a moment of rage. This seemed much more like a targeted attack. It was calculated. Methodical. Merciless. I let out a slow breath. The night was still—too still. It felt like the city itself was holding its breath, fearing for its life. No sirens, no murmurs from a gathered crowd—only the quiet hum of idling engines and the occasional squawk from a police radio, the same as when I arrived. I turned back toward my car, the promise of warmth pushing me forward. I’d seen enough for tonight. The scene wouldn’t tell me anything else—not yet. We needed lab work, traffic cams, a reason. But there was one thing I already knew. Whoever did this wasn’t just lucky. They were good. I walked toward the yellow crime scene tape, lifting it as I ducked under. "Hernandez!" The uniformed officer turned, rubbing his gloved hands together for warmth. "Yeah, Detective?" "Check all the parked cars on this block.” Hernandez hesitated. "Anything in particular?" I spread my arms. "Anything out of place." He nodded and moved off, sweeping his flashlight over windshields and license plates. I didn’t expect much—whoever pulled this off wasn’t sloppy. But nobody was perfect. If they used a vehicle, they had to park it somewhere. Maybe a neighbor saw something, maybe a camera caught movement, maybe there was a roof with no snow where there should be. Graham was already moving toward the group of officers, reminding them to show some damn respect—there was still a dead man on the ground. The coroner had left him there longer than necessary. Everyone knew this wasn’t a rescue job, but it still felt wrong, leaving him out in the cold like that. Blood had stopped spreading, the dark stain freezing into the slush beneath him. His coat had fallen open just enough to reveal a crisp white dress shirt beneath it, now ruined by a single, perfectly placed shot. I turned back one last time, looking down at Al-Khatib’s frozen face. His eyes were still open, locked in permanent shock. He never saw it coming. Neither did we. But we would soon.

Prologue: The Ghost in the Snow The black van sat in silence, legally parked along a snow-covered street. Its dark paint blended seamlessly into the shadows. The windows, frosted from the biting cold, seemed like frozen curtains concealing the secrets inside. Snow had stopped falling, but not before leaving a concealing layer over the vehicle. No one would ever notice another forgotten relic in a city that had long since given up on this part of town. Inside, the shooter lay quietly on a custom-built platform, breath coming slow and steady. Every movement was deliberate, precision and timing were everything. The narrow opening of a modified roof window framed the entrance to a crumbling warehouse two blocks away. The lonely glow of a single streetlamp cast pale light onto the sagging roof and rusted awning above the corroded panels of the dock door. To most, the warehouse was just another decaying monument to the city’s forgotten industrial past—silent and lifeless. But not to Hassan Al-Khatib. To anyone passing by, it was nothing more than a supply house stocking incense, snacks, and imported goods for local markets. Hidden inside, however, were the horrors Khatib had long since brought to the city. Women - children, it didn’t matter as long as Khatib could get them sold to the highest bidder and out of his building. The shooter had spent weeks studying him—his routines, his movements, his habits. News reports, surveillance data, and court records painted a clear picture of a man who had exploited dozens of lives to line his pockets. Yet, just one failure from a broken justice system was all he needed to walk free with nothing but a smug smirk and a wave to the crowd. The shooter’s gloved hand moved with precision, lowering the narrow roof window and carefully positioning the Barrett MRAD rifle. The customized suppressor gleamed in the low light, an instrument of silence and death. Through the Vortex Razor HD LHT scope, they studied the warehouse door. The rangefinder clicked softly—230 yards. A routine shot, usually. But tonight’s bitter cold would sap the bullet’s speed, dragging it down just enough to matter. They just needed a slight adjustment on the elevation turret—0.16 MRAD—perfect. The shooter inhaled deeply, steadying their heartbeat, and scanned the scene. Snow piled high in the parking lot and on the sidewalks, just a faint trail of footprints leading toward the side entrance hinted at anyone being inside. The icy wind screamed down the street, tugging at the plywood covering shattered windows. Trash, once piled neatly for pickup, now danced in the gusts like confetti from a long-forgotten celebration. Most sounds had been swallowed by the storm, except for the lonely wail of a siren in the distance—probably another shooting somewhere else in this godforsaken city. Everything else was still. The shooter shifted ever so slightly, searching for a bit of comfort on the hard wooden platform. The van was their den—safe, silent, invisible in plain sight, and self-sustaining for days if needed. Years of trial and error had built perfection—there were no excuses for failure anymore. Research, surveillance, execution - simple. Following the plan, every single detail had become second nature, a cold ritual demanding patience and discipline. The waiting was always the worst part. Time crawled by, moving as if it were molasses being poured in a blizzard. The street remained deserted except for the howl of the wind cutting through the abandoned buildings. A raccoon scurried across the cracked pavement, disappearing into a storm drain. “Weren’t they forest animals?” The shooter thought. Maybe once, before they discovered dumpsters. An old friend used to call them "Trash Pandas"—the thought brought the faintest hint of a smile, there and gone like a ghost. Off in the distance, the headlights of an