The boy, feeling Ethan's hand on his shoulders, doubled over in pain. That damn hand felt like a mechanical clamp, yet he still didn't dare make a single sound. He knew that if there was anything Alvin Olinsky loved more than anything in this life, it was his family.
He knew what these guys were like—they used younger girls for fun, taking advantage of their infatuation, only to toss them aside like trash afterward. And while Ethan was no example of morality, he had never lied to a woman, and he always took responsibility for his actions.
And this kid thought he could screw up Lexi's future and stroll happily off to college—he was very wrong.
Ethan drew his gun from the holster and weighed it in his hand.
He watched the boy coldly, the pistol hanging from his hand as if it weighed nothing.
—Have you ever held or fired a gun before? —he asked.
The boy shook his head immediately, swallowing hard.
—No, sir.
A shadow of something like a smile crossed Ethan's face.
—Good. This is your chance. —He brought the gun closer—. Come on… take it.
His voice wasn't a shout, but it wasn't an invitation either—it was an order.
—Come on —he insisted, in a nearly compulsory tone—. Take it.
The boy hesitated for a few seconds that felt eternal. His breathing grew uneven, and his trembling hand began to move on its own. His mind went blank as his fingers brushed the cold grip of the pistol.
Nadia, witnessing the scene, froze. Fear closed her throat; she couldn't even scream.
At that exact moment, Olinsky reacted.
—Ethan, don't do this! —he shouted urgently.
The yell broke the spell.
The boy jolted and stared at the gun, so close to his hand, as if he had just realized the abyss in front of him. Cold sweat ran down his back and he recoiled abruptly, finally understanding what Ethan was doing.
Panic hit him full force. His bladder contracted without warning and his crotch instantly grew wet, humiliation and terror blending into a single impulse as he backed away, gasping.
Ethan didn't move.
He just watched him, with the same unsettling calm as always.
Ethan holstered the gun with a heavy motion, never taking his eyes off the boy for a single second. His gaze was hard, impenetrable.
—Take responsibility for what you're supposed to do.
The boy nodded stiffly.
—Go back to school. Find the principal, the school board… I don't care who —Ethan continued—. Tell them the whole truth. Don't leave anything out.
The silence became unbearable.
Ethan took a step forward.
—You want a scapegoat? You'd better look somewhere else, kid… —he asked in a low voice—. Because you have no idea who you've gotten yourself mixed up with.
The boy opened his mouth, but no words came out.
—Don't think that just because you walk away now I can't do anything to you —Ethan added, every word dripping with venom—. I have a thousand ways to deal with you. A thousand ways to make you regret being born. Do you understand?
The young man swallowed, his voice breaking, his body still shaking.
—I-understood.
Ethan didn't reply. He just watched him long enough to make sure the message was burned in forever.
Avoiding Ethan's icy stare, the boy nodded quickly, terrified.
Olinsky shook his head and waved his hand impatiently.
—Now get out of here and disappear. —His voice was low, but sharp—
The boy didn't wait for the order to be repeated. His legs shook as he ran toward the side door, stumbling over himself, his heart pounding in his ears.
He shoved clumsily.
¡Clang!
The metallic sound echoed down the empty hallway, marking his escape… and the end of any illusion of safety. Panicked, he tripped on the threshold and fell face-first onto the pavement.
He scrambled to his feet, leaving a trail of urine behind, and vanished from sight.
—Oof…
Olinsky sighed in relief. His daughter was truly reckless, always willing to take on blame that wasn't hers—especially for a boy who would forget her in a couple of days once he left for college, while her own record would be stained forever.
He removed the toothpick from his mouth, shook his head, and spoke wearily.
—I know you meant well, but he's still just a kid.
Ethan raised his hands slowly, at first unable to find the words.
—I just wanted to scare him a little —he finally said—. Now he'll think twice before using girls to cover up his crap.
Ethan turned around.
—Nadia.
She had already stood up. Her face was pale and her eyes red, but she held his gaze stubbornly.
—How do you feel? —Ethan asked.
—I'll survive…
Nadia forced an awkward smile.
—Hey, Hank wants us upstairs. They're interrogating Reverend Mike —Olinsky cut in firmly.
Back on the second floor, they were surprised to discover that the interrogation hadn't even begun. A standard police tactic was to isolate the suspect for a while, leave him alone long enough to make him nervous or push him into desperation.
The whole team wondered how to approach the guy. On one thing they all agreed: that OG would never cooperate with the police. To begin with, all the evidence they had was circumstantial. There was no direct way to link him to Harris's death or the counterfeiting, since after searching the entire church they hadn't found anything—so most likely he felt confident.
