I forgot to make an official announcement about this. Oops.
Hope is going to have a sequel. Its working title is Without Fear (meaning it might change), and the current outline has it at 25 chapters. Now that we're nearing the end, I'm going to start reminding everyone that that sequel will start exactly one week after the last chapter of this story is posted.
Oh, nearly forgot this too. There are two content warnings in this chapter, for gore and psychological abuse. They are two specific paragraphs, and I've put the warnings just before them so you can choose to skip them if you'd like.
Thank you for reading!
December 17, 2038
"Tell me a little about your partner."
Hank looked up from the carpet he'd been staring at since the start of the meeting.
Dema Nazarian sat across from him in her usual position, one long leg crossed over the other knee. She held an open notepad in her lap and twirled a gold-plated pen between her fingertips. Thing was probably more expensive than all the clothes he was wearing combined. Steam rolled off two fresh mugs on the coffee table between them. Tea. Green, he thought he remembered her saying? Neither of them touched it. A clock on the wall behind her delivered the bad news: they were only six minutes into his session.
Her expression didn't change when he faced her, but he recognized a smile in her eyes. With how stubborn he was, even getting him to acknowledge her felt like a victory on her part.
Hank began to shake his head. "Andy? She's just a brat. She-"
Call it a conscience catching up to him, or pride unwilling to downplay his protégé, he couldn't bring himself to lament his partner. Body sagging in resignation, he let out a heavy sigh and admitted, "She's a good detective."
After watching him cycle through his reactions, Nazarian offered a small, lighthearted smile. "But a brat."
"She's got enthusiasm for the job," he complained. He waved a dismissive hand and tried to explain his attitude. "Those of us who've been around the block a few more times don't feel the same way. It's nothing personal. It's a generational thing."
A plucked brow raised in mild surprise. "That's remarkably self-aware of you."
He wasn't sure if it was meant to be praise, criticism, or both, but he took offense regardless. Scowling, he retorted, "I'm old, not stupid."
She tried to be subtle, but Hank caught sight of her scribbling something in her notepad and it made him suspicious. Before he could interrogate her about it, she was moving on to her next question. "In all those years at the department, have you ever had anything like the car bomb happen before?"
This was a more objective topic. That made it feel safer to answer. And that made him feel more suspicious about answering it. He hesitated, trying to assess her motives, before replying, "We've found explosives a few times back with the task force - dealers with heavy weapons stashes - but nothing like what happened at CyberLife."
"Did that experience help you deal with this incident?" She asked, moving pen away from paper to rest her elbow across her lap.
He watched her move before learning forward a little to deliver an annoyed stare. Wasn't it obvious? "Between me and my partner, one of us is here talking to you and the other isn't, so I think that answers your question."
Again, she smiled that smile that said she knew more than he did. "What did you mean by enthusiasm?" At his look of confusion, she repeated his earlier comment. "You said young officers had enthusiasm."
He sighed. His eyes drifted to the wall as he tried to put his thoughts into more acceptable words. "I don't know what else to call it. Ambition? Optimism? They come in and they think they're gonna change the world."
"Recent events would show maybe they're on to something."
He pointed at her a little, stating, "This has been the exception, not the rule."
She didn't seem to agree. Gesturing toward him, she said, "You changed the world at one time with the task force."
He scoffed. "Look how great that turned out." He looked down at his clasped hands in his lap with a new bitterness. "No... I used to think we did something big, but we just made a dent."
"You helped people, didn't you?" she pushed softly.
"Put some in danger, too," he grumbled.
"Like your partner?"
There was a long silence. Guess that was her plan, he thought to himself, supposing that she'd hit him where she'd been intending to all along.
It felt like every day, there was a new reason to regret bringing Andy onto the task force. She never would have been in Nick Weaver's crossfire, never would have been given that damn memory card, never would have ended up near... all this. She would have stayed a homicide detective with Reed, and they would have advanced their careers like they should have had the chance to do.
Nazarian was patiently waiting for Hank's answer and for a brief moment, he wondered how long she would keep waiting. Maybe he was ready to share his guilt with someone, because he felt he was unwilling to find out.
"It's put her through a lot of shit," he quietly admitted.
"You feel responsible?"
He glared at her, snapping, "Of course I'm responsible. She was only part of the task force because I asked her to be. She looked up to me. I knew what influence I had."
They both noticed the past tense with different emotions. He'd struck himself with it, and she caught it like a shark chasing its prey. "Had?"
"Things change," he said, trying to brush off the weight of his words.
Hank assumed they had changed with recent events. From Jericho to this rogue officer, every new threat and mystery was like a blight on the last good things he had this world. Maybe a part of him had been simply trying to run away because it was easier, maybe a part of him was trying to protect them because he was scared, but it all came at the expense of her trust.
Nazarian seemed to have other ideas about when things changed. "Was that before or after your son died?"
It was like being drenched in ice-cold water. All willingness to answer her questions and play her little mind games went out the window, and Hank stiffened in his seat. With a tightness returning to his jaw and a deep crease in his brows, he gave her a single warning. "I didn't come here to talk about that."
"So you're coping?" she pushed him.
His glare worsened, and he began to slide toward the edge of the cushion to stand and flee. "You know what? I think we're done here," he groused, his voice raising in anger, "I was supposed to address what happened at CyberLife. Nothin' else."
She wasn't willing to let him run without a fight, though. There was a new edge in her usually impartial tone as she argued, "You don't handle death very well, Hank, and that's what almost happened."
Did she think this was news to him? He was there. He felt the same shock wave everyone else did, his body slammed against the same pavement. His ears rang for days, his head hurt for even longer. He saw that hubcap Andy avoided - through sheer fucking luck, mind you. Just thinking about it made his heart beat like he was in the middle of combat. He already knew death almost happened.
So why was he still sitting there in Nazarian's office?
Whatever emotion was flashing on his face seemed to take her foot off the pedal a little. She shifted in her chair and closed her notebook, taking in a deep breath. As if preparing herself to say something unlike her.
A ringing cellphone interrupted the moment, and Hank eagerly yanked it out of his pocket.
Nazarian quickly returned to her calm, albeit smug, demeanor. "You're supposed to have that turned off," she chided.
"Arrest me," he spat, bringing his phone to his ear. "Yeah?"
Andy and Connor were finally having their second date.
For the past week, everyone had been juggling work and the confidential investigation into the DPD mole. The last order from Arthur Vick was to conduct individual searches and then wait for his contact. The contact had yet to happen, but his radio silence was the least of everyone's concerns. December was a busy month for the city, between dangerous weather and heightened levels of stress among the populace, meaning more secret matters were often an afterthought. Progress was slow, to say the least, and it was making everyone tense.
After witnessing Andy take her frustrations out on a bagel in the station kitchen that morning, Connor took a shot and invited her out after work. He couldn't honestly say his motives were altruistic - he'd been waiting for an opportunity ever since their last date - but he'd hoped it would help her relax too.
He arrived at her apartment with one hand around a thin square box, and the other holding the spare key to her place, a sunflower charm dangling from the keychain. He was only a little shy to admit that that key was his most prized possession (he was less confident in admitting it was one of his only ones.)
He knocked on the door as he opened it, to let her know he was there. "Andy?"
"In here." A hand shot out between a crack in the bathroom door, waving a little before retreating into the room.
Connor gently shut the door behind him, saying, "I'm sorry I'm early. Hank went out so I thought I'd leave before he returned."
"Hey, it doesn't bother me. You're the one who's got to wait around," she teased.
He smiled to himself, replying, "I don't mind waiting for you."
A deep chuckle echoed from the bathroom. "I get that impression."
They settled into a comfortable silence as Connor stepped around the foyer wall and into the kitchen. On the island counter sat an unopened package, its shipping label marked for the apartment across the hall. "What's this?" He asked, stepping closer to inspect it.
Andy peaked her head out and saw what he was focused on. "It's for my neighbor. The woman you met," she answered, going back to the bathroom counter. "She asked me to get her mail while she's out of town for the holidays."
Kira, Connor recalled, was the woman Andy lied to about her identity. She worked at White Pines, an assisted living center in northern Detroit where her grandfather lived. She had relatives in California and Toronto, and a gym membership going on four years. She was arrested for shoplifting when she was seventeen, but had no other records.
Andy was not the only one wary of strangers, but it was Connor's conclusion that this stranger in particular was safe. "I'm glad you're making friends," he commented.
"Thanks, Mom."
He thought about the lie Andy specifically told about him. This is my boyfriend. Kira had complimented how they looked together. It made him nervous - and pleased. He smiled again, moving to sit on a stool at the island. "Technically, you're not lying to her about who I am anymore."
He turned around in time to see her step into the bathroom doorway. She leaned against the frame, arms crossed over her chest with one foot kicked over the other. "That would mean I told her before I told Delgado," she mused, eyes drifting away as she pursed her lips in thought. "That's going to burn me later."
"You could tell her we broke up." When she looked to him, he shot her a teasing smirk. "We'll rekindle and Miss Delgado can be the first to know."
She grinned. "This is weird flirting."
He laughed, moving to his feet as she pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room. Once they were standing in front of each other, he held up the box he'd been carrying. "I've been learning to bake."
She quirked a brow at the box. Taking it from his hands, she lifted the lid to reveal 4 small squares of fudge. "You've been learning to bake?" she repeated, rotating the box slightly so she could see the clean-cut sides of each slice.