occasional car or bus passed by, but nobody ventured down this way. This part of town was long forgotten, a graveyard of rust and neglect. Then, right on schedule, the dock door creaked open on its weathered, rusted hinges. Hassan stepped into view, shivering in the cold, his breath fogging in the frigid air. He paused, lit a cigarette, and checked his phone—completely unaware that he was already dead. The shooter exhaled slowly, aligning the crosshairs with the center of Hassan’s chest. They had rehearsed this moment countless times in their mind, every movement calculated down to the millisecond. There would be no appeals tonight. No mistrials. No bribes. No more victims. A suppressed crack. The sound vanished inside the van’s insulated walls, absorbed like a secret. Through the scope, the marksman watched in silence as Hassan crumpled onto the icy pavement. The cigarette slipped from his fingers, hissing as it hit the snow. No one came rushing to his aid. The warehouse door remained open, exposing the crates and debris inside, but no one came. Somewhere in the bowels of that dilapidated old structure, Hassan’s acquaintances might not have even noticed yet—or maybe they had. Maybe they were already huddled in some dark corner, terrified, waiting, watching, wondering if they were next. The shooter waited, listening to the silence, watching the dock door knowing that eventually, someone would call the police—maybe. Not out of concern, but because a body in the street draws attention. Hassan’s lifeless body lay still, his phone resting a few feet away in the snow, the screen casting a weak glow. No one would pick it up. No frantic footsteps. No shouts. Just silence. The shooter needed to close the window before the police arrived but quickly scanned the area through the scope one final time. Snow was falling once again and had already begun to fill in Hassan’s footprints leading from the door. Soon, they’d be gone—erased by nature itself, eliminating one of the only clues to the time of the shooting. They slid the rifle back into its foam-lined Pelican case and closed the window hatch with a faint click, sealing out the winter air. The faint scent of gunpowder lingered, mingling with the sterile scent of insulation in the van. The shooter leaned back against the platform, exhaling slowly as the tension drained from their muscles—a practiced ritual, as familiar as the shot itself. The shooter reached for a thermos and took a much-needed sip of coffee laced with bourbon—just enough to knock back the chill of the cold van. They had done their part. Every motion was smooth, practiced, and deliberate, completing in seconds what the courts had failed to do in years. Climbing down from the platform, the shooter switched on the van’s heater. The power station was one of the van’s most expensive additions, but on nights like this, it proved to be worth every cent. As the warm air began to flow, they leaned back, allowing the weight of the mission to sink into their bones. The first time, too many years ago to recall, had been the hardest—hands shaking, breath uneven, stomach churning with the significance of what they’d done. The cold sweat, the deafening silence afterward, and the doubt creeping in through every pore. But now, it was different. The process had become a series of precise steps, each one carefully designed to achieve a specific goal. Efficiency over emotion. Logic over doubt. Damn, that was too easy. When the plan was hatched, it was all about Hassan. Human trafficking infuriated them like nothing else ever had, and when he walked on a ridiculous technicality, his death warrant was signed. While researching Hassan, they were shocked by how many other despicable criminals were escaping punishment for so many different reasons. A list of those who might also be worthy of death began to grow. Could they strike again? Should they strike again? The question lingered for only a moment. After all, justice hadn’t just failed once—it had failed countless times. Someone had to do what the system wouldn’t. Retrieving a small, worn notebook tucked into a side panel, a list of names, carefully gathered from public records and news reports. Some names had been crossed out, but some were circled in red ink. These were the best targets according to the research. Looking at Hassan’s name, written neatly at the top of the page, a dark line was placed through his name marking the mission’s success. Would there be another mission? The decision seemed to make itself. The fate of someone on this list has just been sealed. Flipping to the next page, a slightly out-of-focus surveillance photo stared back, a man in a suit, shaking hands with someone just out of frame. Another catastrophic failure of the system. Would it be him? The shooter returned the notebook to its compartment, there would be time tomorrow to decide. Shivering a little, they took another sip of the spiked coffee. The warmth did little to chase the chill still running through the van, but it was welcomed anyway. A muffled radio transmission crackled through the police scanner mounted underneath the shooting platform. The shooter smirked, listening to the dispatcher’s calm voice: “112, start for the 900 block of Pruden Avenue on a man down—possible DB. Respond Code 3.” The shooter removed their gloves, flexing their fingers and allowing the weight of the mission to settle. Police would be arriving soon, and silence was essential. They quickly turned down the scanner and settled into the hammock to catch a little sleep. It would be a long night, so they might as well get comfortable. The planning for the next target would begin soon, but for now, rest. The shooter adjusted the blanket, pulled it tight against their chin, and closed their eyes. Somewhere in this city, another predator roamed free, thinking they were untouchable. They wouldn’t be for long.