The board was covered with photographs and evidence bags as the Intelligence Unit began piecing things together. No one spoke too loudly; there was no need.
—We searched the church from top to bottom. There was no trace of printing machines, ink, or money. Just what we found when we arrested them —Antonio said, placing a transparent bag with the seized cash on the table—. I checked Father Mike's history. He's a guy who does small jobs, always for quick cash.
—And he's never counterfeited anything before —another added—
Olinsky planted his hands on the table.
—So they paid him to do it.
Ethan shook his head.
—Yes, and apparently they screwed him over. They paid him with fake money.
—All of it? —Olinsky asked.
—Almost all of it —Ethan replied—. Good paper, good print, but they messed up the basics. Repeated serial numbers. Defective ink. Under UV light it screams.
—So they used him… and then scammed him.
—He's going to be very pissed when he finds out… Antonio and Ethan, talk to the pastor and put pressure on him. He'll be happy to make a deal. —Hank ordered—
The only solid fact was that his van had left the crime scene, but even that could be disputed. He could claim someone else had taken it, and it would be a perfectly plausible explanation.
Ethan smiled, tugging Antonio along as they headed to the back. In the interrogation room, Reverend Mike sat calmly. With multiple prior convictions, he was no stranger to the place and knew police methods well.
Next would undoubtedly come the good cop, bad cop routine.
He adjusted his posture, ready to enjoy the performance.
Click.
Ethan turned the lock and pushed the door open.
—Well… —he said with a crooked smile—, who's going to be the good cop and who's the bad cop? Let me guess: the pretty boy gets to be the bad one.
Reverend Mike adjusted his tan suit vest and scratched his shaved scalp with visible irritation, as if the very idea annoyed him.
He tossed an evidence bag onto the table. The bills spilled out with a dull thud.
Antonio sat down across from him, setting a folder on the table. He opened it calmly and began taking out several photographs, one by one, laying them out neatly.
—This is footage from a street security camera —he said—.
He pointed to the first image.
—Some men got out of a food delivery truck, which, coincidentally, belongs to and is registered to your congregation.
He moved to the next photo.
—And well, you already know the rest. They killed Noel Harris.
The silence grew thick.
—We have everything on video… and given your history, it won't be hard for the DA to agree to file murder charges —Antonio added, lifting his gaze—. Now, do you have anything you'd like to say?
Reverend Mike glanced at the photos for barely a second. Then he shrugged and leaned back in his chair, lips sealed.
He didn't say a single word.
—You're pretty calm for someone who's about to get thirty years for murder —Ethan said—.
—Thirty years? —he repeated, leaning slightly forward—. You must be mistaken, detective. I haven't killed anyone.
He offered a nearly pious smile.
—When I was in prison, I found God. Now I help lost sheep, like I once was, find their way back.
His eyes, however, held no redemption at all.
—Well —Ethan said, never breaking eye contact—, then you and your sheep got scammed.
Mike's smile tightened for just a second. It was minimal, almost imperceptible—but enough. Everyone saw it.
—The money is fake, pastor —Antonio added, sliding the evidence bag toward the center of the table.
The bills peeked out, all too familiar.
At the sight of them, Reverend Mike clenched his teeth. His jaw hardened and a muscle in his face twitched with restrained anger. For the first time since entering the room, the mask began to crack.
Seeing his reluctance to cooperate and his careless attitude, Ethan pulled out his pocket lighter, then slowly opened the evidence bag and took out several hundred-dollar bills.
Reverend Mike, unsure of what he was planning, watched him with amusement.
The flame flickered in the lighter. Ethan smiled, shook it once or twice, and brought it close to the bills. The flame licked the paper and the fire began to grow slowly.
Smoke filled the air, and the firelight danced across Ethan's face, blurring his features. He extinguished the burning bills with a hint of regret and blew the column of smoke straight into Reverend Mike's face.
Reverend Mike watched the money burn, clamping his lips tight.
—Are you really going to risk a thirty-year sentence over a bunch of worthless paper? —Ethan asked, his calm poisonous.
He leaned forward slightly.
—Come on, Mike… you don't owe them anything —Ethan said in a low, almost reasonable voice—. They paid you. Then they broke the rules.
He leaned in a little closer.
—Are you really going to let them walk away while you rot in prison because of them?
Reverend Mike's fingers began to tremble, stiff with rage. His face darkened even more, as if the anger were burning him from the inside.
—Who paid you with this paper to kill Noel Harris… and send a message to Masters? —Ethan pressed.
Antonio stood up slowly and walked around the table. He positioned himself behind Reverend Mike and placed both hands on his shoulders, applying just enough pressure to be felt.
