-
"Okay, everybody, tomorrow hundreds of business leaders from around the world descend on the city, and we're gonna send a serious message to these leeches. Everyone down?" A man with blonde hair tied in a ponytail, who goes by Mad Max, addresses the group with fervor.
"Hell yeah!" The room erupts as fists shoot into the air in agreement. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, motor oil, and cheap cologne, all mixing in the dingy, cluttered basement where we've been gathering for weeks.
"I know we've all grown tight over the last few weeks, but remember to keep using your code names," he warns, his eyes scanning the room. I nod along with the rest of them, the alias I've been living under for weeks now ingrained in my head.
The second man, taller and bulkier, steps forward. "We're gonna need volunteers to carry the cell-jammer backpacks," he says, his voice deep and gravelly.
Hands shoot up across the room, and he points to the quickest volunteers, assigning them to the task. "You guys."
"And we're gonna need volunteers to carry and throw the motor oil bombs," Mad Max adds, his eyes scanning the group. Without hesitation, both Adam and I raise our hands.
"Right here," he points to a girl across the room, then to me and Adam. "Good. I'll text you all the details once I've decided on the best time to hit the target."
"We're gonna show these corporate scumbags a thing or two. United," Mad Max shouts.
"United!" we all echo back, the word bouncing off the cold, concrete walls. The tension in the air is palpable, a mix of excitement and nerves. My heart races, not just from the adrenaline of the undercover operation, but from the weight of knowing we're inching closer to the endgame.
Adam and I walk over to a makeshift station littered with empty bottles, gloves, and various supplies. The motor oil bottles glisten under the dim, flickering lights. The basement smells like gasoline and burnt rubber, and I can feel the grease settling into my skin as I start to fill one of the bottles.
Weeks of playing this part—wearing ratty, oversized sweaters that scratch against my skin, my hair tangled in a deliberately messy bun—have left me yearning for a shower and my regular clothes. Adam doesn't look much better, his hair greasy and flopping over his forehead, far from its usual neat quiff. But it's all part of the gig.
The worst part? Not wearing my engagement ring. My finger feels naked, and I've had to stop myself from subconsciously rubbing the spot where it should be.
"Hey," a voice pulls me from my thoughts. I look up to see the girl who was also chosen for the oil bombs sidling up to Adam. "I'm on to you," she says, her eyes narrowing playfully.
Adam gives her a charming smile. "Oh yeah?"
"Alcott. You got it from Louisa May Alcott, author of Little Women. Didn't know she was an environmentalist." She says to him, thinking that she's cracked him.
"It's the name of a hardware store near my apartment," he replies with a shrug, keeping his tone casual.
"Don't front," she flirts, leaning in slightly. "You can be sensitive around me."
I barely hold back a snort of laughter, turning it into a fake cough. Adam discreetly elbows me in the side, never breaking his smile. I can tell he's enjoying this, even if it's just playing a role.
"Your name, Sierra," he muses, pretending to think. "Is it because you drink a lot of Sierra Mist?"
She grins. "Maybe, or it means my parents are lifelong members of the Sierra Club."
"Or that," Adam says, shrugging as he cuts into a bottle. "Let me show you the trick to this, kid. Come here." He creates an incision in the bottle and explains the technique for throwing it without causing it to rupture too early. I can see Sierra hanging on his every word.
"I've got a bone to pick with you," she says, batting her eyelashes. "We exchanged numbers last week, and you still haven't called."
This girl is so obvious it's almost painful. I shoot Adam a knowing look, but he plays it cool.
"Well, it is a post-feminism world, darling. You've got my number too," he teases.
Sierra smirks, leaning closer. "How's this for post-feminism?" She kisses his cheek. "When this is over, I'm taking you to my favorite noodle shop. On me."
Adam nods, clearly amused. "I'll do my best."
"And if you're lucky, I'll tell you my real name," she says before sashaying off, leaving Adam grinning like an idiot.
After the meeting wraps up, Adam and I make our way back to the precinct, where the first thing I do is slip my engagement ring back onto my finger. The cool metal feels comforting, like a piece of myself is restored.
