Chapter 5 First Major Obstacle
Rain sheeted down over the slums of Ebute Metta, the kind that blurred streetlights into watery halos and turned the narrow alleys into veins of black water. Amara Cole crouched behind the wheel of an unmarked sedan, her eyes fixed on a derelict tenement across the street.
This was the place. Jordan’s trace on the cult’s intercepted radio signal had triangulated here, to a boarded-up building that smelled of mildew and abandonment. But the faint glow behind a third-floor window told another story, someone was inside.
Her pulse drummed in her throat. Hours of waiting in the rain had leeched the warmth from her body, but her focus didn’t falter. She had staked out countless suspects before, but this one was different.
This one felt like a trap.
She tightened her grip on the binoculars, adjusting the focus. A shadow shifted behind the curtain. A tall figure in a black hood. He paused at the window, as if sensing her gaze, before stepping out of view.
Her instincts screamed.
“Marcus, do you copy?” she murmured into her radio. Static hissed back. She tapped the dial, tried again. “Marcus, where the hell are you?”
Silence.
The absence cut deeper than she wanted to admit. They were supposed to be working this stakeout together her on surveillance, him covering the back exit. Yet here she was, alone, with no sign of her partner.
Jaw clenched, she grabbed her Glock and stepped out into the storm.
The tenement loomed like a corpse of the city, its windows shattered, graffiti smeared across its concrete skin. Amara pushed the door open with the muzzle of her gun, the hinges groaning loud enough to echo down the dark stairwell.
She ascended carefully, boots squelching on wet steps, every nerve screaming for caution. Third floor. That’s where the glow had been.
When she reached it, the door stood ajar. A faint orange flicker bled into the hallway. She raised her gun and nudged the door wider with her shoulder.
The room was empty.
Almost.
At its center, candles burned in a circle, dripping wax onto a filthy rug. In the middle lay a stack of papers and photographs. Her breath caught. They were case files her files. Crime scene photos from the alley, the bridge, the factory. Even copies of her handwritten notes, her sketches of the ritual symbols.
She edged closer, heart pounding. How the hell had they gotten these?
A creak. Behind her.
She spun, weapon raised
Too late.
The impact slammed into her from the side, knocking the gun from her hand. She hit the ground hard, air rushing out of her lungs. A figure loomed over her, face hidden behind a mask streaked crimson, knife glinting in candlelight.
She kicked out, catching his shin. He stumbled but didn’t fall. She scrambled for her weapon, fingers brushing metal then another figure burst through the shadows, boot smashing into her ribs.
Pain exploded through her side.
They were fast, coordinated.
She rolled, grabbed the Glock, and fired. One round shattered a candle, plunging half the room into darkness. Another round nicked the wall as the masked men melted into the shadows.
Adrenaline surged. She staggered upright, chest heaving.
The files were gone.
The rug was aflame, candle knocked into the papers. Flames devoured her notes, photographs curling black at the edges.
“No” She lunged forward, trying to smother the fire with her jacket, but the blaze roared too hot. Within seconds, everything was ash.
A mocking laugh echoed from the stairwell.
Amara raised her gun, aiming at the sound, but the footsteps retreated, fading into the storm outside.
Gone.
The cult had baited her. Shown her how deep they’d gotten inside her case and then stripped her of the proof.
She staggered against the wall, coughing from the smoke, fury boiling through her veins.
Where the hell was Marcus?
By the time she limped back to the precinct, her clothes stank of smoke and rain, her ribs screamed with every breath, and her patience had bled dry.
Marcus was at his desk, dry, composed, flipping through a report as if nothing had happened.
She slammed her palms against the surface. “Where were you?”
His head snapped up, startled. “What?”
“At the stakeout. I was nearly gutted by two masked bastards, our entire case file just went up in flames, and you” Her voice cracked with rage. “You weren’t there.”
Marcus’s jaw tightened. “My radio died. I thought you had it under control.”
Her laugh was bitter, hollow. “Under control? You think this is some goddamn training exercise? They knew we were coming, Marcus. They set me up. And you were nowhere.”
His eyes flickered guilt, anger, something unreadable. But he didn’t answer.
Jordan appeared then, clutching his tablet, sensing the storm between them. “Detective Amara listen to this.”
She forced herself to turn. Jordan tapped his screen, playing back a recording. A distorted voice, filtered through static, whispered:
“She walks blind into the fire. Every step she takes, we are already there. The veil tightens.”
The recording ended.
Jordan’s face was pale. “That came through our comms tonight. Someone hijacked Marcus’s frequency. They didn’t just know where we’d be they wanted you isolated.”
Amara’s blood ran cold.
Her gaze slid back to Marcus, who stood frozen, eyes shadowed.
She wanted to believe him. She needed to believe him.
But tonight, she had almost died. And trust, once cracked, was nearly impossible to glue back together.
She turned away, her voice a whisper. “If I can’t trust my partner… who the hell can I trust?”
That night, alone in her apartment, Amara sat with her service weapon on the table, untouched. Outside, the rain hadn’t stopped.
She replayed the ambush in her mind again and again the laughter, the fire, the knowledge that her enemies weren’t just watching, but controlling the board.
And in the quiet between thunderclaps, a realization set in:
This wasn’t just about Ada.
This was about her.
The Crimson Veil wanted her exactly where she was afraid, uncertain, doubting everyone around her.
And if she wasn’t careful, they were going to win.