—I can sit down with the prosecutor on this case —Antonio said, his voice low and controlled—. If you truly cooperate, there's a chance for a deal. We're talking about reducing the charges to conspiracy to commit murder, not direct execution. That changes things a lot.
He paused, letting the weight of the words sink in.
—But it's not free. We need names —he held his gaze—. Who paid you, and who pulled the trigger on Harris.
Reverend Mike's face swelled with fury; his eyes looked like they were spitting fire. After half a lifetime moving through the streets, he finally realized he had been played.
Ethan watched the scene in silence.
He stepped closer to the table, grabbed a stack of fake bills, and ripped it apart violently. The sound of tearing paper made Mike clench his fists. Treating it like trash shattered the last of his defenses.
—I'll take the deal —Mike said immediately—, but this can't leave this room. No one can know that Reverend Mike got scammed.
He lifted his gaze, hard, almost pleading.
—Do you understand? That would ruin my reputation on the streets.
For him, prison was like a second home; a couple of years meant nothing. But if anyone knew he'd been scammed like an idiot, that was dangerous—no one would respect him, and without respect, it was almost certain he wouldn't survive even a month.
From that moment on, Reverend Mike became surprisingly cooperative. He talked. He gave names, places, intermediaries—everything he knew. By nightfall, the team finally found the last piece of the puzzle.
Ethan lifted his gaze from the board.
—This is our guy… Glenn Ward —Antonio announced, pinning the photograph to the board with a magnet.
He turned to the team, crossing his arms.
—His record is already loaded into the system. Let's see… anyone want to guess why he ended up in prison?
—Let me try —Rusek said, straightening up immediately.
A crooked smile crossed his face, clearly enjoying the moment.
—Counterfeiting.
—Exactly. Glenn Ward served eight years for large-scale counterfeiting of official documents, plates, and currency, running a clandestine shop with industrial equipment, and was released six months early for good behavior. Since then, he's been linked to shell companies in the printing sector.
Antonio tapped the table sharply with his pen.
—As for why Ward and his printing crew wanted Harris and Masters out of the way… we have no idea.
—We don't need it —Ethan replied without looking up—.
Erin stretched in her chair and yawned, exhausted.
—There are too many reasons —she said—. An argument, a debt, a mistake… any of them could've been the trigger.
—The only thing that matters —Antonio added— is that Ward hired someone to kill them, and everything points straight to him.
—Exactly —Ethan wrapped up—. That's enough.
At that moment, Ethan's phone vibrated. He pulled it from his pocket, read the screen, and looked up.
—Guys, Jin found something —he announced—. A lead based on the name Glenn Ward.
The fatigue vanished instantly.
—He has a commercial lease under his name —he continued—. It's here, in the city.
He paused briefly, gauging the impact.
—A factory. Alright, team, gear up —Hank ordered with satisfaction—. And tell Jin to send us that address.
—Done —Ethan replied.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket as the team began to move.
—Let's go —Hank added—. We've got work to do.
The locker room buzzed with activity. Ethan put on his vest with ease and checked his R-15, making sure everything was in order. Then he pulled out the Beretta, checked the magazine, and racked the slide with a quick, mechanical motion before holstering it again.
Erin was a few steps away, adjusting her vest on her side. She frowned; it didn't quite fit right.
Ethan walked over without thinking.
—Wait —he said.
He adjusted the side straps carefully, unhurried. His fingers brushed the fabric, firm but respectful. Erin looked up and their eyes met in the reflection. It was only a second… long enough for more than one person to notice.
Rusek cleared his throat exaggeratedly from the back.
—Everything okay over here? —he asked with a smile no one believed was innocent.
—Focus, Rusek —Erin replied without looking at him, though a faint smile escaped her.
Ethan stepped back, reestablishing professional distance.
—All set.
Erin nodded, took a deep breath, and lowered her voice.
—Hey… about earlier —she began—. When I snapped at you about Nadia.
Ethan clicked the safety on his weapon and looked at her, attentive.
—It's fine.
—It's not —she insisted—. I got frustrated. That girl… she reminded me of myself. Before Hank pulled me out of where I was. I really wanted to help her. And when I realized she was lying to me… —she shook her head— I was disappointed. That wasn't fair.
Ethan studied her for another second, without judgment.
—I get it —he said—
She looked at him, surprised.
—You're not mad?
—No —he answered simply—. And if you ever need help with something like that… just ask.
Erin raised an eyebrow, amused.
—The way you treated her when you first met her, I thought you wouldn't want to get involved.
Ethan shrugged.
—I was doing my job. It wasn't personal. Besides, I'm not great at playing the good cop.