"Excuse me, Sergeant. This was just delivered for you," Nadia says, handing Voight a package.
"Who's it from?" Erin asks.
"Olivia Benson, Special Victims Unit, New York," Nadia replies.
"What's it say?" Erin presses.
"Nothing," Voight mutters, handing the package back. "Put it in my office, will you?" He turns back to us. "All right, let's get down to business."
Antonio's eyes flicker to Voight's arm, still in a sling from being shot. "How long you gonna milk that flesh wound?" he teases.
"Yeah, you collecting disability now?" Erin adds, and we all chuckle.
"Doc says it comes off in a few days," Voight replies. "Anyone else want to try out for Second City, or can we get down to business?" No one answers. "Good. Downtown's a mess with protesters. This World Trade Conference kicks off tomorrow, and HQ's on my back about threat reports. So, where are we?" Voight asks, his voice taking on a more serious tone.
Alvin wipes at his watery eyes. "I've spent the last week making banners with a bunch of wannabe anarchists. Biggest threat they pose is depleting Chicago's marijuana supply."
"Al, let me see your eyes," Antonio says, raising an eyebrow in mock concern.
"I'm just getting over some hay fever," Al insists, waving him off.
"Uh-huh," Antonio mutters, clearly unconvinced.
"I spent the last few nights with the Natural Earth Brotherhood hippies from Oregon. We spent our waking hours collecting human waste in buckets to throw from the rooftops of Michigan Avenue," Al continues.
"That's disgusting," I grimace, the thought of it making my stomach turn. The smell of human waste mixed with weed and body odor must have been unbearable. I don't know how Al lasted a week.
"Yeah, all right," Voight cuts in. He turns to Adam and me. "What about your group, Ruzek and Jackson? The Black Grid."
"Yeah, environmental extremists," Adam says, his voice tinged with exhaustion. We've been deep undercover for weeks now.
"At least that's what they claim," I roll my eyes, thinking back to the bizarre meetings we've been sitting through. "Their big plan is to throw oil on capitalist pigs and embarrass them on the news or something." The absurdity of it all makes me shake my head in disbelief.
"All right, we're already late for this threat assessment meeting. Just grab your files, and let's go," Voight commands, standing up from the desk. The cold, tense atmosphere of the office has a strange way of making everything feel urgent.
As we start walking toward the exit, Adam sniffs the air dramatically. "Al, you seriously smell like weed, man."
Al huffs, unfazed. "I'm in a windowless van with a bunch of guys ripping bong hits. So, yeah, I smell a little bit."
Adam smirks, nudging him. "Did you try a little, though? You did, right? A little tokey-toke?"
Al glares, but before he can reply, Adam's phone dings loudly. He pulls it out of his pocket, his grin fading into a serious expression as he reads the screen. "My UC phone. Maybe it's a message about tomorrow."
He presses play on the voicemail, and Sierra's frantic voice fills the space between us. "Hey, it's Sierra. Please help, I'm at the Wexford, room 2023, please please come."
I frown, instantly on high alert. The urgency in her voice is unmistakable.
"I'll drive," I say, already moving toward the door. My pulse quickens as the weight of the situation sets in. This might be a trap, or it might be real danger. Either way, we need to be ready. We pile into my car—Adam riding shotgun while Al takes the back seat. The engine hums to life, and I can feel the tension thick in the air as we speed through the streets toward the Wexford Hotel.
The lights of the city flash by in a blur as we drive, the rain from earlier leaving the streets slick and shiny under the street lamps. My hands grip the wheel tightly, every sense heightened. The leather of my steering wheel is cool beneath my fingers, and I can feel my heartbeat quicken with each turn we take. The hum of the engine and the steady rhythm of the wipers beating against the windshield do little to ease the tension.
"What do you think this is?" Adam asks, breaking the silence.
"No clue, but we've got to be ready for anything," I reply, eyes focused on the road. The familiar feeling of adrenaline begins to creep into my system, sharpening my focus.
"We go in fast, keep our heads down," Al adds from the backseat, his voice low but steady. He's right. Whatever we're about to walk into, we need to be smart.
