The witness wouldn’t stop talking. This was becoming a problem.

“I saw everything. The money changing hands. The guns. I can identify him in a lineup—”

“Mr. Caine,” Jane said, voice neutral as still water. She leaned back in the metal chair, its legs creaking against the interrogation room floor. “Let me be clear. Witness protection isn’t a luxury resort.”

His eyes were bloodshot, fingers trembling as they circled a paper cup of station coffee. The fluorescent lights washed out his already pale skin. David Caine: accountant, recently divorced, no kids. A man who stumbled into the wrong back room at the wrong time.

“I understand,” he said, nodding too quickly. “But I want to do the right thing.”

Her smile was rehearsed, a reflex without warmth—perfectly shaped, utterly hollow.

Detective Jane Langston, Tampa Bay PD: respected, feared, untouchable. Her badge caught the overhead light, gleaming beneath her tailored blazer. The precinct’s golden child, with a conviction rate that made the DA’s office salivate.

Nobody knew about her other badge—the invisible one she’d carried since birth. Langston’s daughter. One of the Judge’s weapons. Architects, her father used to say, his voice a low hum in the quiet study. We build order from chaos. Some people are tools. Some are materials. Learn the difference. Even as a teenager, she’d understood the coldness behind the words. She’d learned.

“Of course you do,” she said, voice smooth as river stones. “But there’s right, and then there’s smart.”

Behind the one-way glass, her partner Ramirez would be watching. He was in his mid-forties, salt-and-pepper creeping through his hair, twenty years on the job etched into the creases at the corners of his eyes. He thought he knew every side of her. He only knew the ones she allowed him to see.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket.

“Give me a minute,” she told Caine, and stepped out.

The precinct hallway smelled of burnt coffee and desperation. Officers moved around her with respectful nods—the unspoken deference granted to the Captain’s favorite. Jane checked her phone.

Problem?

Her father never wasted words. His texts arrived like cold commands, demanding immediate attention. She could picture him now, sitting in his study overlooking the bay, expensive scotch in hand. Judge Philip Langston, retired after thirty years on the bench. A pillar of the community. A monster in bespoke suits.

Handling it, she typed back.

The response came seconds later: Tonight.

One word. A death sentence for David Caine.

Her stomach tightened—not from the order itself, but from the familiar, hateful rhythm of it all, a sour churn deep beneath her ribs. It was the same visceral clench she’d felt a thousand times, the nauseating lurch of being pulled deeper into the cesspool of her father’s making. She clenched her jaw, the muscle ticking against her temple, fighting the reflexive urge to lash out, to scream, to shatter the cold control she’d perfected over two decades. She’d chosen to survive, all those years ago in his study, and survival meant adherence. Until now.

Jane slipped back into the interrogation room. Caine looked up, hope flickering in his eyes like a match about to drown.

“Mr. Caine, I’ll be your primary contact moving forward,” she said, sliding a folder across the table. “Inside is everything you need to know about the next forty-eight hours.”

“Thank you,” he said, voice breaking with relief. “I haven’t slept since I saw what happened. That man in the photo, he executed another man like it was nothing. Like swatting a fly.”

Jane kept her face neutral. Martín Vega. Her father’s right hand for the past decade. Charming, ruthless, efficient.

“We’ll find out who the shooter is,” she lied. “But I need you somewhere safe first.”

What a beautiful deception.

“How does this work?” Caine asked, paging through the folder. “When do I testify?”

“First step is a safe house. Tonight. You’ll stay there until the preliminary hearing.” She leaned forward, voice dropping. “This isn’t like TV. It’s tedious. Isolating. But it keeps you alive.” When he nodded, she saw something like gratitude in his eyes. The same look she’d seen in dozens before him. A fleeting, fragile flicker of trust. She felt nothing in return, only a cold calculation of how easily such hope could be extinguished. This man, like all the others, would learn soon enough that trust in her world was a liability, not a virtue.

“Pack a single bag. Essentials only.” She slid a business card across the table. “Call this number when you’re ready. We’ll pick you up at 9 PM.”

#

“You sure about this, Langston?” Ramirez asked as they walked to the parking lot. The scent of burnt coffee still seemed to cling to her clothes, a lingering reminder of the choice she’d just made.

The afternoon sun beat down on the asphalt, heat rising in waves. Tampa in August felt like living inside someone’s mouth.

“Captain’s orders,” she said, sliding on her sunglasses. “Vega case is priority.”

“Yeah, but you’ve been working seventy-hour weeks already.” He squinted at her, concern etched in the lines around his eyes. “You’re allowed to sleep occasionally.”

“I’ll sleep when Vega’s in cuffs.”

Ramirez shook his head. “You’re a damn machine, Langston.”

If only he knew. Machines had purpose, design, function. Jane was something else—a double agent in her own life, maintaining two contradictory truths. She enforced the law while helping her father break it. She’d learned to compartmentalize so much that she sometimes wondered if her true self remained. The girl who once believed in justice had come to see it as just another commodity.

#

She checked her watch when she arrived home. 7:30 PM. Ninety minutes until Caine’s extraction.

In her bedroom closet, behind a false wall, she kept her other life. Burner phones. Cash in various currencies. Three passports with different names but her face. A Beretta 92FS with the serial number filed off.

She selected a phone, dialed.

“Docks. Midnight,” Vega answered, voice like gravel wrapped in silk. No hello, no pleasantries. Just coordinates for death.

“Understood.”

She hung up, began to change. Black pants, black turtleneck despite the heat. Hair pulled back. No jewelry, no scent. Nothing to catch light or leave impression.

The Beretta felt right in her hands—the weight of certainty in a world of compromise. She checked the magazine, the action. Smooth, ready. Like her. Chosen to survive, she thought, the old phrase a bitter taste in her mouth. It had been twenty years since her father had offered her that stark choice, shaping her into this, into his perfect instrument. But even the sharpest tool could cut the hand that wielded it.

As she holstered the weapon at the small of her back, her real phone rang. The precinct.

“Langston,” she answered.

“Jane.” Captain Rivera’s voice, tight with urgency. “We’ve got a problem. Caine’s neighbor called it in. His apartment door was open, place torn apart.”

Her blood went cold. “And Caine?”

“Gone. Blood spatter in the living room. Not a lot, but enough to worry.”

“Fuck,” she hissed, mind racing. This wasn’t the plan. This was messy, public. This was Vega going off-script. “Any witnesses?”

“That’s why I’m calling. Mrs. Delacruz across the hall saw two men dragging someone to a car. She got a partial plate.”

Jane closed her eyes. This was unraveling fast. “I’m on my way.”

#

Crime scene tape stretched across Caine’s apartment door, yellow against peeling white paint. The building was old, cramped—the kind of place where people minded their business until blood seeped under their doors.

Ramirez met her in the hallway, expression grim, but he said nothing.

Jane ducked under the tape, surveying the wreckage. Furniture overturned, drawers emptied, a chaotic performance of searching. Blood spatter on the beige carpet formed a trail toward the door—arterial, but not fatal. That would come later.

This was Vega’s signature. Create enough chaos to support multiple theories. Robbery gone wrong. Drug deal. Personal vendetta.

“Mrs. Delacruz is in the kitchen,” Ramirez said. “Hispanic female, seventy-three, lives alone. Says she heard the commotion, peeked out her door. Saw two males dragging a third.”

“Let me talk to her,” Jane said, moving toward the kitchen.

Mrs. Delacruz sat at a small table, hands clasped around a mug of tea. Tiny, bird-like, with sharp eyes that missed nothing. The kind of witness defense attorneys had nightmares about.

“Mrs. Delacruz,” Jane said, sitting across from her. “I’m Detective Langston. Can you tell me what you saw?”

The old woman’s gaze was steady, evaluating. “Two men. Big. Not white. Maybe Cuban, maybe Puerto Rican. They had David between them. His head was bleeding.”

“Did they say anything?”

“One of them saw me. He smiled.” She shuddered. “Not a normal smile. Like a shark.”

Jane felt ice in her veins. Vega. He’d been here personally.

“You’re very observant, Mrs. Delacruz,” Jane said, offering a reassuring smile. “This is incredibly helpful. We will send a sketch artist to work through this with you.”

The old woman leaned forward. “Will you find him? David is a good boy. Quiet. Respectful.”

“We’ll do everything we can,” Jane lied, the words acid on her tongue. “Thank you,” she managed.

Back in the hallway, Ramirez was coordinating with forensics. “We’re pulling traffic cams, putting out a BOLO on the vehicle.”

“Good,” Jane said, checking her watch. 8:45 PM. “I need to make some calls. Stay on this.”

“Where are you going?”

“To check a lead.”

#

The docks at midnight felt like another world. Shipping containers stacked like monoliths, casting long shadows under security lights. The air tasted of salt and diesel. The water lapped against concrete pilings, black and secretive.

Jane parked two blocks away, approached on foot. Her steps were silent, measured. She’d done this dance before. This is it, she thought, the cool night air prickling her skin. The real risk. Not just for Caine, but for me. My father doesn’t tolerate loose ends, and failure, especially mine, is a luxury he doesn’t afford anyone. My own life hangs on this thread.

Warehouse 17 stood separated from the others, closer to the water. A perfect place to make someone disappear. No cameras, no witnesses. Just the indifferent sea waiting to receive whatever was no longer needed.

She spotted the black sedan first, then three figures near the warehouse entrance. Vega and two of his men. No sign of Caine, but he’d be inside already.

Jane straightened her shoulders, stepped from the shadows.

“You’re late,” Vega called, grinning as she approached. He was handsome in the conventional way—sharp cheekbones, expensive watch, tailored clothes. His eyes were what gave him away—flat, calculating, patient as a predator.

“You moved up the timeline,” she replied, voice neutral. “Creating complications.”

“The Judge wanted it handled. I handled it.” He gestured to the warehouse door. “Your witness is waiting. Alive, as requested.”

She’d been explicit about that part. Not from mercy, but practicality. Bodies created questions. Disappearances created myths. Myths faded.

“The neighbor saw you,” she said, keeping her voice level. “Got a partial plate.”

Vega shrugged. “Unfortunate. But manageable.”

The implication hung between them, a lead weight. Another loose end. Another problem for Jane to solve, a knot tied around her own neck. If Mrs. Delacruz’s information somehow linked back to Vega, and then to the Judge, the fallout would be immense, and Jane, the supposed “fixer,” would be the first casualty of her father’s fury.

“I’ll handle it,” she said quietly.

Vega’s smile widened a fraction. “The Judge said you would. Always so… reliable, Jane.”

He stepped aside, gesturing her toward the door. His men remained outside, silent sentinels in the darkness.

Inside, the warehouse was cavernous, empty except for a few crates and a single chair in the center, illuminated by a hanging work light. David Caine sat slumped, hands bound behind him. Blood matted his hair, dripped down one side of his face. His left eye was swollen shut.

He looked up as she approached, his good eye widening with recognition.

“Detective Langston?” His voice was hoarse, disbelieving. “Thank God. These men—they broke into my apartment—”

Jane circled him slowly, assessing the damage. Contusions, lacerations, possibly cracked ribs from his labored breathing. Nothing fatal. Vega had been careful, as instructed.

“Mr. Caine,” she said, keeping her voice professional. Detached. “I need you to listen very carefully.”

Hope flickered across his battered face. “Are there other officers coming? I can still testify. I remember everything—”

“David,” she cut him off. “No one is coming.”

The silence that followed felt physical, pressing against her skin. She saw understanding grow in his face—first confusion, then disbelief, and finally, fear.

“I don’t… I don’t understand,” he whispered.

Jane crouched before him, meeting his gaze. “Yes, you do.”

His breathing quickened. “You’re with them. You’re… you’re corrupt.”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“You’re a cop,” he said, voice breaking. “You’re supposed to protect people.”

Something twisted inside her—not guilt, but recognition. A flicker of the person she might have been in another life, before the choices that had sculpted her into this. The echo of an idealism long since discarded.

“Martín Vega works for my father,” she whispered. “Judge Langston. You’ve heard of him?”

Caine’s face paled beneath the blood and bruising. But more from shock than recognition. The Judge. Every bad guy in Florida knew that name—the paragon of justice, the incorruptible force. The lie the city told itself. David was not a bad guy.

“Oh God,” he breathed.

“You saw something you weren’t supposed to see. Walked into a room you weren’t supposed to enter.” She shook her head. “Bad luck, not bad intention. I understand that.”

“Please,” he whispered. “I have a sister in Orlando. A nephew. They need me.”

Jane stood, circled behind him. “Everyone has someone, David. Everyone is needed somewhere. That’s what makes this difficult.” Her voice was steady, betraying none of the old, buried ache that used to surface when innocent pleas hit too close to home. The girl who once believed in justice had come to see it as just another commodity, a concept as easily bought and sold as life itself.

From behind her back, she withdrew the Beretta. Caine couldn’t see it, but he sensed the shift in the air, the weight of what was coming.

“I can disappear,” he said desperately. “Leave the country. Change my name. You’ll never hear from me again.”

“That’s exactly right,” she agreed, voice soft.

She pressed the barrel to the base of his skull. His body went rigid, a small sound escaping his throat—not quite a sob, but close.

“Detective,” he whispered. “Jane. Please.”

Her finger rested on the trigger. Steady. Certain.