She looked at him with a half-smile.
—And now?
Ethan held her gaze.
—But if you ask me… I'll help.—He paused—.
Erin shook her head, amused.
—The more I get to know you, the more I find out about you, you know.
—Yeah, well… I'm not that complicated —he replied—. Just think of me as a Voight 2.0. Better-looking and with a better sense of humor.
Erin laughed.
—That sounds terrible —she said—. And the "better sense of humor" part, we'll discuss later, because your jokes suck.
She shook her head, still smiling, as they both headed for the exit.
A few steps later, voices rang out again.
—Hey, Erin!
A Caucasian man with brown hair stood by the iron door at the foot of the stairs. When he spoke, his voice echoed in the metal space.
Erin saw him and walked over with a smile.
The man, Justin, turned quickly; a bright smile appeared on his face when he saw her. But when he noticed Ethan standing very close to Erin, his smile cooled immediately.
Ethan caught the strange hostility in the man's gaze. But when he heard his name, he understood—it was Hank's son. He knew from the program that he had a crush on Erin, so it was normal for him to be jealous seeing them together.
—What are you doing here? —he asked.
Before he could react, Erin hurried up the stairs and hugged him.
—What, can't I come see you?
—Of course… it's good to see you —the man replied.
Justin hugged her tightly and, before letting go, shot Ethan a challenging look.
—I've never been to your workplace —Justin said—. I just came to take a look around.
—Are you okay?
Erin touched his forehead familiarly. The gesture was intimate, too close to go unnoticed.
Justin pulled her hand away, visibly annoyed.
—I'm fine. Is this a good time?
—Honestly, no. We're about to head out on an op, but I'll call you so we can catch up —she said, smiling.
—Lind, he's waiting downstairs.
She turned to look at Ethan.
—Yeah, just a second.
Ethan went down the stairs toward the lobby and quickly noticed Sergeant Platt watching the scene from reception with blatant curiosity.
—What's up, Sergeant? —Ethan said, approaching and leaning on the counter—
Platt looked at him.
—I see you've already met Hank's son… He's jealous —Platt joked, leaning back in her chair, clearly determined to stir the pot like she did with everyone in the station.
—Oh, not even a little —Ethan replied calmly—. He knows perfectly well my heart belongs to you, Sergeant.
Platt let out a short laugh and shook her head, amused.
—Stop joking, Ethan, or I might start believing it.
—I should pin it on the bulletin board —Ethan shot back—. That way we avoid misunderstandings.
Platt laughed again, louder this time.
—No wonder you're my favorite detective!
—Haha.
Ethan let out a genuine laugh and tapped his knuckles lightly on the desk, as if closing the conversation.
—If you're done harassing me —he added as he stood up—, I've got work to do.
Ethan shook his head, still smiling, and walked away as the steady murmur of the station wrapped around them again.
A few steps later, the wooden door of the adjacent reception room opened from the inside, breaking the moment. A pretty girl stormed out, furious. She stopped when she saw Ethan and went down the central stairs without hiding her anger, heading out of the station.
Inside the room, Olinsky looked at Ethan and shrugged helplessly.
They both exited the station, the atmosphere a bit awkward.
Ethan scratched his head.
—I'm guessing the angry girl was your daughter Lexi?
—That's right.
—Let me guess… she found out you've been giving her boyfriend a hard time?
—Yeah.
—Teenagers… that's how it is. Be patient.
Olinsky stopped, exasperated.
—How old are you? You're not even twenty-four. Just six or seven years older than her. Why is there such a difference between people?
Ethan answered calmly:
—Well, I wasn't exactly a model kid at her age. I got into a lot of trouble growing up in Banshee, I was never close to my father… so you're lucky. She'll just be mad for a few days, then it'll pass.
—I don't doubt that for a second.
At that moment, Justin, who had been smiling as he went up the stairs, came back down furious as well, clearly in a bad mood.
—Hi, Justin.
Olinsky smiled and extended his hand.
—Hello.
Justin forced a smile.
He shook Olinsky's hand briefly and stormed off.
—Compared to him, my daughter usually behaves pretty well —Olinsky said.
He pulled a twisted-wrapped candy from his pocket and shook his head, as if the gesture summed up years of worn-out patience.
Shortly after, Erin came down from the building and headed toward the vehicle. Her expression was tense, her brow slightly furrowed, as if she were carrying a thought she couldn't quite shake.
—Everything okay? —Ethan asked as he started the car.
—Yeah… just a misunderstanding —she replied after a brief pause.
Ethan didn't press, but he cast a quick glance in the rearview mirror before pulling into the street.