Chapter 4 - THE HUNTER’S HUNT
The following morning, Precinct 12 in Roxbury was buzzing with the usual chaotic energy of a Boston police station—phones ringing, suspects being processed, typewriters clacking, and the smell of burnt coffee hanging thick in the air.
Detective Derek Lawson slammed his metal desk drawer shut with a deafening CRACK!
He was thirty-four years old, built like a linebacker, with thin blond hair cut close to his scalp and small, bloodshot blue eyes that constantly scanned the room with aggressive paranoia. His leather holster hung heavy against his ribs, holding his service Glock.
He grabbed his phone for the twentieth time that morning, dialing Harper’s number.
“The number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service...”
"Bitch," Derek spat under his breath, slamming the receiver down onto the desk.
It had been four days. Four days since he had come home from an overnight narcotics raid to find her closet empty, her clothes gone, and his spare cash stolen from the lockbox.
At first, he had assumed she was hiding at her aunt’s place in Southie. But his buddies in Precinct 4 had checked the house—it was completely empty. Then he had tracked her little brother’s school records, only to find the boy had been withdrawn three days ago.
She was running.
She was actually trying to escape him.
"Lawson!" a loud voice barked across the squad room.
Lieutenant Miller—a heavy-set man with a thick mustache and grease stains on his tie—gestured toward his private office. "In here. Now."
Derek pushed himself up from his chair, adjusting his badge on his belt, and walked into the lieutenant's office, closing the glass door behind him.
"What's up, Boss?" Derek asked, sitting down casually in the vinyl chair.
Lieutenant Miller didn't look happy. He sat behind his cluttered desk, holding a red folder that bore the gold seal of the State Internal Affairs Division.
"Where were you last night between midnight and two a.m., Derek?" Miller asked flatly.
Derek’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Working confidential informants down on 4th Street. Why?"
"Because three hours ago, a state prosecutor received an anonymous digital package," Miller said, sliding the red folder across the desk. "It contained five years of private banking transactions, offshore wire transfers, and audio recordings of you taking forty grand from the O'Sullivan family to clear a narcotics bust."
Derek’s blood ran ice-cold. His hands gripped the armrests of the chair until his knuckles turned white. "What? That's bullshit! That's a setup!"
"The recordings are crystal clear, Derek," Miller said, his voice dropping into a tense whisper. "They have your voice on tape agreeing to drop charges against O'Sullivan's chief distributor."
"Who sent it?" Derek roared, standing up from the chair, his face turning bright red with rage. "Who the hell gave that to IA?"
Miller looked up at him, his eyes filled with quiet pity and fear. "The file didn't come from a cop, Derek. It came from an encrypted server owned by Ashford Enterprises."
The room went dead quiet.
Gabriel Ashford.
Derek felt a sudden, sharp knot form in his stomach.
Gabriel Ashford was a ghost. A monster who operated in the high-society circles of Beacon Hill while ruling the underworld with an iron fist. Precinct 12 knew better than to kick Ashford's hornet nest; even the commissioner avoided public clashes with the Ashford family.
"Why the hell is Gabriel Ashford coming after me?" Derek stammered, panic finally breaking through his arrogant posture. "I've never touched his operations! I stick to the O'Sullivans!"
"I don't know," Miller said, shaking his head. "But Internal Affairs has issued a formal freeze on your badge and gun pending an emergency grand jury hearing tomorrow morning."
"You can't take my badge!" Derek shouted, reaching for his waist.
"I can, and I am," Miller said firmly, two armed IA officers stepping through the glass door behind Derek. "Unclip the holster, Lawson. Hand over the badge."
Derek stood frozen in the middle of the office, his chest heaving with murderous fury.
In a single morning, his career, his power, his protection, and his life were being stripped away.
And as he looked at the name Ashford printed on the internal affairs file, a dark, sudden realization clicked inside his twisted mind.
Harper's maid agency.
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Three weeks ago, he had seen a pamphlet for a luxury domestic service sitting on her nightstand. A service that catered exclusively to the multi-million-dollar mansions of Beacon Hill.
She went to him, Derek thought, his blood burning with insane, violent jealousy. The little whore went to Gabriel Ashford.