I park across the street, and we step out of the car, badges swinging around our necks as we begin to cross the road. The icy wind bites at my face, making my cheeks sting. The city is eerily quiet for a moment, just the crunch of our boots on the cold pavement.
Suddenly, there's a loud thud, and something crashes onto the car beside us. I scream, a short, sharp sound escaping before I even realize it. My heart jumps into my throat as I instinctively bend over, trying to slow my breathing, my pulse pounding in my ears.
"Whoa, whoa," Alvin stumbles back, just as startled. We both walk closer, cautiously approaching the car. My eyes widen in horror as I realize it's not just some object that fell. It's a body. A woman, sprawled out unnaturally, her limbs askew. She's barely dressed, wearing little more than a tiny skirt and a thin top that are no match for the freezing weather. Her eyes are open, lifeless.
"That's her," Adam says, his voice barely a whisper.
"What do you mean?" Alvin frowns, trying to piece together what's happening.
"That's her," Adam repeats, his tone firm.
"50-21 Charlie. Emergency. Roll an ambulance to 17 East Walton," I radio in, my voice steady even though I know there's nothing we can do for her. She's gone. The cold air stings my throat as I speak, my breath coming out in foggy puffs.
Adam rushes inside the building, leaving Alvin and me standing by the car, waiting for backup. The silence feels heavier now, punctuated only by the distant hum of traffic and the faint wail of approaching sirens. My stomach churns as I look back at the body, trying to shake off the chill creeping up my spine.
Eventually, Voight and the others arrive. The flash of red and blue lights reflects off the surrounding buildings, bathing the street in a surreal glow.
"Sarge—" Adam bursts out of the building, not far behind him, a suited man follows, his expression hard and impatient.
"Found your guy off the reservation trying to question a foreign dignitary," the man, Agent Rose, says flatly. "Fabian Sosa's here on behalf of the South American delegation."
"I don't care who that guy is, man," Adam snaps, frustration evident in his voice.
"Sosa's traveling with diplomatic immunity. You want to speak with him, you have to request an interview through his couns—"
"We're talking about a dead girl that clearly fell from that guy's floor," Adam interrupts, his eyes dark with anger.
"Could be suicide," Rose shrugs nonchalantly.
"It's not suicide; I got a message," Adam pulls out his phone, waving it in Rose's face as if the evidence could change the rules.
"Ruzek. Go get some air," Voight says firmly, putting a stop to the argument.
We're stuck. The feds have their hands in this, and there's not much we can do, at least not officially. Rose is going to question Sosa, but I doubt he'll get any real answers.
Back at the district, Adam fills us in, his voice laced with frustration. "Her name was Felicia Hughes. Straight-A liberal arts student at DePaul. A few priors for disturbing political rallies, but nothing major."
"What was she doing at the Wexford?" Erin asks, frowning.
"I don't know," Adam replies, running a hand through his hair, clearly stressed.
"More specifically, what's she doing at the Wexford in 6-inch heels and a miniskirt?" Voight chimes in, his eyes narrowing.
"These big trade conferences attract high-priced escorts from all over the country," Antonio says. "Maybe she was trying to earn some tuition money."
"There's no way," Adam shakes his head vehemently. "This girl wasn't the type."
"How can you be sure? You didn't even know her real name until an hour ago," I counter, crossing my arms as I think back to how confident she seemed at the meetings. "She didn't exactly come off as innocent."
Adam glares at me for a moment, his frustration bubbling over, but Al speaks up before the tension grows. "What about the Black Grid group? You think they had anything to do with this?"
"They're not killers. They're college kids with oil jugs," Adam insists.
"Either way, have patrol sit on their meeting place," Voight says, his voice leaving no room for argument. "What about people in Felicia's life? Maybe someone knows something."
"Boss, I'm telling you, this guy Sosa knows something," Adam says, his tone urgent.
"Fabian Sosa's from a big, politically connected family. Apparently, he's in town to negotiate some natural gas deal," I add, reading from a file we pulled.
"Well, too bad, 'cause we can't get anywhere near him. The feds are afraid we're gonna set off some sex scandal with a foreign crony," Voight says, frustration creeping into his voice.
Antonio speaks up. "I got a CI escort who works the Wexford. I can reach out."