Prologue: The Ghost in the Snow The black van sat in silence, legally parked along a snow-covered street. Its dark paint blended seamlessly into the shadows. The windows, frosted from the biting cold, seemed like frozen curtains concealing the secrets inside. Snow had stopped falling, but not before leaving a concealing layer over the vehicle. No one would ever notice another forgotten relic in a city that had long since given up on this part of town. Inside, the shooter lay quietly on a custom-built platform, breath coming slow and steady. Every movement was deliberate, precision and timing were everything. The narrow opening of a modified roof window framed the entrance to a crumbling warehouse two blocks away. The lonely glow of a single streetlamp cast pale light onto the sagging roof and rusted awning above the corroded panels of the dock door. To most, the warehouse was just another decaying monument to the city’s forgotten industrial past—silent and lifeless. But not to Hassan Al-Khatib. To anyone passing by, it was nothing more than a supply house stocking incense, snacks, and imported goods for local markets. Hidden inside, however, were the horrors Khatib had long since brought to the city. Women - children, it didn’t matter as long as Khatib could get them sold to the highest bidder and out of his building. The shooter had spent weeks studying him—his routines, his movements, his habits. News reports, surveillance data, and court records painted a clear picture of a man who had exploited dozens of lives to line his pockets. Yet, just one failure from a broken justice system was all he needed to walk free with nothing but a smug smirk and a wave to the crowd. The shooter’s gloved hand moved with precision, lowering the narrow roof window and carefully positioning the Barrett MRAD rifle. The customized suppressor gleamed in the low light, an instrument of silence and death. Through the Vortex Razor HD LHT scope, they studied the warehouse door. The rangefinder clicked softly—230 yards. A routine shot, usually. But tonight’s bitter cold would sap the bullet’s speed, dragging it down just enough to matter. They just needed a slight adjustment on the elevation turret—0.16 MRAD—perfect. The shooter inhaled deeply, steadying their heartbeat, and scanned the scene. Snow piled high in the parking lot and on the sidewalks, just a faint trail of footprints leading toward the side entrance hinted at anyone being inside. The icy wind screamed down the street, tugging at the plywood covering shattered windows. Trash, once piled neatly for pickup, now danced in the gusts like confetti from a long-forgotten celebration. Most sounds had been swallowed by the storm, except for the lonely wail of a siren in the distance—probably another shooting somewhere else in this godforsaken city. Everything else was still. The shooter shifted ever so slightly, searching for a bit of comfort on the hard wooden platform. The van was their den—safe, silent, invisible in plain sight, and self-sustaining for days if needed. Years of trial and error had built perfection—there were no excuses for failure anymore. Research, surveillance, execution - simple. Following the plan, every single detail had become second nature, a cold ritual demanding patience and discipline. The waiting was always the worst part. Time crawled by, moving as if it were molasses being poured in a blizzard. The street remained deserted except for the howl of the wind cutting through the abandoned buildings. A raccoon scurried across the cracked pavement, disappearing into a storm drain. “Weren’t they forest animals?” The shooter thought. Maybe once, before they discovered dumpsters. An old friend used to call them "Trash Pandas"—the thought brought the faintest hint of a smile, there and gone like a ghost. Off in the distance, the headlights of an occasional car or bus passed by, but nobody ventured down this way. This part of town was long forgotten, a graveyard of rust and neglect. Then, right on schedule, the dock door creaked open on its weathered, rusted hinges. Hassan stepped into view, shivering in the cold, his breath fogging in the frigid air. He paused, lit a cigarette, and checked his phone—completely unaware that he was already dead. The shooter exhaled slowly, aligning the crosshairs with the center of Hassan’s chest. They had rehearsed this moment countless times in their mind, every movement calculated down to the millisecond. There would be no appeals tonight. No mistrials. No bribes. No more victims. A suppressed crack. The sound vanished inside the van’s insulated walls, absorbed like a secret. Through the scope, the marksman watched in silence as Hassan crumpled onto the icy pavement. The cigarette slipped from his fingers, hissing as it hit the snow. No one came rushing to his aid. The warehouse door remained open, exposing the