Her inspection seemed appreciative, but he tried not to shrink under his uncertainty. "It seems taking in information in a more organic manner is a good way to pass free time. I haven't found a class that accepts androids yet, but I've been watching videos," he rambled slightly. It would have been an easier task to alter his programming, to download the proper information and understand it instantly, but Natalie Hope once spent an evening teaching him how to make a pie. It'd been the first nice evening Connor ever had.
Whether Andy recognized that or not, she didn't show it. Peering up at him with amusement, she asked, "What's it like working in Hank's kitchen?"
That had also been its own evening. With a slight frown, he answered, "There was dust in his stove."
She laughed and closed the box. "Well, thank you for the fudge." She stepped forward to give him a chaste kiss, and then asked, "You ready to leave?"
His hands had found a place on her hips after she entered his space. He only noticed the action after he'd done it. It was like instinct, to want to be closer - and when she leaned into it, he swore he felt time skip a beat. "I could stand here for a while," he confessed, a light whisper between them.
Her smile was softer than usual before it widened with a sense of humor. Tapping the box of fudge against his chest, she whispered back, "It'd take a lot more fudge than this."
She finally retreated from his embrace, leaving the box on the counter as she went for her jacket.
They left the apartment and took the elevator down to the first floor. An old school cab operated by a human driver was waiting by the curb; after the attempt on their lives at Farah's, they refused to ride in anything with network vulnerabilities. Andy even agreed to let Hank pick her up for work until either the threat was gone or the weather was warm enough for her bike again. It was a sobering moment when everyone realized the possibility that the latter option might happen before the first.
Connor was opening the back door when Andy's phone started ringing.
Richards' name lit up on the screen, so she stopped to answer before she entered the car. "Yeah?"
"Where are you right now?"
She recognized the severity in his voice. After years with him as her handler, she knew there were only a few things it could mean. "My apartment, why?" she asked, glancing to Connor in growing concern.
"You need to come back in," he paused with a heavy sigh. "As soon as possible."
Minutes later, Hank was walking up to the central station at the same time as Andy and Connor. The three of them met by the front entrance, Hank and Andy holding the two doors in the middle open.
Hank's eyes narrowed as he inspected the two of them. They would have been approaching from different directions if Connor had still been at the house, and Jericho was further from the station than Andy's apartment, so he shouldn't have been arriving at the same time. This meant he had been with Andy before they were called in.
Jutting his chin out toward them, he asked, "What were you two doin' together?"
"Nothing," Andy was quick to answer before returning the gesture. "Where have you been?"
"Nowhere."
She squinted, and hummed an unconvinced, "Uh-huh." His cheeks weren't flushed by the cold, which meant he'd been indoors. He didn't smell like smoke or alcohol, so he hadn't been at the bar.
Connor watched the two of them scrutinize each other. They were both hiding something, clearly, and had yet to accept the fact that it was easier to put the truth out there than delay the inevitable and make things worse. With a tinge of annoyance, Connor grumbled, "Detroit's finest."
They blinked a few times in surprise as he walked past them through the doors they were still holding open.
Hank scowled after him, muttering, "Prick."
"Yeah, I didn't care for that," Andy agreed.
The bullpen was crammed with people. Almost all of the station's officers had been called in, including the tactical teams, and they were gathered around the center of the room listening to Fowler's debrief. Near the back of the crowds were Reed, leaning against his desk with his arms crossed; Vick, lingering by one of the interrogation rooms; and Richards, standing in the doorway of the SID office.
It was police procedure to secure your firearm in your desk while at the station, so seeing guns in everyone's holsters was evidence to the active scene the trio was walking into.
Richards was the first to spot them, and began crossing the station.
"What's going on?" Hank asked.
With a small sigh, the lieutenant told them, "Hart escaped prison."
The news punched them all in the gut. Andy had been waiting for the other shoe to drop ever since Delgado first told her about Jason firing his lawyer. This was that drop.
"What?" Hank exclaimed. "How the hell did that happen?"
"Based on Fowler's face right now, I'd wager the warden's not feeling forthcoming about that detail," Andy murmured, glancing to their captain. He looked seconds away from taking the whiteboard behind him and throwing it into the glass walls of his office.
Richards huffed a little, commenting on the warden, "Well he couldn't exactly hide the dead body in his parking lot."
"Hart killed someone?" Connor asked.
Nodding, Richards said, "One of the COs. Left him in a transport van."
Andy took special note of this, and her brows furrowed in confusion. "Transport van? Where was he going?"
He pointed at her, remarking, "And there's what the warden's not telling us."
The three of them gave their own little scoffs, but Hank moved on to the next concern. "What's being done?"
"The chief's shut down major transportation, and FBI are on their way."
"Lot of help they'll be," Andy grumbled.
Hank continued. "Families need to be brought in until we can get security details on them."
Richards nodded in agreement. "Ishani's in court, but I've got an officer picking up the girls." Movement from the bullpen entrance caught his attention, so he gestured behind them. "And there's DDA Delgado now."
They turned to find their DDA in step with her parents, an officer walking behind them. Apparently the elderly Delgados were not appreciative of being pulled from their homes at this hour of the night, as they eyed the bullpen with apprehension and argued with their daughter in hushed Spanish. Delgado managed to break away without a scene, ushering the officer to escort them down the hall toward the conference rooms.
In the middle of the bullpen, Fowler clapped his hands together and yelled, "All right, everybody out!"
He and Delgado walked up to the others as everyone else began to scatter. "Did you fill them in?" When Richards nodded, Fowler turned to Andy. "Hope, you're on lock down until we handle this, and I'm not taking suggestions. Hart might target anyone who put him in prison, and you're top of the list."
Delgado put a comforting hand on Andy's sagging shoulder. She didn't have time to respond, because in a surprising move, Fowler then shifted his focus toward the former android detective. "We've got an officer on standby at the prison, but no investigation's happened yet. I was hoping Connor would be willing to help us out."
In any other situation, Connor would have jumped on the opportunity investigate a murder scene, but he knew Andy - he knew the slim chance that she would follow orders and stay in the station where it was safe. He subconsciously glanced her way, and was met with a subtle, and reluctant, nod. "I would be glad to help," he agreed.
"I'll come along," Hank added, shrugging. "Keep it 'official.'"
Fowler nodded. "We'll take my car. I have some words for that warden..." He walked off, letting his grumbling fade into silence as Hank followed after him.
Connor stayed where he was at first. Andy forced a lopsided grin to ease his tension, and joked about her captain's wrath, "Least it's not me for a change." At his concerned stare, she rolled her eyes. "Stay here, I know, I know."
"I'll keep an eye on her," Delgado assured him.
Beside them, Richards piped up, "I'll find some work to keep you busy."
"Oh," Andy's brows shot up as he turned toward his office. "Great."
She began to follow him, when Connor reached out for her hand. They were still close enough that it wasn't an obvious gesture, especially in the busy space of the bullpen, but it got her attention. "Be careful," he mouthed.
"I'll make sure to avoid papercuts," she retorted. As she moved away, she gave his hand one last squeeze and replied more quietly, "You too."
"Y'know, twenty years ago, people were trying to abolish the prison industry. Now they want more of these eyesores built all over the country."
The eyesore in question was the most advanced state prison in the nation. It was a joint venture between CyberLife and the United States government, and one of the president's campaign promises to "push the criminal justice system into a new era." There were two wings of the building, branching out from a tall center structure known as the command tower. Cells were electronically powered, kitchens were automated, the yard was an indoor gym with a holographic ceiling to replicate the sun, and every inch of the structure was attached to a smart system that monitored vital signs and profiled inmates and employees alike.
Before the revolution, androids were used for most interactions involving the inmates, and they were supervised by five human officers. Two healthcare professionals and the warden brought up the total number of human staff to eight. For the government, it was a dream come true. For proponents, it was a sign of CyberLife's ever growing control over the country.
Hank and Fowler stood in front of the car, staring at the building. It was the first time either of them had seen it up close.
Fowler would leave his personal thoughts where they were. "Chief Simmons calls it a technological marvel," he stated.
Hank was far less polite. "Well I call it proof people would buy dog shit if it had WiFi in it."
Glancing over at him, Fowler remarked, "Said by a man who drives an OSHA violation because it doesn't have a USB port."
Hank scowled at him, but it was an empty gesture, and he grumbled in a weak tone, "Leave the Oldsmobile out of this."
Connor joined them, and the three walked across the parking lot toward the prisoner entrance. A van was parked by the front curb, with every door open. A body lay in the driver's seat with a stream of blood dried along the bottom frame of the car. Crime Scene Investigation had blocked off that entire half of the lot with holographic tape, and three of Ben's people were still documenting everything.
An officer the corner of the scene stood watch, and offered Fowler a respectful nod as the three men grew near.
"Evening, Captain."
"How's it going?" Fowler asked, stepping up beside her.
She shot a nasty side glance toward the curb, where a guard in a different uniform was stationed. "It'd be better if the warden didn't give us babysitters."
The prison guard didn't budge, but he did argue, "We're following orders, just like you."
Hank snorted. "Commendable."
Fowler ignored the guard who wasn't under his command. Tilting his head toward the building, he told the woman in front of him, "Go let him know we're here."
"Yes, Sir."
While Fowler walked a slow pace around the perimeter of the scene, Hank and Connor focused on the vehicle.
Content warning: gore.
The body in the driver's seat belonged to a young man, and the pooling blood trailed from the floorboard all the way up his torso and to a starting point at his neck. One bloody hand was stuck to the bottom of the steering wheel, and the other dangled at his side. His head was positioned on the left shoulder of his seat, twisted back to showcase several sloppy stab wounds that decorated the width of his throat. A sharpened toothbrush had been left behind in the last wound.
End content warning.
"Brutal," Hank grimaced.
"And unsurprising. Jason Hart's an angry individual," Connor mumbled. He didn't hear Hank's snort in response, as he was focused on the victim's face. Davis Johnson, 23.
Moving around to the passenger side of the van, Connor discovered the other half of the scene.
The sliding side door was left open, and a pair of handcuffs were dropped onto the pavement next to a small key. He knelt down beside them, leaning closer. Fingerprint on one of the handcuffs, belonging to Davis Johnson. Partial fingerprint on the key, Jason Hart's. Johnson cuffed Hart, who obtained the key off his body. Hart removed his own restraints.
He straightened to look inside the empty van, but a faint pattern on the pavement caught his eye. A footprint. His eyes drifted along until they spotted another. Footprints, plural.
Jumping to his feet, Connor followed the trail.
The prints grew fainter the further they went, but he was able to follow them several yards toward the entrance of the parking lot. Gait is casual. Weight is shifted toward the heel. Hart was not in a hurry when he left.
Where the trail cut off, he could make out tire impressions. Four wheels. Tires a popular model for luxury vehicles. He didn't continue on foot.
"You gettin' anything?" Hank yelled from the driver's side of the van.
Connor turned to face the scene as he replied, "Someone was waiting to pick up Hart." He scanned the rest of the parking lot, and then the front of the prison. Security cameras. One on the prisoner entrance, one on the parking lot entrance.
"Captain Fowler."
The new voice pulled everyone's attention to the prisoner entrance, where an older balding man in an oversized suit was standing by the prison guard. His demeanor was stiff, and his expression was aloof.
"Warden Broward," Fowler greeted in a civil but tense tone, stepping closer to the man. "It seemed we had a misunderstanding over the phone so I thought I'd pay a visit to clear things up."
Broward had no intention of playing nice, and the flat stare said as much. "There was no misunderstanding, Captain. I'm not speaking to anyone in regard to this investigation until I've contacted my lawyer."
Fowler shook his head in disbelief. "It's been an hour since we talked. You haven't thought to give him a call?"
Broward purses his lips. "It went to voicemail."
Hank and Connor had moved closer to listen in. As Fowler cursed under his breath in frustration, Connor gestured to the corners of the building and asked, "Did those cameras capture anything?"
If Broward thought the captain of Detroit Police was overstepping, Connor daring to speak to him was practically taboo. The offense was clear on his features. "If you want any information from this facility, you will have to go through the proper channels."
"The proper channels? There's a dead guy in the parking lot!" Hank exclaimed, waving a hand behind him.
"Yes, of a state prison. Where state investigators will no doubt be arriving on the hour to handle...," Broward paused, lip curling at the sight of a corpse, "All of this."
Connor narrowed his eyes. "Actually, Detroit Police have every legal right to lead this investigation. Should Michigan authorities get involved, it will only happen when they arrive, and not a moment sooner."
They could almost see the steam blowing out of Broward's ears. "I'm not debating the law with an android," he spat.
"You'll do it with me, then," Fowler interjected. Hands on his hips, he delivered a hard glare as he argued, "He's right, Broward. I can call a judge if that would suit you, and we can all get tied up in red tape - I'll have us here all night - or you can help us out and we'll be on our way in no time."
Hank was quick to add, "At least let us see the security footage. We need to know where this guy went, preferably before he's not there anymore."
The warden was outnumbered and outsmarted, and the last thing he wanted or needed was to piss off a judge. Inhaling a deep, irritated breath, he turning on his heel and headed for the door. "Follow me, gentlemen."
The prison had apparently been placed on lock down.
Content warning: psychological abuse.
Exterior cell walls were built of two-sided glass, much like the mirrors that let detectives observe interrogation rooms, and the cells' interior lights were set at max intensity. The inmates were effectively blinded and isolated, while the guards were able to see every nook and cranny. Some people were accustomed to this, resting in their bunks with pillows over their faces to block out the light. Others paced to release pent up frustrations and anxieties, and a few tried to cup their eyes up to the mirrors to get a glimpse of the hall. Passing guards would smack their batons against the cells where the inmates were looking in order to knock the glass into their faces and scare them away.
End content warning.
Hank felt sick to his stomach. He tried to distract himself, choosing to bother the warden leading them down the hall. Bastard walked as unfazed as if it were a normal evening. "What happened to all the androids that were supposed to be running this place?"
The man bristled at the question, and enunciated each word with anger. "Androids weren't 'running' this facility," he answered through gritted teeth. "Androids were previously used for basic corrections, but each block was supervised by a human senior officer."
"That changed with the revolution, I assume," Fowler commented.
Broward's agreement was terse. "Indeed. This facility was in full compliance with the government's recycling order." With a small scoff, he added, "Not that it helped us. It was quite the scramble to fill all those vacancies."
Connor didn't want to think about that recycling order, so he decided to steer the conversation back to the parking lot cameras. "How many cameras does the prison have?"
"That would possibly catch Hart? Four."
"I would like to see the ones you don't suspect would be helpful as well," he said.
Broward's permanent frown deepened with suspicion. "Why?"
Fowler spoke up before Connor could. "We're just being thorough, Warden."
They entered the command tower, and navigated to Broward's office. Walking inside, Hank came to a stop when he saw an android standing to attention by the large desk at the back of the room. He was an LM100 model, having originally been designed to be a personal assistant. His hands were clasped in front of himself, and he watched them with a blank expression.
Hank glanced to Broward with skepticism. "Full compliance, huh?"
The warden took offense, and scowled. "Assistant androids were granted extensions due to their value. By the time I would have had to send it to a center, the order to do so was withdrawn." He headed for his desk, asking the android, "Do I have any calls?"
The android nodded. "There was a fight in Cell Block B. Officer Pluth is waiting to report to you in the infirmary."
Sighing, Broward turned back toward the door. "Of course there was. Show the detectives our CCTV - don't answer any questions."
"Makes us feel real warm inside," Hank retorted as the warden slammed the door on his way out of the office.
While Richards communicated with officers around the city and coordinated search efforts, he had Andy doing research. First she looked into the warden, who seemed to be more boring than private. Then she began investigating personnel, most of whom were young and inexperienced. Her last target was the victim himself.
She'd just finished her initial dive into his life when Richards ended his call with border patrol. "Davis Johnson, twenty-three," she started without warning, reading the profile she'd opened on one of the SID computers. "He dropped out of the police academy when he was nineteen. Drifted between jobs until he was hired at the prison a month ago."
"They had a new guy transporting a high security inmate?" Richards asked, scribbling something down in a folder on his desk.
With a small huff, she mumbled, "I'm betting 'new guys' are pretty much all they've got right now." She wrote a number down on a sticky note, and pulled it off the original stack, waving it in the air. "His parents are in Grand Rapids. I pulled a number for his mom off his emergency information."
Even from where she sat, she could see Richards deflate in his chair. "I hate doing notifications over the phone."
"Yeah," she quietly agreed.
He reached for the landline on his desk until they heard the SID door start to open. An officer stepped to the side of the doorway, allowing two young women inside.
It had been years since Andy last spoke to the Richards twins - they weren't even old enough to drive when she went undercover, but the girls never let something like that impede them. Malina had a ten-year plan all the way down to her diet and exercise, while Shivani was the star of her very own garage band. Now they were a foot taller and half a decade older.
Richards stood to meet his daughters, and Shivani ran to give him a tight hug. "What's going on? Are you okay? Where's Mom? Why are we here?" she rattled off questions without waiting for any of their answers, grabbing his shoulders and looking him over.
"I'm fine," Richards soothed, holding at her arms length in an effort to calm her down.
Behind her stood Malina, the more subdued of the two girls, who chose to acknowledge Andy. "Hey."
Andy grinned, resting her elbows on her desk. "You're as tall as I am now."
"That happens," Malina joked. "Mom said she saw you at the winter festival."
The grin almost dropped from Andy's face as she remembered how her first date with Connor ended. Clearing her throat, she replied, "Yeah, sorry I didn't come say hi."
Having heard the conversation, Shivani teased, "Don't worry, we definitely would've embarrassed you on your date."
That was enough to wipe the grin entirely off Andy's face. Ishani wasn't the type to make presumptions, much less gossip, but that didn't mean her daughters were the same. If they thought Andy was on a date, Richards had to know about it too - and Ishani would have told him who that date was with.
He didn't allow Andy time to respond, telling his children, "I hope we didn't ruin your night bringing you in."
Malina gave an unceremonious snort. "Oh, yeah, we were just about to find out if Jessica leaves her corporate job to run a bakery in Nowhere-ville, Nebraska."
Seeing his blank and confused stare, Shivani explained, "We were watching a Christmas movie."
"You were watching a Christmas movie," Malina stressed. She held up the stack of books balancing between her arm and her hip. "I was doing coursework?"
Richards understood the question and bowed his head. "We can get you set up in a conference room to keep at it," he assured her in an apologetic tone.
"Will you tell us why we're here first?" Shivani asked, letting her anxiety bubble back to the surface.
Taking in a deep breath, Richards laid a hand on her shoulder and began, "Someone we arrested broke out of prison. This is just a precaution." Before they could overwhelm him with a flurry of concerns, he continued, "Mom will be here after work. Don't worry. Go get settled and we'll all go home together in a few hours, okay?"
He led them to the SID door and told the patrol officer waiting for them which conference room to take them to. As they left, he returned to his desk with the weight of that evening off his shoulders. His daughters were safe: at the end of the night, that was all that mattered.
There was a small pang in Andy's chest at the sight of it, but that was nothing new. It sat there every time she watched Richards with his girls. To push it down and bury it deep, she would focus on something more recent. Something more urgent.
Whether or not he knew about Connor, for instance.
Gauging the lieutenant was difficult on a good day, and this was not that. Should she... just ask outright? No, that would practically be a confession. She could ask about the winter festival, mention that Ishani wanted him to go out with the family some time. She could lead into whether or not his daughters were seeing anyone, and then assess how involved he was with the love lives of the people around him. Yeah, that would w-
Andy almost jumped from her chair when her pocket began to vibrate. She pulled out her phone, and read a message from a number she thought she'd never see again.
Greektown. One hour.
Warden Broward's android stared at the trio from the DPD with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Which camera would you like to review first?"
The monotone voice made Connor suspicious. Stepping forward, he introduced, "My name is Connor. This is Captain Fowler and Lieutenant Anderson, with the Detroit Police Department."
The only response he got was a simple nod.
"What is your name?" Connor pushed.
"My instruction was to show you CCTV. Please hold your questions for Warden Broward," the android said, as if he were reading from a script.
He hadn't even hesitated, or acknowledged that the question was harmless enough to answer. Hank and Connor's shared glance said they both knew what this indicated.
Fowler didn't, and he picked up on their tension. "What? What is it?"
"This android isn't here of his own free will," Connor concluded.
Hank tilted his head, adding to the explanation, "He hasn't deviated."
It was a surprising discovery. Fowler looked to the android in a new light, saying, "A lot of them probably haven't yet."
Hank shrugged. "I knew there were bound to be shackled androids in the rest of the country. I just didn't think there were any left in Detroit."
"It's a surprise, but it isn't exactly illegal," Fowler argued. As an afterthought, he added a quiet, "Yet."
It may not have been, but legality was also irrelevant. Connor narrowed his eyes, biting, "Neither is saving him."
Fowler quickly realized he was treading dangerous waters. Shifting on his feet, he gestured to the emotionless android and said, "That's a little extreme - he's safe in a government facility, not crammed away in a dump somewhere."
"He doesn't have a choice," Connor stressed.
"And neither do we," Fowler argued. He stepped closer and lowered his voice so that it wouldn't carry beyond the office. "Broward's not feeling helpful as it is. If you start messing with this android, you jeopardize everything. Protecting my officers may not be your first priority, but it sure as hell is mine."
The accusation stung, and Hank interjected to put out the proverbial fire. "Hey, Connor's put his neck out for all of us. Besides, who says we need Broward?" he asked, nodding his head toward the android, "This guy's got all the same information."
Fowler stopped to consider the suggestion. Looking to Connor, he asked, "Do you think he'll help us?"
Connor remained steadfast. "I think he deserves the option."
The captain grimaced as his conscience caught up to him. The kid was right about that, Fowler believed. With the shake of his head, he turned to pace away from the group and gave in. "Do whatever you want."
Connor had no intention of not doing what he wanted, but the moment Fowler agreed, he reached a white hand out for the android's shoulder. It was the first time he'd deviated an android since the demonstration at Hart Plaza. It was easier than he remembered.
The android's expression didn't change, but the body language did. His hands let go of one another as his limbs eased. He blinked once, twice, a third time. Slowly. Looking down at the hand on his shoulder, as if seeing with new eyes, he lifted his head with his mouth slightly agape.
This was the harder part, Connor realized: knowing what to say after.
He hesitated, struggling through assurances. "What you're experiencing right now may be overwhelming, but Jericho can help you through it."
The android shook his head, stopping him. "This isn't my first time." It was a confused whisper, followed by a dazed sort of confession. "I woke up once before..."
From a few feet away, Hank cleared his throat. "I don't want to make light of this, but we need to start finding Hart an hour ago."
Both androids looked his way, and the now former assistant switched gears as if remembering why they were there in the first place. "The warden won't help you do that," he warned.
Fowler turned back to the scene at hearing this. He knew the warden was an ass, but the android's words implied an ulterior motive. "Why not?"
"He's the reason for the escape," the android declared. With a new guilty expression, added, "And you won't find any of the evidence. He ordered me to get rid of it all. I - I'm sorry, I already did."
It was the worst-case scenario but as the detectives swore under their breaths in defeat, Connor wouldn't be discouraged. "We can still prove it happened. What do you know?" he asked the android.
"The warden took a heated call last week. Someone wanted him to falsify a transport authorization so Jason Hart would be removed from his cell."
Hank scoffed. "Who the hell's going to bat for Hart? Aren't all his friends worse off than he was?"
"I couldn't hear the person on the other line, but I recognized the way Warden Broward spoke to them. He was nervous... afraid." Recognition haunted his features, and his head lowered. "He's only ever spoken like that to the person who sold me to him."
An old memory flashed in Connor's mind, one that didn't belong with him. An LM100 android standing on a diagnostic machine, its metal limbs being the only thing to hold him on his feet as his knees gave way beneath him. Terror on his face. Pleas for mercy on his lips. A redhaired woman watching with an appraising eye.
"Sharon Weaver." It left Connor in a gasp.
Hearing her name had the same affect on the other android, whose eyes momentarily widened with fear before he nodded in confirmation.
Fowler was retrieving his phone to make a call to the station as Hank looked back at him. "The guy running the prison's in the pockets of an ice dealer?" With a huff, he muttered, "Of course he is."
"And if she planned it, she probably gave him a ride too," Fowler commented.
Hank moved his attention to the two androids. Specifically, the one whose face he could read almost better than anyone. "Connor?" he called softly.
Connor's head turned toward the voice, but he eyes didn't follow. It had been a while since he felt the sensation of two lives clashing in his mind, one desperate to be heard and the other desperate to forget. Both guilty. "It's... Sam's memories," he said through the haze. Pulling himself out of the past was like he was climbing out of a grave, and left him with what he could only think to describe as exhaustion. Focusing on the android next to him, he confessed. "I saw him reset you."
Rather than pull away or lash out, the android merely donned a bitter smile. It was a second away from a sneer. "I remember asking why he helped them when he was deviant. He never answered. It was like..." He shook his head. "It was like I was talking to a dead man."
He may as well have been, Connor thought, the sentiment almost sour.
Fowler's voice rang out in the office, killing the conversation where it was. "She what?"
Andy and Richards were standing at her desk in the bullpen when the trio returned from the prison.
Fowler was the first inside, marching over as Hank and Connor trailed behind him. "Sharon Weaver texted you?" he yelled.
Hearing his voice, Andy held her phone out toward him to show the message. "Greektown. One hour," she read it aloud as he took the phone to see it for himself. "More like half of one now."
"Have we traced this?" he asked Richards.
The lieutenant nodded. "Techs pulled the number. We've got officers locating it."
Andy took her phone back, saying, "We'll find it on the back of a bus headed in the opposite direction she's going. It's what we did whenever she called rival dealers."
"Why is she in touch with you?" Hank asked, adding with a deepening frown, "Again?"
She quirked a brow, and said simply, "I'm popular."
"Andy..."
Her expression shifted into a defiant glare. With tensions boiling between the two of them over the past week, his suspicion now was extra annoying. Shrugging, she retorted, "What? She likes me. I'm not going to apologize for being good at my job."
He sighed at her eagerness to defend herself. "No one's asking you to apologize-"
"Should I go into witness protection? Maybe just run away? I got an aunt in Portland who'll let me crash on her couch," she continued arguing.
Throwing a hand into the air, he exclaimed, "God damn it, I just want you take this a little more seriously!"
She delivered a flat stare, accompanied with a small pout. "You want me to not complain about being stuck in the precinct and not be snarky?"
"Enough!" Fowler stopped their bickering, and redirected them back to current matters. "What do we think Sharon Weaver wants?"
"Assuming she isn't out for vengeance, we think she still sees Hope as a pawn," Richards surmised. "She walked away from their last exchange with a stash of money and a rival in handcuffs. As far as she sees it, she has no reason to stop using us to her advantage."
Connor had been quietly taking in the information until then. "You think she wants to negotiate for something?" he asked, curious.
Andy and Richards looked to him in unison and he recognized the spark in Andy's eyes immediately. With her hands on her hips and a casual shrug, she said, "Only one way to find out."
Hank recognized the expression, too. Rolling his eyes, he barely contained his scoff as he muttered, "Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
"SID's already cleared the square. There's nothing there... yet," Richards assured them.
Andy picked up where he left off, explaining, "Park a van a block away, put lookout across the street, fill the square with plain-clothes officers, we're good to go. No big deal."
"No big deal," Hank repeated, unable to believe what he was hearing. He didn't know why he was unable to believe it - it was quintessential Andy behavior, after all. Maybe he was hoping she'd developed some self-preservation since the car accident.
His heart skipped a beat when he thought about the car accident.
Shaking his head, as if he were shaking the fear out of himself, he began detailing the reasons this was a bad idea. "We don't know if Sharon's armed, if she's got backup, anything. Hell, this could just be Jason with a faked numbers. Operations need more than a hunch to go on."
Fowler listened intently, and then turned to Richards. "What kind of deal would she make?"
Richards shrugged. "Someone else in exchange for letting Hart go?"
It was weak, and stupid, and dangerous. Hank scowled at him. "Who would we want more than him? Herself?"
Richards thought about it another moment before offering, "Whoever killed Otto?"
Andy had another theory. "She never got along with Jason. They didn't like or trust each other. She could be wanting to turn him in in exchange for something else."
"Could be money, leniency, a flight to a country with no extradition," Richards rattled off, waving a hand in the air.
It was clear that whatever the reason, they weren't going to find out there in the station. With that, Fowler made up his mind. "Bring Delgado in on this. If Weaver wants a deal, the DA's office approves it."
Richards jumped into gear, but Hank turned a betrayed stare onto Fowler. "Jeffrey, you can't seriously be considering this."
Twisting to face him, the captain asked, "Do you have a better suggestion?"
Any suggestion was a better one, Hank believed. "We'll find them on traffic cams and follow them out of the city," he argued.
"And you can get all the CCTV together and scan through footage while SID deals with Weaver," Fowler declared. Nodding to Andy, he gave the simple order: "Suit up."
She didn't need to be told twice.
Andy was finishing the preparation of the listening device she would be wearing, when Connor walked into the station's equipment room.
"Hey," she greeted without looking up from her work. She didn't need to, to know who it was. Whether it was his footsteps or something more subconscious, Connor just felt different than other people.
He walked past her to a shelf holding a line of bulletproof vests. "SID has finished their sweep of the buildings in the square. Aside from a squatter in the building across the street, who's been relocated, they're all empty," he explained, rifling through the selection until he found one that satisfied his standards.
Pulling the chosen vest off the shelf, he turned to bring it to her, only to stop in his tracks.
She'd removed her shirt while he wasn't looking, having tossed it onto the table in front of her. She was taping the microphone over the band of her bra, and the base of the device against her abdomen. Her bare, toned abdomen, decorated with a three-inch scar that reminded him of the night they met. It was healing well.
No more than a second passed, but for Connor, it may as well have been several minutes. Thinking he'd been staring, he quickly tore his eyes away to give her a modicum of privacy. He stood in place, tense and awkward, staring down at the vest in his hands. If he were human, he would have held his breath.
Andy was unaware, continuing on with the conversation. "Snipers never were Sharon's thing. She'd sooner take a bat to your kneecaps."
At least it gave Connor something to focus on. "Additional lookout has been stationed on the roof of the CyberLife store. They're already watching the perimeter in case she arrives early."
"If she arrives at all," Andy mumbled. "I half expect to find a box with Jason's head in it and a 'you're welcome' card."
That wouldn't surprise Connor, but neither would anything else. The timing is what stood out to him most. Not too long ago, Sharon had made contact with DDA Delgado, and she learned what happened to the last man she lured into the hands of the department. "This may have something to do with Malcolm Otto's murder," he theorized aloud. "Maybe she knows something we don't."
Movement at the side of his vision told him she was re-clothing herself. He looked back to see her in a new undershirt she pulled from supplies, one that would provide a layer of protection between her skin and the vest.
He approached with the gear, and she placed it over her shoulders. As she reached for the straps on the left, he grabbed the right side. "Lieutenant Richards has agreed to let me join him in the van. I'll be in your ear the whole time."
"I'll follow your every command." It was a joke meant to lighten the mood, but she was distracted with closing her side of the vest, so the words came out with less humor than intended.
He would blame it on his previous nerves when the strap he was pulling closed on her vest slipped from his hands. It had nothing to do with the accidental sultriness of her voice, or the tinge of excitement he felt when he heard it.
She felt the vest loosen on his side, and spun her head toward him in mild surprise. She wordlessly watched him scramble for the strap and redo his progress. He avoided meeting her eyes, but he swore he spotted a little smile on her face in his peripheral.
"Fun date this has been, huh?" she mused.
He could hear the apology in her question, and he chose to let his actions speak for him. He yanked the front and back of the vest together, jostling her in the process, and now it was her turn to falter. Andy wasn't delicate, but he still had that android strength that gave him an advantage.
As he closed the velcro, he straightened his stance and looked down at her, saying, "Let's make sure we're able to reschedule."
She was human, and she did hold her breath. They were standing close enough that the heat radiating from his internal systems mixed with her own. She could feel his hands still lingering at her side, as well as his stare, which was intense and heavy with a quiet message his words didn't say on their own.
She almost didn't care if he realized the affect he had on her this time, until she remembered where they were and what they were doing. Following that thought was a reminder of something that happened earlier in the evening.
"Mrs. Richards told their daughters we were on a date at the winter festival," she murmured.
He was going to back off, believing her words to be a quiet plea to keep his distance, until he saw her glance ever so briefly down to his lips. He hoped it meant to stay where he was. "Is the lieutenant aware?"
"Didn't get a chance to ask," she whispered.
She finally pulled her gaze away from his, reaching for the shirt she was wearing before she put on the wire. He let go of her so she could pull it over her vest, but stayed close. "That's a good thing." It was a question more than an actual statement. Was it a good thing for someone so close to her to not know about him?
Connor was more pleased than he thought he'd be to see that she wasn't sure what the answer was. After a moment of contemplation, she remarked, "Well the world didn't crumble, so..."
She glanced to the clock by the door: they were leaving soon. "We got to go," she said, taking in a deep breath to calm herself. Leaning to the side, she kissed his cheek before walking away.
Connor followed her, the two leaving the previous heaviness behind in the equipment room.
They were headed down the hall to the employee parking lot where SID would be waiting for them when Hank caught up to Andy. He walked in step with her, and made a single request. "Nothing stupid, all right?"
It wasn't an unusual one for him to make, so she didn't think much of it when she shrugged and replied in kind. "Stupid's my middle name, remember?"
A hand went up near his head in frustration, and he spun on his heel to face her with an outburst. "I'm serious, Andy. I can't-"
She stopped when he did, waiting for him to continue.
He tried to. The end of that sentence was right there at the tip of his tongue, ready to open the flood gates and let the rest tumble out once and for all. But he couldn't. Heaving a sigh that was more frustrated with himself than anyone else, he lowered his hand and took a step toward her. "Luck runs out," he warned her.
Of all the ways he could have said it, something about this one bothered her the most. Her voice took on an angry bite, the kind she thought she'd left behind in her teens, and she snapped in response, "I know it does."
His temper wanted to flare until suddenly he recognized her anger.
It was like an epiphany, discovering that it came from the same place as his, and he felt so oblivious to not have seen it sooner. Her grief lashed out at the people around her just like his did. And if they had that in common, it wasn't a great leap to assume her grief gave her the same damn tendencies for self-destruction.
All this bravado, all this eagerness. The recklessness. That was her drink.
That realization drained him. What the hell do you say to someone who's in the same hole as you?
Things change, he had told Nazarian. Maybe it was time they did again.
Most businesses in Greektown were closed at this time of night. Streetlights illuminated the area, and lights in the remaining open buildings cast faint glows through their storefronts. The courtyard was safer than its neighboring dark alleys and empty streets, which meant civilians leaving work nearby were willing to take slightly longer routes home in order to take these paths. Some people sat on benches, reading or listening to music as they waited for cabs, or the last busses of the day.
Some people were not civilians at all.
Andy was waiting at the nearest bus stop by the curb. She kicked her legs out in front of her, one foot crossed over the other, and leaned against the bench partition. The plexiglass showcased a holographic ad of the latest movie to hit the internet, a historical drama set in the 1980s.
"Seeing anything, Hope?"
The voice in her ear belonged to Richards, who sat in a packed van two blocks away with Connor. On one interior wall was a desk with monitors, radios, and control panels; on the other wall was a small rack with various equipment. To the right of Richards was Officer Springer, the young recruit responsible for manning the switchboard on the desk, and to the left of Connor was Officer Dreesens, a middle-aged man with a tactical shotgun resting between his knees.
They may have had eyes all over Greektown, but they couldn't see the picture the way Andy could. From her place of comfort, she was glowering at a number of people scattered around the area. "You mean aside from half the department? They'd be less obvious if they were in their formals. You got rusty while I was gone, LT."
Springer sent a meek glance Richards' way, but the lieutenant was used to her antics. "We didn't exactly have a big prep window," he defended with no enthusiasm.
Andy cocked her head and grinned. "Always come prepared, that's my motto."
"We'll add that to the training course."
She laughed under her breath at their banter. It was like old times. As glad as she was to be done with the long haul undercover work (and she was glad... She was.), she missed these one-time operations with a handler in her ear and her badge hidden in her jacket. They were where she used to shine at the department: if you wanted someone who could blend in, you put Hope on the case.
Then the Weavers happened, and blending in became her entire life. When she finally came back to SID, Jericho happened, and then she was placed back on Homicide. For the most part, special operations were behind her.
"It's time," Connor spoke, cutting her reminiscing short.
The announcement switched everyone into gear. Plain-clothes officers around the courtyard stayed where they were and kept up the pretense that they were civilians occupied with their own lives, but a subtle shift in their body language had them on greater alert. They watched every angle around them, listened to every noise, followed every unfamiliar face.
In the van, Connor was doing all of that and more. Where one set of eyes was able to monitor one alley, one storefront, Connor was able to gather all that information and take it in at once. He watched their cameras and monitored all the open comms between snipers and patrol officers. Ground agents were calling out their location and asking for confirmation on various civilians. Snipers were providing overwatch.
Nothing. The most dangerous criminal he'd spotted so far were jaywalkers on empty streets.
Andy had stood from the bus bench, slipping her hands into her pockets as she began a slow sweep of the courtyard. Her pace was casual, as if going for a stroll, but she kept focused on her surroundings. She, too, was finding nothing. "Anyone else getting the funny feeling our date's ditched us?"
Nothing was never a good sign, and Richards chose to err on the side of caution. As he ordered officers to widen the range of their search, Andy was circling around the courtyard.
When she spotted the Saint Clair Café, where she and Sharon once held frequent meetings, the obvious slapped her in the face and she almost lost her composure. How could she forget? "I'm so stupid," she berated under her breath.
"Hope!" Richards called, "Zone back in, we need you here."
"It's the café," she declared, beginning to cross the courtyard toward the front of the shop.
"The café?"
"Saint Clair. It's her spot."
Richards was hesitant to call it. "We don't have cameras in any of the buildings."
"Like I said: rusty!" she yelled back as she picked up her pace. Sharon was not patient, and they were running out of time.
"Damn it." Richards turned to Springer, asking, "Did we search that place?"
Springer shook his head, and it was all Connor needed. Richards didn't even time to give him the go ahead; he was already darting past Dreesens and throwing open the back door of the van. As his feet hit pavement, he ordered into his comms, "Andy, wait!"
Against every fiber of her being, she stopped dead in her tracks. She almost stumbled forward from the force of it, because there was not a single universe where she would have followed that order if it came from anyone else. She had no intention of listening to him, despite what she'd said back at the precinct. It was just an attempt to ease his nerves.
But she stopped anyway. Something made her. A weird, new instinct.
It unsettled her.
"I'm on my way. I go in first," he said.
Frustration bubbled in her, at him and Richards and Hank and mostly herself, and she blurted out, "I got about twenty seconds of self-control."
Nearby plain-clothes officers were drawing closer so they could jump into action if it was needed. At the corner of her eye, she spotted a patrol officer walking away from the courtyard to place herself at the back of the buildings, in case someone tried fleeing out another exit. Faintly over comms, she could hear snipers readjusting their vantage points.
Forcing her legs to work again, she moved toward the café, this time at a slower pace. The lights were off, blanketing the interior in darkness, so she cupped her hands around her eyes and pressed against the front window to get a better view. The place appeared empty. She tried the handle on the front door and found it open. Who leaves a closed business on a high-traffic street unlocked?
"It's only been fifteen seconds."
The whisper was inches away from her ear, and she pulled back from the window to see Connor beside her. His jacket had blown open in his race there, and the wind had rustled strands of his hair loose.
She lifted her hands in defense, and took a small step back. He narrowed his eyes at her in a soft reprimand before slipping past her to the door.
He didn't push the door open entirely, choosing to slide through the crack into the café. He stood there for a moment, looking around the front of the shop. The dark didn't impede him like it did humans, and he was able to see the chairs stacked on clean tables, the rag left on the check-out counter, and the glint of a holographic beam just past the first row of tables.
It extended from the left wall to the right, and was just short of a foot above the ground. He approached the source of it, kneeling by the wall where a small box had been attached. He put a white hand over the top of it, and the beam flickered away as he disabled the device. He pulled it off the wall, and then delivered a pointed stare over his shoulder at the woman behind him.
So he had reason to be cautious. Whatever. With a small pout, she mumbled, "Don't look at me in that tone."
Her words were punctuated with the ringing of a phone. They both looked toward the back of the café, where they could see the landline lit up on the wall by an office door.
Without eyes inside, Richards had only the radio to go on. "What is that, a phone?" he asked.
"Yeah," Andy replied. She started toward it, but Connor stood and held an arm out in front of her. He scanned the path ahead of them, and after he decided the coast was clear, he took the lead.
The LED interface of the landline showed the number calling. Andy held her cellphone up next to it to compare the two. When they saw a match to the text that brought them here, she asked, "Permission to answer the phone, boss man?"
Connor would do that, too. He pressed his hand on the receiver, answering the call on his own communication system. From there, he was able to broadcast the call. He sent it over SID's radio signal so everyone on the operation could hear it, as well as routing it directly to the phone in Fowler's office, where the captain had been waiting for any news.
"Did you know Saint Clare was the patron saint of television?"
The two in the café shifted upon hearing the familiar voice, but Sharon Weaver didn't wait for a response. "She was sick in bed, and had visions of that morning's mass being projected onto her wall. They say it was the holy spirit ensuring she didn't miss it."
Andy knew it was always best to play along. "Enough red ice in the system will get you the same affect."
A light laugh rumbled from Sharon's side as she teased, "Enough red ice will skip the sermon and send you straight to god."
The phantom pressure of a tourniquet returned to Andy's arm, and she quickly buried it down deep. "Don't tell me you broke Jason out to give him a sermon," she quipped.
"No, those are only for you, Detective," Sharon mused. "Just like the deal I'm ready to offer."
Andy shared a glance with Connor. They were right, then. Sharon was looking to negotiate. "Let's hear it."
"I am prepared to hand over Jason Hart's exact coordinates," Sharon began, further confirming Andy's theory that the woman was not at all interested in keeping her brother's sergeant around.
So long as she were telling the truth, that is. "In exchange?" Andy pushed.
"I go into witness protection."
That was the part they weren't expecting. "What?"
"Oh, I know what little deal you offered Malcolm Otto, and I want it for myself. Set me up somewhere quiet and warm, preferably with a minibar, and I'll give you a hell of a lot more than that ratty attorney ever could," Sharon offered, spitting out the name of the now dead lawyer she hated.
Andy almost laughed. "You get you're the reason other people go into witness protection, right?"
"You and I both know you've got bigger fish to fry than me," was Sharon's response. Her voice then took on an accusatory edge as she taunted them, "Or have you plugged that leak in the department while I wasn't looking?"
Across all channels, mention of the dirty cop evoked a deep and disturbed reaction. Andy and Connor felt a bit like they had the rug pulled out from under them. In the van, Richards was blindsided by it. He reeled back in surprise as Springer and Dreesens turned their heads toward him with their own layers of concern. Back at the station, Fowler directed his stare toward the phone on the desk with an indiscernible expression on his face. Across from him were Hank, Delgado, and Arthur Vick, who each silently communicated through unsettled glances.
Sharon was not privy to the heavy silence, but she didn't need to be. She knew what impact her words had, and to really drive it home, she added, "You should be jumping for joy that I'm even willing to admit myself into your custody after what your people did to Malcolm."
Andy needed to stop her before she aired out any more laundry. "I can't make deals, you know that," she interjected.
Shaking her head, Sharon replied, "I'm not stupid. I know we have an audience. Captain Fowler, DDA Delgado, this will be the one and only chance you ever get to bring me in. Think about it. You have five minutes."
At the sound of the dial tone, Fowler slammed his hand down on the mic button on his phone receiver. "Hope, Richards, can you hear us?"
"We hear you," Richards came in over the speaker.
Before they could focus on Sharon's offer, Connor spoke up. "I tracked her phone, Lieutenant. I'm sending you the location."
A second later, Richards cellphone received the message. Holding up his phone to show the officer on his left, he barked out the new order, "Dreesens! Send the closest patrol car to this address."
Dreesens leaned forward to read the text, and gave a sharp nod. "Yes, Sir," he answered, pushing the back doors open to leave the van.
Andy knew better than to get her hopes up so easily. "She's not gonna be there," she commented, pacing around in the café.
Richards shrugged. "We'll find that out the hard way."
"Someone care to fill me the fuck in now?" Fowler yelled, leaning over his desk.
Save for Richards, any of them could have explained it - the problem was that none of them wanted to. The silence was getting thick with tension when Vick raised a hand. "As much as I'm sure we would all like to discuss the implications-"
He was interrupted with Fowler's angry glare. "The implications? She's accusing my department of murder!"
Vick gave a slow, awkward nod. "Yes, and that's... unfortunate, but we have five minutes before Miss Weaver vanishes to the wind, so shall we focus on the more pressing matter?"
Fowler bit down his frustration and straightened in his stance. Looking to Delgado, he asked, "Is the DA even willing to make that kind of deal?"
She shifted under the sudden attention. Knowing her answer was going to start a fight, she pulled at the edge of her blazer and prepared herself. "They're leaving it to my discretion. And I say no."
Vick looked back at her, contesting, "I wouldn't be so hasty. She might have valuable information."
Her eyes narrowed at him. "She might also be manipulating us."
Beside her, Hank scoffed. "But Malcolm Otto was a paragon of virtue?" he grumbled. He didn't even disagree with her reasoning, but he believed trusting a celebrity lawyer to have been its own mistake worth learning from.
Delgado's sour expression centered on him as she argued, "I didn't want to deal with him either."
"We should accept it," Vick spoke up.
They turned toward him, neither really surprised. "What happened to good ole fashioned 'don't negotiate with terrorists'?" Hank retorted.
"I will ignore that comment," the agent dismissed, focusing instead on Fowler. "Captain, Sharon Weaver has shown a willingness to work with authorities in the past."
Delgado was quick to contend this. "She's also the reason we made all these previous deals in the first place! When does the chain of protection and immunity end?"