I raise an eyebrow at him. "Why are all your CIs escorts and prostitutes?"
"Do it," Voight nods. Then he points at Ruzek. "You start with the body." Finally, he turns to Jay. "Hey, keep him company."
Antonio glances at me with a sly grin. "Wanna come interview my CI?"
"Sure, baby," I say sarcastically, rolling my eyes. "I wanna meet your escort confidential informant." He laughs and turns to leave, but I quickly follow. "No, seriously, I do want to come."
We head to a swanky restaurant and bar, the kind of place where everything smells like expensive perfume and freshly polished wood. The lights are low, casting a warm, golden glow over everything. We spot Antonio's CI—a stunning woman with caramel skin and dark hair—sitting at a table, sipping a martini like she owns the place.
"Hey," Antonio greets her as we sit down.
"I've got a date with a dentist. Do you know how hard it is to land a good dentist?" she quips, giving him a playful look.
"Were you working the Wexford earlier?" Antonio asks, cutting straight to the chase.
She nods, swirling her drink. "Yeah, she was there. I noticed her because I'd never seen her before. She looked a little nervous, like it was her first time out tricking."
"So she was on the clock?" I ask, leaning forward slightly.
"She wasn't there for the bar snacks," the woman replies dryly.
"Was she approached by anyone?" Antonio presses.
"Yeah, some big-shot Latin guy in a killer suit."
"Him?" I hold up a photo of Sosa, and she nods.
"Him," she confirms, her voice calm as she sips her drink.
We thank her and leave the restaurant, the cold night air hitting my face as we step back outside. My mind is racing, trying to piece together the puzzle. There's something bigger at play here, and I can feel it in the pit of my stomach.
My phone dings, and I glance down at the text before relaying the information to Antonio. "The blood test shows alcohol and benzodiazepine—Xanax, or something similar. She also has bruising behind her left triceps, which could indicate someone right-handed grabbed her forcibly. So it's most likely a homicide."
"If she was thrown over, with all that booze and pills in her, I doubt she could've put up much of a fight," Antonio sighs, running a hand over his face. His voice carries the weariness of too many cases like this, the kind that linger long after they're closed.
I nod, feeling the weight of his words. "I don't think Adam's taking this very well," I admit softly. "She really liked him, and I think... I think he liked her too."
"Just give him a little space," Antonio suggests, his tone gentle but firm. "Right now, we just need to focus on closing the case and making an arrest. He'll feel better when the person responsible is behind bars."
He's right, of course. But still, I can't shake the sadness that hangs over the unit. We walk into the station, the cool air of the building biting at my skin as we make our way to Intelligence.
Once we're all gathered, Voight wastes no time. "So why would she be hooking at the Wexford?" His tone is sharp, no-nonsense.
"Maybe it's a honey trap set up by the Black Grid," Adam suggests, clearly still on edge. "Get picked up by someone at the conference, someone like this prick Sosa. Incriminate him. Now, how they knew he'd beeline for her instead of all the other girls in the bar that night, I don't know, but—"
"Because she was 18," Nadia interjects, and we all turn to look at her.
Erin steps forward, ignoring the sudden tension. "I put a call into Interpol—one of the few perks of working on a task force—and it turns out Sosa has quite a reputation with the ladies. He's been linked to escort services in half a dozen cities. He was even charged with soliciting down in Australia, but his consulate got it squashed."
Mouse chimes in from behind his computer, his voice casual but laced with urgency. "And I've got his itinerary. He's supposed to go to a global currency meeting at McCormick Place in an hour."
"Let's grab him up," Adam says, snapping his fingers as if that could speed up the process.
"You know we can't legally detain Sosa without the feds' cooperation, right?" Jay reminds us, his expression tight. "And Agent Rose hasn't returned any of my calls, so read into that however you want."
"Are you kidding me?" Adam slumps down onto the edge of my desk, his face filled with frustration and a kind of sadness that seems to weigh him down. "This girl's from Lincoln Park. She's from Chicago. We're gonna let this guy come in, kill her, throw her out a window like a bag of trash, and he just gets away with it? Is that how we're gonna play this?"
Voight stands there for a moment, studying Adam in silence, before he finally speaks. "You ever hear of rendition?"
Jay and I exchange a look, both nodding. "We have," Jay replies.
"All right, everybody vest up. We're gonna show him the Chicago version." Voight's decision seems to breathe new life into the room, and Adam stands up, looking both perplexed and hopeful.
Soon, we're waiting in our cars by the side of the road, ready for Sosa's procession of cars to pass. The winter air clings to me, biting through my jacket as I grip my gun tightly, mentally preparing for what's about to happen.
When his cars finally approach, we block the road, jumping out with our weapons raised.
"Guns on the ground! CPD! Gun on the ground now!" my voice rings out alongside the others, the adrenaline pumping through my veins.
The suited men step out of the cars, guns drawn as well. Tension crackles in the air like static, and for a moment, no one moves.
"Drop your weapon!" I shout again, my heart pounding in my chest.
"Put the gun down!" Voight growls, stepping forward.
"Drop your weapons, do it! Guns down!" Antonio orders beside me, his voice steady despite the chaos.
Finally, the men begin to lower their weapons, one by one.
"Guns down, put 'em down." I repeat, pushing forward as I force them against the cars. "Hands on the car now!" Antonio demands, and they obey.
Voight saunters up to Sosa, his expression cold as ice. "You know where you are?" he asks, his tone dripping with disdain. "This is Chicago. Our soil. And believe me, one way or another, we're gonna talk to your boss."
Sosa glares, defiant. "When I get to your station, I'm calling the Argentine consulate."
"Well, we ain't going to no station, honey," Voight snaps back with a wicked grin.
With Sosa in hand, Voight and Olinsky take him somewhere to "talk," while Mouse works on cracking his phone back at the station.
Later, I head to Mouse's office space. "Did you crack Sosa's phone yet?" I ask, leaning against his desk.
"Yeah, like, two minutes ago," he replies casually, not even looking up from his own phone.
I frown. "Then you pick up the phone and call me," I remind him, annoyed.
"Yes, ma'am," he says quickly, though there's a hint of a smile in his voice.
"Jackson," I correct him.
"Yep."
"Can I see it?" I press, noticing he's still scrolling on his phone.
"Hmm? Oh. Yeah, of course," he snaps to attention, finally turning to his computer. "Is it legal to open unread emails?"
"We're pretty much past that point," I shrug. He clicks on a few buttons, pulling up one of the emails.
"You will deposit $200,000 into the following account within 12 hours, or this video will be released to news outlets worldwide. You're already a philanderer. Do you want to be called a murderer?" Mouse reads aloud. "That's a blackmail letter."
"You think?" I roll my eyes, irritated by the obvious.
"Okay, okay, sarcasm noted," Mouse mutters. "And there's a video attached." He clicks on it, and a shaky recording begins to play on the screen.
It shows Felicia, sitting on the hotel bed. She looks nervous, out of place. I swallow hard as the scene fast-forwards, showing her and Sosa drinking champagne. He's trying to undress her, and she's resisting. I feel a knot form in my stomach as I watch the footage.
"Send it to Voight," I order, my voice tight as I walk out of the room.
Mouse works on finding the blackmailer's name and address, while Adam, Erin, and Jay head out to make the arrest. The case is gaining momentum, but something tells me it's far from over.
*
"This is Mason Rutowski, AKA Mad Max." Adam stands by the board, pointing at the photo of the man we've been chasing. The air in the room feels heavy, thick with anticipation.
I can hear the soft hum of the fluorescent lights overhead as I continue for Adanm. "He's the guy in charge of the environmentalist group Ruzek and I infiltrated. Turns out he's a part-time instructor of political science at DePaul."
Jay steps forward, the pages of his file crinkling slightly in the quiet room as he adds, "We checked with the county assessor's office. Max's mother, Jeanette Rutowski, passed away a few months back. She left him the house, but the deed hasn't been transferred yet because he couldn't afford the back taxes."
"So, if I'm a broke part-time teacher living in my mom's basement, I might be looking to shake somebody down for some cash," Erin muses, tapping her pen against the edge of her desk.
"We've got an investigative alert lodged with state police and the sheriff's office." Antonio adds, his voice calm but focused, as if he's already piecing together how this will go down.
Adam checks his phone, a slight frown creasing his forehead. "Mad Max is supposed to send out instructions to all the Black Grid members today. Just got this: 2 PM, Freedom Plaza. Target, Saudi Prince, bring your helmets."
"They wear motorcycle helmets to conceal their identities," I chime in, recalling the last rally we went undercover to observe.
"All right, let's hit the plaza," Voight decides, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "We'll surveil the group and pick him up."
"Sarge, we got another problem. They've got cell-jammers, which will block reception in the entire area." I remind him, the worry evident in my tone.
"No, no, no. We could use the old CPD analog radios," Al interrupts, his voice gravelly but full of determination. "They use that old trunk band, you ain't blocking those babies. I'll dig 'em up."
Just then, we hear footsteps pounding up the stairs. Rose appears, his face flushed with frustration, Commander Fischer right behind him. "I told you, hands off Sosa! Then you kidnap him?"
"He wanted to see Chicago," Voight replies, completely unfazed, his tone as casual as ever.
"You didn't think his bodyguards would contact me to say that your unit grabbed him off the street in broad daylight?" Rose snaps, his face reddening.
"Did you talk to Sosa himself?" Voight shrugs nonchalantly. "'Cause I'm sure he has a different story."
"I did," Rose shoots back, narrowing his eyes. "White zinfandel, huh?"
"Seemed to enjoy it," Voight replies smoothly, with a smirk that makes me stifle a chuckle.
"I could have you arrested for official misconduct," Rose barks, his finger pointed accusingly at all of us. "That goes for all of you."
"Agent Rose," Commander Fischer steps in, his voice level but stern, "there's no need to go there, because if the Sergeant here so much as looks at another foreign dignitary, I'll strip his badge myself, and I'll reassign his entire unit to patrol. Am I clear, Sergeant?"
"Yes, Commander," Voight answers without hesitation, his eyes burning with defiance.
Fischer turns and leaves, the sound of his footsteps fading away. The moment he's gone, the tension in the room breaks, and we all move quickly to get ready.
We pile into our cars, my fingers trembling slightly as I adjust my earpiece and check my gear. The drive to Freedom Plaza is quiet, aside from the distant hum of the city. I can feel the anticipation building in my chest, each breath coming out a little more shallow than the last.
Once we arrive, we station ourselves around the edges of the plaza. The air is thick with the sound of chanting, voices echoing through the streets like a battle cry.
"The whole world's watching! The whole world's watching!" The crowd's voices merge into a rhythmic chant that reverberates through my bones. The cold bites at my skin, and I pull my jacket tighter around me, my breath visible in the freezing air.
"Patrol, can you hear me?" Voight radios, his voice a low growl over the static.
"Yes, sir, I got eyes on the front row," Burgess replies.
"Lindsay, what's your 20?" Voight asks, the tension in his voice rising.
"I've got eyes on the ground," Erin responds, her tone calm but focused.
"Ruzek, you see any familiar faces?" Voight asks.
"Negative, boss," Adam responds, his eyes scanning the crowd like a hawk.
Suddenly, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, the screen glowing with a new message. "Getting another message," I say, reading it quickly. "It says: 'Time to change the world. Cell-jammers, the time is now.'" I watch as my phone jams up, the screen freezing. "Yeah, they're here."
"I see some Black Grid people with cell-jammers heading toward the barricade," Adam reports. "I don't see Rutowski. I'm gonna follow them, see if I can find him."
"Jackson, cover him," Voight orders, and I'm already moving.
"The whole world's watching! The whole world's watching!" The crowd chants louder, their voices almost drowning out the sound of my boots hitting the pavement. My heart races as I keep my eyes on Adam, trailing behind him, trying to stay unnoticed.
"Hey, you seen Mad Max?" Adam starts asking the crowd, his voice loud enough to be heard over the noise. "Where the hell's Mad Max?"
"He said he'll be here," a girl replies, shrugging. "I don't know when."
"The whole world's watching! The whole world's watching!"
"I got more helmets moving in," Voight's voice crackles through my earpiece, and I spot a group of people wearing black motorcycle helmets heading towards the barricade.
"Chicago PD! Stop right there!" I shout, my voice firm as I raise my gun. "Stop what you're doing! Helmets off!"
"CPD! Helmets off!" Adam echoes, stepping forward.
Suddenly, one of the helmeted figures bolts. Instinct kicks in, and I sprint after him, my breath coming in sharp bursts as I weave through the crowd. My legs burn as I push harder, gaining on him, but just as I reach out, Burgess tasers him, and he drops to the ground.
I skid to a stop, breathing heavily, adrenaline coursing through my veins. We've got him.
We take him back to the station and place him in the interrogation room. The cold, sterile air of the room feels oppressive, and I can smell the faint scent of disinfectant lingering in the corners. The harsh fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting sharp shadows across Mad Max's face.
"Man, I can't believe you're cops," Max says, his voice laced with disbelief as he slouches in his chair.
"I hear the name 'Mad Max,' and I'm expecting a record as long as my arm," I reply, folding my arms and leaning forward. My gaze is steady, locking onto his. "All I found on you is a charge for trespassing at an oil refinery in Minnesota."
"It was a Greenpeace rally. No one was hurt," he says defensively, his voice rising a little as if that detail would somehow absolve him.
"Not that time," I shake my head slowly, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on me. "But you've certainly upped your game since then, haven't you? We know you sent this to Fabian Sosa." I place a printout of the email we found in front of him, the paper crinkling slightly as I push it toward him. "200k? Is that how you planned on paying off your mom's house? Use the rest to fund your little group?"
"What?" His eyes widen, genuine shock or a damn good act.
"Felicia Hughes, she's the perfect dupe," Adam cuts in from beside me, his voice cold and calculated. "She's a pretty girl. Trusting, naive. You figure you dangle her in front of a wealthy dignitary, he's gonna take her into his room. You come back later, sting him for some cash."
"I didn't write this. I didn't send this," Max protests, his voice rising with a mix of panic and anger.
"Here's how we see it," I say, my voice growing firmer as I step closer, "You con Felicia into playing prostitute, hoping Sosa picks her up. You feed her a bunch of revolutionary B.S. about taking down some oppressive tyrant, but she finds out you're just there to line your pockets."
"How dare you even suggest that," he snaps, his eyes flashing with indignation, leaning forward as if trying to regain control of the situation.
"Then who did it, Max? Who sent this email? Who killed Felicia?" I ask, my voice low, but there's an edge in it.
"I don't know!" he replies, his hands splayed on the table as if he's trying to show us how helpless he is. "Someone must've hacked my internet!"
I almost laugh, shaking my head. "Yeah, the whole 'somebody hacked my internet' defense doesn't really hold up in court, Max."
Max leans back in his chair, deflated, realizing the gravity of the situation.
Adam scoots his chair closer to him, leaning in. "Why'd you kill Felicia?"
"Oh, so this is how you're gonna try and bring me down?" Max snaps, his tone shifting to sarcasm. "Frame me for a made-up murder?"
"You wish you were that important," I reply, standing straight, crossing my arms as I stare him down.
Max meets Adam's gaze again, but his defiance is cracking. "Look at me," Adam presses. Max finally gives in, locking eyes with him. "Everybody you were with last night. Every name." Adam hands him a pen and paper.
Max hesitates before finally taking the pen. We leave the room, the tension in the air thick enough to cut with a knife. The metal door clangs shut behind us.
"All we can do now is wait and see if his alibi checks out," I say, the sound of my boots echoing on the linoleum floor as we head back to the bullpen.
In the bustling office, Mouse is rattling off details, his fingers flying across his keyboard. "Okay, we ran all the Black Grid members through the analytical software, checked cell data networks, VPNs, protocols—"
"You got the guy or not?" Voight cuts him off, his voice sharp.
Mouse pauses, blinking at the screen. "No."
"What about Rutowski?" Adam asks.
"Four of his friends alibi him out. They say they were with him last night," Jay says, crossing his arms as he leans against the desk.