crates and debris inside, but no one came. Somewhere in the bowels of that dilapidated old structure, Hassan’s acquaintances might not have even noticed yet—or maybe they had. Maybe they were already huddled in some dark corner, terrified, waiting, watching, wondering if they were next. The shooter waited, listening to the silence, watching the dock door knowing that eventually, someone would call the police—maybe. Not out of concern, but because a body in the street draws attention. Hassan’s lifeless body lay still, his phone resting a few feet away in the snow, the screen casting a weak glow. No one would pick it up. No frantic footsteps. No shouts. Just silence. The shooter needed to close the window before the police arrived but quickly scanned the area through the scope one final time. Snow was falling once again and had already begun to fill in Hassan’s footprints leading from the door. Soon, they’d be gone—erased by nature itself, eliminating one of the only clues to the time of the shooting. They slid the rifle back into its foam-lined Pelican case and closed the window hatch with a faint click, sealing out the winter air. The faint scent of gunpowder lingered, mingling with the sterile scent of insulation in the van. The shooter leaned back against the platform, exhaling slowly as the tension drained from their muscles—a practiced ritual, as familiar as the shot itself. The shooter reached for a thermos and took a much-needed sip of coffee laced with bourbon—just enough to knock back the chill of the cold van. They had done their part. Every motion was smooth, practiced, and deliberate, completing in seconds what the courts had failed to do in years. Climbing down from the platform, the shooter switched on the van’s heater. The power station was one of the van’s most expensive additions, but on nights like this, it proved to be worth every cent. As the warm air began to flow, they leaned back, allowing the weight of the mission to sink into their bones. The first time, too many years ago to recall, had been the hardest—hands shaking, breath uneven, stomach churning with the significance of what they’d done. The cold sweat, the deafening silence afterward, and the doubt creeping in through every pore. But now, it was different. The process had become a series of precise steps, each one carefully designed to achieve a specific goal. Efficiency over emotion. Logic over doubt. Damn, that was too easy. When the plan was hatched, it was all about Hassan. Human trafficking infuriated them like nothing else ever had, and when he walked on a ridiculous technicality, his death warrant was signed. While researching Hassan, they were shocked by how many other despicable criminals were escaping punishment for so many different reasons. A list of those who might also be worthy of death began to grow. Could they strike again? Should they strike again? The question lingered for only a moment. After all, justice hadn’t just failed once—it had failed countless times. Someone had to do what the system wouldn’t. Retrieving a small, worn notebook tucked into a side panel, a list of names, carefully gathered from public records and news reports. Some names had been crossed out, but some were circled in red ink. These were the best targets according to the research. Looking at Hassan’s name, written neatly at the top of the page, a dark line was placed through his name marking the mission’s success. Would there be another mission? The decision seemed to make itself. The fate of someone on this list has just been sealed. Flipping to the next page, a slightly out-of-focus surveillance photo stared back, a man in a suit, shaking hands with someone just out of frame. Another catastrophic failure of the system. Would it be him? The shooter returned the notebook to its compartment, there would be time tomorrow to decide. Shivering a little, they took another sip of the spiked coffee. The warmth did little to chase the chill still running through the van, but it was welcomed anyway. A muffled radio transmission crackled through the police scanner mounted underneath the shooting platform. The shooter smirked, listening to the dispatcher’s calm voice: “112, start for the 900 block of Pruden Avenue on a man down—possible DB. Respond Code 3.” The shooter removed their gloves, flexing their fingers and allowing the weight of the mission to settle. Police would be arriving soon, and silence was essential. They quickly turned down the scanner and settled into the hammock to catch a little sleep. It would be a long night, so they might as well get comfortable. The planning for the next target would begin soon, but for now, rest. The shooter adjusted the blanket, pulled it tight against their chin, and closed their eyes. Somewhere in this city, another predator roamed free, thinking they were untouchable. They wouldn’t be for long.