The man's ragged breath wheezed against Matthew's forearm. The cold rain mixed with the blood dripping from his busted lip, but his eyes—dark, unwavering—held something worse than pain. Amusement. Like he knew something Matthew didn't.
Matthew pressed harder, feeling the man's pulse hammer beneath his weight. "I don't like games," he growled. "Tell me who sent you."
The man let out a wet chuckle, barely a wince at the pressure on his throat. "You think it matters?" he rasped. "You're already dead."
Matthew's fingers twitched, a long-ingrained instinct screaming at him to push harder, to get what he needed. But another voice—the one that had been buried under whiskey and regret for the past year—reminded him that this wasn't the job anymore. There was no badge, no backup, no clean exit. If he took it too far, no one would clean up the mess.
He let go.
The man slumped against the alley wall, gasping. He rubbed his throat, then spit blood onto the wet pavement, smirking. "You're slipping, Hale."
Matthew didn't answer. He reached down and snatched up the rain-soaked photograph. The ink ran in places, but the face staring back at him was unmistakable. Charlie Mercer. His partner. His friend. The man who died because of him.
Or at least, that was the story.
Matthew's grip tightened on the edges of the photo. He hadn't seen this picture before. It wasn't a mugshot or an old precinct photo. It was grainy, low-quality—like it had been taken in secret. But the thing that sent ice down his spine was the date printed at the bottom.
Two weeks ago.
His stomach turned.
Charlie Mercer had been dead for over a year.
He snapped his gaze back to the man on the ground. "Where did you get this?"
The amusement in the man's eyes deepened, even as he wiped blood from his chin. "You should've stayed down, Hale. Now you're gonna wish you had."
Matthew crouched, lowering his voice to something sharp and deadly. "Last chance. Who sent you?"
The man smiled, and for the first time, Matthew saw it—not fear, not defiance, but certainty.
"I told you," he whispered. "You already know."
A dull pop rang out.
Matthew barely had time to register the hole that had suddenly appeared in the man's forehead before his body slumped forward, lifeless.
Sniper.
Matthew hit the ground before the thought fully formed, his instincts taking over. He pressed himself against the alley wall, heart hammering as the rain pelted down. The shot had come from somewhere high, a rooftop vantage point. Professional. Clean.
They weren't playing around.
He glanced at the man's body, the blood pooling fast beneath him. He didn't have time to search him, but the photo—that damn photo—was still clenched in his own fist.
Charlie Mercer. Two weeks ago.
The city had buried him once. Now it was telling Matthew to do the same.
He wasn't sure he could.
A second shot rang out, striking the pavement inches from his boot.
Matthew didn't wait for a third. He ran.