"Yeah, they're probably stoned out of their minds," Voight mutters. "We keep Rutowski in custody."
"Sergeant, me and Jay, we got an idea," Mouse raises his hand slightly, interrupting the tension. "See, we were in the Helmand Province, way the hell up in the mountains—"
"Mouse, shut up," Voight says, cutting him off before the story can derail. "Halstead, what's the idea?"
Jay steps forward, his posture tight with determination. "A guy in our unit was being held for ransom. So, we staged an exchange with the kidnappers. It's mostly classified, but long story short, we got him back without spending a dime."
Mouse chimes in, "We got Sosa's phone, so I can send a message from his email pretending to be him. Say he doesn't want a paper trail, so he's gonna send one of his drivers to deliver the 200k in cash, in person."
"We just wait to see who shows up," Jay finishes.
"All right, sign $200,000 out of the 1505 funds. Write up an ops plan for Fischer. Just tell him we need it for flash." Voight says before pointing to Antonio, "This is you."
Antonio gets suited up, looking sharp in a black suit and long coat. The weight of the operation presses down on all of us as we drive to the agreed meeting location.
Antonio stands on the sidewalk, the cold biting at my skin as I watch from a distance. The city noises hum in the background, but my focus is locked on him. My heart races as a guy on a motorcycle approaches, a sleek helmet covering his face. The man pulls out a gun, pointing it directly at Antonio, and I feel my pulse quicken.
"Show me your hands," the man growls.
"I'm unarmed," Antonio replies, calm but firm.
"Let me see it," the man demands, his gun still steady.
Antonio pulls some notes out of the bag, showing him. "200k. Untraceable, small bills. All yours for the original footage."
"There it is. No other copies." The man hands Antonio a small bag, and he quickly checks inside. "The money," the man urges, wiggling the gun impatiently.
"All right, exchange is made. Move in. Remember, he's armed," Voight's voice crackles through the radio. I reverse my car, ready to block the man in.
The man on the motorcycle realizes it's a setup. His engine roars to life as he tries to make a getaway across a narrow bridge. Antonio sprints after him, and Adam takes off in the opposite direction, heading him off.
I hit the gas, my car screeching as I drive toward them, heart pounding in my chest. The air feels thick with tension, adrenaline coursing through my veins. The man is trapped in traffic once he's off the bridge, and Antonio tackles him just as Adam closes in.
They wrestle him to the ground, cuffing him quickly. I jump out of the car, my breath visible in the cold air, and recognize the face beneath the helmet.
"This is 'The Pope,'" Adam says, dragging him up.
"He's a member of the Black Grid," I confirm, still catching my breath. "Second in command. The one who chose us to throw the oil bombs." I stare at him, my mind racing.
Back at the station, the fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead, casting a cold, sterile glow across the room. The air smells faintly of disinfectant and old coffee, the familiar scent of long days and sleepless nights. Adam and Antonio stand across from Pope, the tension thick in the room as Adam presses play on the video from the hotel. The grainy footage flickers to life, the unmistakable scene of Felicia and Sosa, her movements sluggish, his predatory.
Pope shifts in his seat, his eyes flicking nervously to the screen and back to Adam. "I didn't kill Sierra," he insists, his voice defensive but with an undercurrent of fear.
"Her name was Felicia," Adam corrects, his tone dark, laced with anger that bubbles just beneath the surface.
Pope's eyes narrow, his lips curling into a twisted sneer. "She slipped. It was an accident."
I can feel the tension radiating off Adam, and even from my spot in the observation room, my fists clench at Pope's casual dismissal of Felicia's death. Adam doesn't flinch, though. His eyes stay locked on Pope, unblinking, cold.
"Someone slipping in the shower is an accident," Antonio interjects, his voice sharp and unyielding. "Felicia was thrown out of a 20-story window. She fought back, didn't she? Must've been tough for you."
Pope shrugs like it's nothing, his nonchalance sending a wave of disgust through me. "If you say so."
"Actually, the medical examiner will," Antonio replies, flipping open a file, the sound of the pages rustling in the quiet room.
Adam leans in, his voice low and dangerous. "You figured you'd get Sosa on video having sex. Ruin his reputation, right? