Mike's steps stopped in front of the desk.
His hand was just about to touch the dusty old book when Charles's voice cut through the air, sharp and urgent.
"Don't."
The tone wasn't casual anymore. There was something beneath it. Tense. Afraid.
Mike didn't care.
His fingers still reached for the book.
"I can call the cops right now!" Charles snapped, trying to sound firm even though his voice cracked.
Mike paused for a moment.
Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth lifted.
"Criminals calling the cops?"
One sentence. Cold. Sharp. Like a knife that didn't need swinging to cut deep.
The room went silent.
Charles's expression shifted. His face blank, but his eyes… panicked. He knew. Mike knew.
Mike closed the distance between them, staring straight without blinking.
"You're part of them, aren't you?"
Charles didn't answer.
Not because he didn't want to. Because he couldn't.
The silence spoke louder than any words.
Mike leaned back slightly, still watching, still pressing.
"What does the cartel do?"
"…I don't know."
A reflex. A lie. Too quick.
Mike's gaze hardened. Colder. Deeper. As if weighing something invisible.
"I could end you right now."
No emotion in his voice this time. No anger. No empty threat.
Just fact.
Charles swallowed hard. His throat dry.
"They're just clients. No one important."
Mistake.
Without another word, Mike opened the book.
Page after page flipped calmly.
Photos. Meetings. Symbols. Slogans. Evidence.
Everything Charles had tried to hide… now lay bare
before Mike's eyes.
Charles's breathing grew uneven.
Game over.
"…Please," he finally spoke, his voice weak. "Don't share this with anyone. I can… I can raise your pay."
Mike stopped on a page, staring for a few seconds.
Then he closed the book slowly.
He lifted his head. His gaze empty, but his mind racing.
He didn't care about the cartel.
He cared about money.
"Five times more," Mike said flatly. "Or I call the cops myself."
Charles froze. That was insane. But he had no choice.
"…Okay."
One word. Resigned.
A thin smile appeared on Mike's face. Not happy.
A smile more like mockery.
The night was colder as Mike left the building.
He was going home. Or at least, that was the plan.
Along the way, a crowd and flashing cameras caught his attention.
Mike slowed down.
There stood a familiar figure.
Franklin Doakes.
FBI Director.
Beside him, two other agents: Steve Hart and Santos Gimenez.
Interview. Albuquerque cartel case. Murder.
All headlines.
Mike stopped. He had no intention of getting involved. But… he listened.
Doakes spoke calm. Firm. Every word met with nods, even admiration.
As if everything out of his mouth was absolute truth.
Then a question appeared.
"How's the cartel doing these days?"
A split second.
Just a split second.
But Mike saw it.
A tiny shift in Doakes's face.
A smile just a bit too forced.
"…We still haven't found them."
The answer was perfect.
Too perfect.
Mike narrowed his eyes.
His instincts were never wrong.
And just now… something was off.
The drive home felt longer than usual.
His mind full.
Charles.
The book.
The cartel.
And now… Doakes.
Everything starting to connect. Or at least, it felt that way.
Then—
Buzz.
His phone vibrated.
A message from Charles.
Mike opened the screen.
"COME HERE. NOW. FAST!!!"
Mike stared at the message for a few seconds.
Silent.
Then he exhaled slowly.
New trouble.
And somehow… he wasn't surprised.
TO BE CONTINUED