Chapter 29

  BENT COPPER, DENTED STEEL

  NEW YORK/2059

  On the top floor of the warehouse, patches of light from high, arched windows cast shifting patterns across the dusty floorboards. Viktor paced over them like a caged animal, his grief twisting into something far more volatile—anger. It was easier that way. Grief made a man weak. Rage gave him purpose.

  “Get Tucker down here—our top contact in the NYPD,” he barked, his voice sharp as a blade. “Use a burner.”

  Davos, one of Viktor’s senior enforcers, gave a curt nod and disappeared into the shadows.

  Viktor’s glare was cold, his fury barely contained.

  “Del, find Seb—if he’s still alive. But don’t tell him a damn thing. Just feed him a line about a new project for the bots, whatever bullshit you have to. Not a word about what’s happened.” He exhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. “I’ll message you, what I want doing.”

  His words sliced through the air like steel.

  Around him, the remaining men turned the place upside down, their search for Mikal becoming increasingly frantic.

  Inspector Tucker was sitting at his desk in the NYPD precinct, debating how to duck out early for a round of golf, when his phone buzzed. Number withheld. He smiled.

  A thick New Jersey accent oozed through the line.

  “Izzat South Side Pizza? Yeah, lemme get a 16-inch Hawaiian.”

  Tucker sat up. The code. A 6-inch meant a minor issue. 16-inch? That meant blood had been spilt.

  “Sorry, buddy, wrong number,” he said loudly, making sure anyone within earshot caught it. Then he hung up, exhaling through his nose.

  He lingered a moment, stretching just enough to make his exit look casual. Then, with a slow roll of his shoulders, he pushed to his feet and ambled toward the door.

  “Gotta meet with an informant,” he called over his shoulder, his tone easy and unbothered.

  No one questioned it.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  In fact, no one even seemed to hear him. The room buzzed with talk of a massive data hack—records wiped clean overnight—possibly linked to a recent wave of muggings.

  Perfect. Tucker slipped away unnoticed.

  As he reached the precinct doors, his gaze flicked to the NYPD's latest effort to curb corruption: the buddy bots.

  Sleek, humanoid-shaped police robots, plated in royal blue, stood at the front desk, their alloy frames adorned with garish corporate logos—energy drinks, insurance companies, even a fast-food chain. No one seemed to care about the blatant conflict of interest. Or if they did, they’d learned to shut up about it.

  “You. Dent head. With me,” Tucker muttered to no bot in particular.

  A dented unit turned and stepped forward.

  “Go book out a car. Wait out front. I gotta take a dump,” he added, voice dripping with disdain.

  The robot complied, its optic sensors whirring as it processed the command. Tucker smirked. The bots recorded everything. They were meant to enforce protocol, eliminate bribery, and keep human officers in check. Not entirely—but enough to be a nuisance.

  Once the machine vanished around the corner, Tucker pulled a burner phone from his pocket and redialled.

  “Hello, love?” he said, voice warm, as though calling his wife.

  A low chuckle came from the other end. Davos didn’t bother with the act.

  Blood in the warehouse. Mikal missing. Might be dead.

  Tucker listened, his expression unreadable. When the call ended, a slow grin crept across his face.

  Nobody liked Mikal except maybe his parents. But that wasn’t the point.

  Viktor would pay well for discretion, for access, for results. If Mikal had been killed, Viktor wouldn’t trust the NYPD to deliver justice. He’d want his own brand of it—swift, brutal, and final.

  Tucker could deliver. Privately.

  And with retirement a few months away, it’d make a nice little bonus.

  He slipped the burner phone back into his pocket and walked outside like nothing was wrong.

  Later, down by the docks, Tucker stepped out of a black city vehicle, rubbing his chest with a grimace.

  “Feeling a bit faint—blood sugar’s low,” he muttered, feigning discomfort. “Go get me a coffee, milk, cream, a cheese bagel, and a chocolate bar on foot. Benny’s does good bagels. Call me when you’re on the way back. Take thirty bucks from my account.”

  He leaned in, whispering his PIN into the bot’s auditory sensor. Then, pulling back, he added in a louder, mocking tone, “If they don’t have real coffee, get me dandelion. And don’t spill it, shithead.”

  The insult wasn’t for the bot. It was for whoever might be reviewing the footage later—some department monitor, some bureaucrat sniffing for dirt.

  “I’m waiting here for the informer,” he added.

  The bot calculated the best route to Benny’s—fifteen minutes each way—and set off.

  As soon as it turned the corner, Tucker dropped the act. No low blood sugar, no weak heart—whatever he’d claimed, he’d lost track. He strode toward the warehouse.

  Through a grimy upper window, he spotted Viktor watching from above. A shadow among shadows.

  The sight twisted Tucker’s stomach—not quite fear, but something close.

  Tucker was no saint. He was a cop, sure, but one marinated in corruption, hardened by years of back-alley deals and bruises no one asked about. But Viktor… Viktor was different.

  He had a way of making even Tucker feel like prey.

  It wasn’t just his sharp cheekbones or the pale skin pulled tight like a drum. It was his eyes—piercing, merciless, and empty enough to make Tucker wonder if there was anything human left behind them.

  Like a vampire, he thought.

  Only colder.