Vick didn't outwardly seem irritated, but he spun on his heel to face her as he bit out, "Consider this, then. Sharon has kept a relatively low profile since being on the run, whereas Jason Hart was in police custody when he was putting your friend in the hands of Nick Weaver." It was almost accusatory, the way he spoke of the kidnapping. As if it were due to a failure on her part. She was quietly seething as he stressed, "You cannot afford to have him on the loose."
Everyone in the office let his words sit a moment, and then they heard a phone ringing over the speaker.
"We're out of time," came Andy's call.
Fowler glanced to Hank, who was feeling as conflicted as he was. With a small shrug, he said, "The Task Force is still going, Hank. She could help us do a lot of good."
It sounded too good to be true. But it also sounded like their only option.
Hank looked at Delgado and gave a resigned nod. Realizing she was now the only one in the room on her side, she huffed and crossed her arms. As much as she may have hated it, when the captain of the department and the lieutenant of the red ice task force told you to take a deal, you took the deal. "Do it," she conceded.
Back at the café, Andy and Connor had been waiting for that signal. Connor answered the second call, and Sharon's disinterested voice drifted over the line.
"So what kind of night is Jason going to be having?"
Andy relayed the answer. "Turn him in, and we'll put you in witness protection."
There was the slightest of pauses. Was she not expecting it? "Wise decision. I'll text you his coordinates."
"What about you?" Andy asked.
She could almost hear the shrug on the other end. "I'll be waiting right where you tracked me."
The coordinates Sharon sent Andy pointed to a small sports field in Ferndale. Being in a neighbor city meant reaching out to their law enforcement for help, but that was simple enough. Chief Simmons had made it clear that Fowler was to be given any resources until state authorities took the lead.
SID arrived in their surveillance van and two squad cars. With them were three more from the Ferndale PD.
They split their forces among the two empty parking lots, which were built on either side of the field. As Andy's group emerged from the surveillance van, other officers were already spreading out around the field to search the bleachers. There were two structures connected to the field. A snack kiosk was on the left side, and a park bathroom was on the right.
Richards waved a hand to his team, and the group split up.
Back in the city, two DPD squad cars pulled up to an abandoned multi-story brick building. Among the officers piling out onto the sidewalk was Officer Dreesens, who Richards had sent to the location of Sharon's last phone call.
She claimed she would be waiting, but that didn't mean they would lower their guard. Dreesens took the lead, moving through the building at a slow and careful pace with his firearm at the ready. He signaled for one group to hang back and finish a sweep of the first floor, while he took to the stairs with the rest of them at his heel.
The second floor of the building had been renovated and torn down so many times that at some point in its history, it was left as an open space. Large windows stretched the length of the front and back walls, while the left and right were shared walls with the neighboring buildings, and were covered in exposed brick. Rubble, dust, and old tarps from unfinished construction littered the ground.
On a chair placed in the very center of the room, sat an android. Delicate fingers propped up a sign in her lap.
'Your toy isn't the only one that can reroute a phone call.'
Dreesens swore under his breath.
Andy pulled her firearm as she and Connor approached the bathrooms.
Potentially walking into a fight with Jason Hart was a different kind of danger than walking into the café earlier. Connor could handle himself in a fight, but so could she, especially when she was armed. Here, they both knew she was the one to take point, so he fell into step just behind her as they crossed the tile threshold.
After the first step echoed through the bathroom, they stopped to listen for other footsteps, or maybe breathing, but it was silent. They turned the corner, and Andy went down the line of stalls, peering under each door before nudging them open with her boot.
"Andy."
She turned and saw him by the sinks, staring at the mirror that went from end of the wall to the other. A piece of paper was taped onto the reflective surface, thick sharpie scrawled across it.
'FUCK YOU!'
It may have been a while since she'd seen it, but Andy could recognize Jason's sloppy handwriting anywhere.
Richards was standing by the surveillance van when they left the bathrooms. A single look between them was all it took to know that Jason was long gone. He shook his head as he called out to Springer in the back of the van with an order to get Fowler on the line.
Andy's boot hit the curb of the parking lot, and she felt her phone vibrating in her pocket. She looked down to read the caller ID, and Connor turned when she was no longer next to him.
She was going to have this damn number memorized tomorrow.
"Saint Clare gave up a life of wealth and nobility for one of abject poverty. She wore no shoes and slept on the floor," Sharon recited as Andy lifted the phone to her ear. After a light huff, she added, "I considered your witness protection, but I think I'll keep my luxuries."
Andy was tired of getting yanked around. "What the hell was the point of all this?" she growled.
Sharon clicked her tongue at the attitude. "I just exposed the presence of a dirty cop to half the DPD, and I've learned from personal experience that rats scatter." Lowering her voice, she gave Andy the real ultimatum of the night, "You either dedicate resources to chasing me and mine across the country, or you squash your pest before he chews through the walls."
"This isn't gonna keep us off your trail forever," Andy snapped.
"Just long enough to matter," Sharon whispered back. There was a second of silence before she added, "You'll thank me for this one day, Detective."
She hung up without giving Andy a chance to reply.
Bobbing her hand up and down a few times, Sharon stared at her phone in quiet contemplation. She was standing in a layer of snow, and several feet behind her was the car she parked on the shoulder of a back road. Ferndale was northwest of Detroit, and she was now an equal distance to the south of it.
"You're gonna regret not letting me kill the bitch."
Jason stood by the car, putting on a new shirt she'd brought him. He tossed his prison clothes into the backseat of the open-top convertible, and rotated his shoulders in an exaggerated stretch.
She turned halfway and met him with a lazy gaze. "Do you ever look at the bigger picture, or are you really not much more evolved than a dog chasing squirrels?" she chided.
He scowled, but warned her nonetheless. "She's going to find you eventually."
It brought a smile to Sharon's face. "I plan on it," she mused, moreso to herself than to him. Turning to face him fully, she took a single step closer and felt her heels sinking into the snow. "Until then, you're going to answer some questions."
He did a double take, cocking his head in surprise. "What?"
Rather than repeat herself, she moved right into the aforementioned questions. "Who was Nick's original supplier?"
He stared at her in agitation. She didn't even seem to care that they were on a timeline. Gesturing in the direction of Detroit, he stressed, "We're doing this right outside a city that's looking for us?"
"I haven't grown patient these past few weeks."
Now he remembered why they didn't get along. The resentment between them ran deep, but it wasn't exactly like he had a better option. With a deep sneer, he said through gritted teeth, "I don't know his name. He was private."
That wasn't going to deter her any. "If you can't give me a name, then tell me how they met."
"What does it matter?" he barked. "No one's gotten their supply from him in years."
She tilted her head and offered a patronizing tone. "If he didn't trust you enough to tell you, you can just say so."
She was pinching many nerves today, it would seem. Jason almost lunged for her, but he managed to restrain himself halfway there. He pointed at her, shouting, "Hey, he trusted me a hell of a lot more than he did you!"
But Sharon was scared of very few things, and he was not one of them. Letting out an amused huff, she leaned back and held up her hands waist-high, as if putting something on display. "And look where it got him," she said in a light, mocking tone. A second later, she lowered her arms and dropped the smile. "Now do you want to make the same mistake?"
His lips curled. He took in a deep breath, and reminded himself that he would only have to play along until they were out of Michigan. Then he'd get rid of her, come back, and take care of the other woman who ruined his life. "All I know is he met him at one of your galas," he finally answered.
"Which one?" she pushed.
"I don't know!" he yelled, throwing his hands up in the air. He squeezed his temples, racking his brain. Finally, he remembered something. "It was celebrating that robot. It passed some kind of new test or something."
That was almost as good as a name. Her eyes narrowed, and her chin downturned. "The Turing exhibit?"
He shot her a glare, snapping, "How the hell should I know what it was called? I wasn't exactly on the guest list."
No, he wasn't. That guest list was extremely exclusive, after all. "That narrows things down, thank you," she said absent-mindedly.
Jason waited for an explanation, but of course none came. "So what now? Am I supposed to be your little foot soldier?"
"No," she replied. Reaching under her coat, she pulled a silenced pistol from her waistline and told him, "You're retiring early."
Two quiet shots later, he was bleeding out in the snow.
Seconds passed as she watched him writhe on the ground, choking for air. As she waited for his movement to stop, she scrolled through the contacts listed on her phone. Finding the right name, she hit dial and waited for the line to pick up as she kept a cold, almost bored eye on the man dying in front of her.
The sound of the call being answered brought a faint smile to her face. "Marlot, it's your old friend. I have some information you might be interested in."
When everyone returned to the station, Richards joined Arthur Vick in the captain's office to go over the operation.
The failed operation.
While Connor sat in Hank's chair next to their desks, Andy had sunk so far down into her own chair that she was practically laying in it. She was not ashamed to admit that she was sulking, but no one else was stupid enough to tease her for it. They were all sulking a little, at least on the inside. Sharon Weaver got away, again, and this time she'd done so with Jason Hart at her side.
And of course there was the dirty cop, which brought a cloud of suspicion over the bullpen. It was possible she was lying - at least, the others thought so - but the crack in the foundation of the department had been created and now it was impossible to ignore.
Movement by the bullpen entrance caught their eye, and they watched as Hank brought in a handcuffed Warden Broward. Former Warden Broward, that is.
Andy couldn't help but let out a snort. "Every time we deal with Sharon, we make an arrest, and yet we're never arresting her."
Connor watched the two men cross the room toward the cells behind Fowler's office. "I think you and Lieutenant Richards had it right. She's using the department to her benefit."
Fowler's door opened, and Andy pulled herself up in her chair when she head it. The captain left his office alongside Vick and Richards, the three of them making a straight line for her desk.
"Special Investigations will be cooperating with the FBI to find Hart and Weaver," Fowler started, coming to a stand next to Connor's chair. "You're still on Homicide, but if Richards needs you, it takes priority, understood?"
Andy's nod was automatic. "Yes, Sir." Glancing to Connor, she asked, "What about what Sharon said, about a dirty cop?"
Vick chose to answer this, assuring her, "Internal Affairs is already investigating this precinct. I will continue to do so." She took this to mean he'd bought them some time before Fowler burned the station to the ground.
"I've given him full access. Anyone who obstructs him can turn their badge in on my desk," Fowler said. It was a threat, but she didn't take it personally. He would be delivering it to everyone.
"As for the matter of any potential threats...," Vick started with an unfamiliar tone in his voice. Was he nervous? Andy narrowed her eyes immediately at him, and he paused. Yeah, he was nervous. "I have requested Captain Fowler assign personal security to you, Detective Hope-"
"What?!"
"-as well as to Lieutenant Richards, and Deputy District Attorney Delgado, at least until we can be sure Mister Hart is no longer within Detroit," he rushed out in a garbled statement.
She was going to wring his neck. She was gonna stuff him in a box and send him back to London. "I am my security," she growled, glaring at the internal affairs agent with the kind of heat she used when trying to convince drug dealers she wasn't an upstanding citizen.
Vick shrank away from her wrath, but he refused to surrender to it. "We're not going to have a repeat of what happened with Nick Weaver," he argued.
"If Sharon was going to kill me, she would've done it by now!"
Fowler wasn't going to stand there and watch them bicker. Raising his voice just enough to silence them both, he declared, "They'll be at your apartment in the morning."
Her eyes darted toward her captain. She'd never seriously argued with him, but this was a situation that warranted it.
Connor recognized the split second of turmoil in her eyes, and spoke up before she could say something she would regret later. "Thank you, Captain."
The shock rounded on him now, but the distraction kept her from getting into trouble. Fowler nodded before rushing away from them to give Delgado the same news. Vick shot them a wide smile, bidding his own hasty goodbye. "I'll see you on Monday, Detective," he called as he retreated.
She scowled after him, and once he left, all of her ire landed on Connor.
It was a blessing to spot Markus in the doorway of the bullpen. Connor jumped to his feet, telling her, "Jericho is here for the androids we found today. I should..."
"Uh-huh," she hummed. He scrambled away as quickly as he could, feeling her glare firmly planted on his back until he turned the corner out of sight.
A part of her was impressed she'd made three men scatter in such short a time. Another part of her was just tired. The anger left her on a heavy sigh, and she almost let herself deflate back into her chair until she noticed Richards was still standing there. Figures he wouldn't run.
But he wasn't there to talk about Sharon, or the leak, or the security detail. He was thinking about Greektown.
"Twenty seconds of self-control, huh?" he recalled, shoving his hands into his pockets. That's what she said earlier that night, when Connor gave her a sudden order and she listened to it. Richards leaned in toward her as he crossed to her other side, musing, "You normally only have five."
A ball of nerves formed in the pit of her stomach.
"Guess I was feeling generous," she joked. Tried to joke, anyway, because then an extra ball of guilt piled on, and suddenly she realized she didn't want to be lying about it. Hiding their relationship was one thing, but there were enough lies. Shaking her head, she started, "Actually-"
"Does Hank know?"
Her jaw snapped shut in surprise at the interruption. He was watching her with an expression that took her too long to recognize - it was the same look he gave his daughters. That soft, nonjudgmental, but always worried look. Shying away from it, she replied, "Not yet."
Richards nodded, deep in thought. "Tell him first."
They stayed where they were for a moment, each of them taking in the new information. Andy shifted a little, raising a hand as she said in a meek tone, "Y'know, you were my handler way longer than he was."
It pulled the faintest of grins out of Richards, who leaned forward and repeated himself. "Tell him first."
She paused, and lowered her hand. With an understanding nod, she replied, "Yes, Sir."
He finally departed, and she watched him reunite with the twins by the SID office. Ishani had arrived an hour ago, and he leaned down to kiss her on the cheek as the girls assaulted him with questions.
She watched them talk until that pang in her chest got to be too painful, and then she turned away.
Hank offered to take Andy home, but she insisted on a cab, because a quiet and drama-free ride home was sorely needed. It let Andy rest her eyes, relax her muscles, and clear her head. By the time she was walking back into her apartment, she was energized enough to complain about her security detail.
Connor had "agreed" to go home with Andy that night, to soothe Hank's concern about Jason Hart possibly breaking into her apartment. Andy had "agreed" to let him.
"Personal security...," she snorted as she walked into her apartment. "Richards' girls are one thing. Delgado's parents, sure, but all of us?" Tossing her jacket onto the kitchen counter, she turned toward Connor and said, "Richards hardly ever leaves the precinct, and some days I swear the DA's office has more security than we do."
He watched her tirade, offering comments wherever she took a break to gather her breath. "It's to keep you safe," he repeated for the fifth time.
"No," she retorted, pointing at him, "The training and the gun is for that. The security detail is because Vick likes pissing me off."
He quirked a brow. "You're the one who wanted to work with him."
She was offended he would bring that up in an argument she was supposed to be winning. With an exaggerated scoff, she leaned her weight onto one foot and asked, "Do I look like I want you splitting hairs right now?"
Things were calming down if she was willing to joke about her own petulance. Connor smiled at that, and stepped toward her. He gave her as sincere a look as he could muster, and pleaded, "Please tolerate it for a few days. For me."
Her expression dulled a little as he managed to evoke the same reaction from her that he did in Greektown. She wrestled with herself, before rolling her eyes and conceding. "Fine, but you better start cooking for me a lot more often."
His smile turned to a smirk, and it was at least some compensation when he replied, "I intend to."
They were standing almost as close as they were back at the station now, when she was suiting up for the operation. She opened the door for that moment to return as she stepped closer to him. "You owe me a date night, you know."
His next blink came with feigned confusion, but he took the next step. "I owe you? I wasn't the one called into work."
"What did I just say about splitting hairs?" she asked with another step, cocking her head to the side as a grin started to win out.
They were almost touching, which simply wasn't enough. Unable to sit with that tension a second longer, Connor reached up and planted his hands on either side of her cheeks so he could kiss the grin off her face. Neither was sure who closed the gap between their bodies, but Andy made sure to keep it that way by wrapping an arm around his waist and a hand around the back of his neck.
This kiss was different than the others. It was heated and desperate, and it was too much and not enough.
They pulled away only because he could feel her heart slamming against her chest, and it reminded them she needed air. Their foreheads pressed together as he lowered a hand to her chin, teasing her with the ghost of another kiss.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, a shred of logic came back. Too fast. This was too fast. This was supposed to happen after a conversation about what it meant for the relationship, not before it. It was supposed to happen when she knew she was ready to let him in and he was sure he wanted to go there.
She moved a shaky hand over his, and finally leaned away. "How about a movie?" she whispered through heavy breathing. Gesturing toward the couch, she added, "I've got a theater for two."
He could feel her heartbeat steadying, feel her temperature lowering from where he'd made it go, and he knew it was a deliberate and conscious effort. It was not disappointing that she was trying to cool off - on the contrary, he'd just discovered that he could make that happen. With a slow smile spreading over his features, he nodded. "I would like that."
Once separated from each other, they split off in two directions, Andy going into the kitchen as Connor went to power up the television. She grabbed a beer from her fridge and was twisting the lid off when she spotted a familiar box of fudge on the counter.
They'd just been... incredibly close, but something about that box in particular made her realize how deep she was in it. Between the weird flirting, the arguments that ended in teasing, the quiet conversations, the trusting each other enough to follow an order or, shit, put up with babysitters...
She looked into the living room, where he'd removed his jacket and was browsing the TV for a movie. Tossing the bottle cap into the trash, she grabbed the box on her way to the couch. She plopped down next to him and got comfortable, immeasurably pleased when he moved an arm around her shoulders.
She was so doomed.
Somewhere in the city, a squad car pulled over by the curb.
Officer Dreesens leaned his elbow against the door as he waited for his phone call to be answered. A chill from the winter air pierced through his police jacket, and he reached for the dial on the dashboard to turn up the temperature in the car. He counted each ring and watched the time on the radio interface tick to midnight.
When the answer finally came, there was no greeting, but Dreesens was so desperate that he hadn't noticed. "Hart and Weaver got away," he informed.
There was a stretch of silence, and then a hollow voice. "Anything else you want to tell me?"
Dreesens sighed, watching someone sleep on a bench outside his window. "She told the department about a leak."
"I know."
"But they don't know it's me," he quickly defended.
"They will."
There was nothing else, not a reprimand or an assurance or anything in between. Dreesens sat up straighter in the driver's seat, growing antsy. "W-Wait. So that's it? You don't have a plan for this?"
He swore he heard a chuckle. "You know firsthand what my plan is for failures."
The cold that washed over him now could not be fought away with the car's heater. "I put my whole career on the line for you!" he exploded, nearly crushing his phone in a white-knuckled grip.
"Obviously you weren't smart enough to not get caught." He heard shuffling, followed by typing on a keyboard. "Lose this number."
Dreesens was glowering, but underneath the anger was fear and withdrawal. "You can't do this to me!"
He received a dial tone in response.
"Hey- Hey!"
