Chapter 2 Blood Alliance
The crime scene tape fluttered in the early morning breeze, yellow against the gray Chicago dawn. Ryan Hawk ducked under it, nodding to the officer who recognized him immediately. Three hours of sleep hadn't dulled his senses—if anything, the edge of exhaustion sharpened his focus.
"What do we have?" he asked the lead CSI, a veteran named Rodriguez who'd worked with Hawk on previous cases.
"Female victim, mid-thirties. Same MO as the others—surgical precision, missing organs, body arranged in a seated position." Rodriguez hesitated. "But there's something else this time."
He led Hawk to a small evidence bag containing a tarnished silver object.
"Found it clutched in the victim's hand. Looks like the killer placed it there deliberately."
Hawk felt his blood freeze as he stared at the police badge inside the bag. Not just any badge—he recognized the distinctive star shape of the Lakeside County Sheriff's Department. The same department where James Stone had served as sheriff before his suicide in prison seven years ago.
James Stone. Aveline's father.
"I need this processed immediately," Hawk said, his voice tight. "And keep it quiet."
As Rodriguez moved away, Hawk pulled out his phone. The courthouse steps yesterday had been a circus after Judge Harmon declared a mistrial in the Donovan case due to Hawk's "inexcusable contamination of evidence." Aveline Stone had given a brief, victorious statement to the press, her expression revealing nothing of their restroom confrontation.
Now, less than twenty-four hours later, her father's badge had appeared at a murder scene that matched the pattern of killings they'd been tracking for months.
Coincidence wasn't in Hawk's vocabulary.
---
"You can't be serious." Aveline's voice cut through the interview room like a scalpel. "You drag me in at 6 AM for questioning about a murder, based on what? A badge that could belong to anyone?"
Hawk slid the evidence photo across the table. "Badge number 4471. Your father's badge, Ms. Stone. The one reported missing after his death."
He watched her carefully—the slight widening of her eyes, the almost imperceptible tightening of her fingers around her pen. She hadn't known.
"This is harassment," she said, but the usual steel in her voice had dulled. "Retaliation for yesterday."
"This isn't about Donovan," Hawk replied, leaning forward. "This is about three victims, all with surgically removed organs, all arranged in the same distinctive pose. And now, a direct connection to you."
"I had nothing to do with this."
"Maybe not directly. But someone wants to involve you." Hawk paused. "Or maybe someone close to you is already involved."
Aveline's eyes flashed. "Choose your next words very carefully, Agent Hawk."
"Your client list reads like a who's who of Chicago's criminal elite. Any one of them could be connected to these killings."
"My clients are entitled to legal representation regardless of their alleged crimes," she countered automatically, but Hawk could see her mind racing behind those amber eyes.
He slid another folder across the table. "Meet Catherine Warren, the latest victim. Mother of two. Organ donor coordinator at Chicago Memorial. Just like the others—professional, respected, no criminal connections."
Aveline opened the folder, then immediately closed it, but not before Hawk caught the flash of revulsion in her expression. Good. She wasn't as detached as she pretended to be.
"What do you want from me?" she asked finally.
"Your cooperation. Access to your client files. Information about anyone who might have an interest in framing you or sending you a message."
She laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. "And why would I do that? So the FBI can manufacture evidence against my clients? So you can finish what you started with my father?"
The accusation hung between them, raw and unexpected.
"Your father's case has nothing to do with this," Hawk said carefully.
"It has everything to do with this." Aveline stood abruptly. "We're done here."
As she reached for the door, Hawk played his final card.
"Obstruction of justice carries a five-year sentence, Ms. Stone. Withholding evidence in a federal investigation could end your career." His voice softened fractionally. "Help me find who's doing this, and I'll make sure your father's badge is returned to you when the case closes."
She froze, her back to him, hand on the doorknob.
"You have until noon to decide," he added. "After that, I go to the Bar Association with what we have."
Without turning, she left, the door closing with a soft click that somehow felt more final than if she'd slammed it.
---
At 3:17 AM, the security guard at the FBI's Chicago field office was startled by the arrival of Aveline Stone, a bottle of Macallan 18 in one hand and a thick file in the other.
"I need to see Agent Hawk," she announced, as if arriving in the middle of the night was perfectly normal.
Hawk was still there, of course—hunched over crime scene photos in the conference room that had become their war room. When the guard called up, he wasn't even surprised.
"Send her up," he said, rubbing his eyes.
She entered like she owned the place, setting the whiskey and file on the table with equal precision.
"Before we start," she said without preamble, "tell me where the third victim's wedding ring is."