“Close your eyes, David.”

In the half-second before she pulled the trigger, she made her decision.

#

The boat cut through the dark water, engine humming low. Twenty miles offshore in the Gulf of Mexico, the Loop Current can move anything south. It heads toward the Florida Keys and then into the Florida Straits.

Beside her, wrapped in a thermal blanket, David Caine sat trembling. The gunshot had deafened his right ear—fired close enough to graze skin but miss bone. In the warehouse, he collapsed convincingly. Blood from his earlier injuries pooled beneath him.

Vega stood in the doorway. He watched Jane check for a pulse. She nodded and told his men to get the body ready for disposal.

“I’ll handle it personally,” she’d told him. “The Judge’s orders.”

Now, miles from Tampa Bay, she cut the engine. The boat drifted, rocking gently on the waves. Above them, stars scattered across the sky, indifferent to the small dramas playing out below.

“Why?” Caine asked, voice barely audible above the water lapping against the hull.

Jane didn’t look at him. “There’s a duffel under the seat. New identity. Five thousand cash. Coordinates for a fishing vessel that will take you to Cozumel. From there, you can reach Mexico City.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

She finally turned to him. “You’re worth more to me alive than dead.”

Caine blinked, uncomprehending. “What?”

Jane’s expression hardened. “I need leverage, David. You saw Martín Vega execute someone on my father’s orders. That makes you valuable.”

Understanding dawned on his face. “You’re… using me?”

“I’m keeping you alive,” she corrected. “There’s a difference.”

“Why?” His voice was barely audible above the water’s rhythm. “Why turn against your father now?”

Jane’s mouth tightened. “Twenty years of being his weapon. Twenty years of cleaning up his messes, of being positioned like a chess piece.” Her eyes were cold, calculating. “Even the most loyal dog eventually bites back.”

“They’ll kill you when they find out,” he said.

“If,” she corrected. “And that’s why you’re going to stay exactly where I put you. Available when I need you, invisible when I don’t.”

She reached into her jacket, withdrew a phone. Pressed a single button.

“It’s done,” she told her father. “The witness is shark food.”

Not a lie. Not exactly.

After hanging up, she handed Caine a burner phone. “Contact information is programmed in. When I need your testimony, you’ll be ready.”

“And if I refuse?” His voice was steadier now, a flicker of defiance.

Jane smiled—the same smile her father used when sentencing men to death. “Then I’ll finish what I started tonight and find another way.”

He stared at her, fear and resentment replacing gratitude. “What happens now?”

Jane looked toward the horizon, where the first hint of dawn limned the sky with silver.

“Now you become my insurance policy,” she said. “And I start dismantling what my father built.”

#

Back at the precinct, Jane compiled her report. David Caine, missing person. Presumed victim of foul play. Investigation ongoing.

On her desk, a framed photo—the only personal item she allowed herself. Twenty-two-year-old Jane when she joined Tampa PD, flanked by her father and sister. The Judge’s hand rested on her shoulder, heavy with wicked expectation.

Sometimes, in the rare stillness, Jane allowed herself to wonder if it wasn’t too late for her sister. Jane wasn’t sure what scared her more—that her sister might still be lost in her father’s grip… or that she’d slipped free and became something even worse. Philip Langston wielded power like a scalpel—precise, cold, methodical. But her sister? She was chaos with a purpose. She’d inherited their father’s cunning and none of his restraint. There was no telling what she’d become out there loose in the world, rewriting the rules to suit her own agenda. And yet, Jane still hoped. Hoped that beneath the recklessness, the violence, the myth she might have built around herself… there was something left worth saving.

Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number—one of her father’s many burners.

Well done. I’ll be in Tampa on Sunday. Dinner.

Such ordinary words. Such terrible weight.

She put the phone back in her pocket. A cold satisfaction filled the empty space inside her. The game had changed. For the first time, she held a card her father didn’t know about. A living witness, hidden away until the time was right.

One strategic move wouldn’t topple an empire. But it was a start. The beginning of a long, dangerous play against the man feared nothing.

As the morning shift filtered in, Ramirez stopped by her desk, coffee in hand. “Any breaks on the Caine case?”

Jane looked up, face composed. Detective Langston. The Captain’s golden child. The Judge’s perfect weapon.

No longer.

“Nothing concrete,” she said. “But I’m developing a promising lead.”

For the first time in years, it wasn’t entirely a lie.

Follow me for more great stories, book news, and free stuff!

https://warrenflynn.com/warren-flynn-author-newsletter/