Hawk blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Jennifer Layton, the second victim. You found her wedding ring in the mouth of Thomas Grayson, the first victim. But Grayson's wedding band hasn't been found." Her eyes locked on his. "So where is it?"
It wasn't public information—the detail about the ring had been kept from the press. Hawk studied her for a long moment before answering.
"We don't know. It wasn't at Catherine Warren's scene."
Aveline nodded, as if confirming a theory. She poured two fingers of whiskey into the paper cups on the table, sliding one toward him.
"My father was framed," she said, taking a seat. "He was a good cop who got too close to something powerful people wanted buried. When he died, I promised myself I'd use the law to protect people from the system that failed him."
She opened the file. "These are notes on five clients who have connections to organ trafficking or black market medical supplies. I'm breaking attorney-client privilege by showing you this, which means my career is effectively over if anyone finds out."
Hawk left the whiskey untouched. "Why the change of heart?"
"Because three innocent people are dead, and someone is using my father's memory as a prop in their sick game." Her eyes met his, fierce and uncompromising. "But understand this—we do this my way. No arrests without concrete evidence. No fishing expeditions through my other cases."
"Your way got Marco Donovan back on the streets," Hawk reminded her.
"And your way got a mistrial that accomplished the same thing." She leaned forward. "We need each other, Agent Hawk. You need my knowledge of Chicago's criminal networks, and I need your resources to find who's using my father's badge."
The tension between them was palpable—neither willing to fully trust, both recognizing the necessity of alliance.
"Deal," Hawk said finally, reaching for the whiskey. "But this is a temporary arrangement. When it's over, we go back to opposite sides of the courtroom."
"Wouldn't have it any other way," she replied, the ghost of a smile touching her lips as she raised her cup.
---
Forty-eight hours later, they were standing back-to-back in an abandoned warehouse, staring at a digital timer counting down from sixty seconds.
"Any progress on those wires?" Aveline asked, her voice remarkably steady as she held the unconscious witness—a surgical nurse who had worked with all three victims—in a fireman's carry across her shoulders.
"Working on it," Hawk replied, his focus entirely on the complex mechanism before him. The bomb had been triggered when they'd entered the warehouse, following an anonymous tip that had led them to the nurse. "Red connects to the power source, blue to the detonator, yellow is likely a decoy..."
"Likely?" Aveline's voice rose slightly.
"Unless it's not," Hawk muttered. "This isn't exactly my specialty."
"That's comforting." Despite the sarcasm, she didn't move, maintaining her position to shield the witness with her body.
The timer hit thirty seconds.
"We need to move," Hawk said, making a decision. "This could be rigged to explode regardless of which wire I cut."
"The exit's blocked by the secondary device," Aveline reminded him. "Our only option is the window."
"We're three stories up!"
"There's a dumpster below filled with construction foam. I noticed it on the way in."
Twenty seconds.
"You're sure?"
"No, but I'm sure we'll die if we stay here."
Fifteen seconds.
Hawk made his choice. "Go. Get her to the window. I'll be right behind you."
Aveline hesitated, then moved swiftly toward the window, still carrying the nurse. Hawk turned back to the bomb, selected the red wire, and cut it cleanly.
The timer stopped at seven seconds.
Then started again, counting down twice as fast.
"Hawk!" Aveline shouted from the window.
He sprinted across the room as the timer hit three seconds, diving through the window just as Aveline pushed the nurse's limp form out. They followed immediately after, the explosion behind them propelling them forward as they plummeted toward the dumpster below.
Hawk twisted mid-air, positioning himself to take the brunt of the impact. They crashed into the foam with bone-jarring force, Hawk's arms instinctively wrapping around Aveline as debris rained down around them.
For a moment, they lay there, stunned and breathless, covered in dust and foam particles. Aveline was sprawled across Hawk's chest, her face inches from his. He could feel her heart hammering against his own.
"The witness?" he managed to ask.
Aveline turned her head slightly. "Alive. Unconscious, but alive."
Sirens wailed in the distance. Neither of them moved.
"You could have left me," Hawk said quietly. "Taken the witness and jumped while I was still at the bomb."
Aveline met his gaze, something unreadable in her eyes. "And you could have cut the wire and run without warning me."
A piece of understanding passed between them—reluctant, fragile, but real.
"We should probably move," she said finally, wincing as she became aware of her injuries.
"Probably," Hawk agreed, but his arms remained around her for a moment longer than necessary before they disentangled themselves from each other and the foam.
As they helped the now-stirring witness from the dumpster, Hawk noticed a small object clutched in the woman's hand—a man's wedding band, identical to the one missing from Thomas Grayson.
Their eyes met over the witness's head, the same thought evident in both their expressions: they were no longer just reluctant allies—they were targets.
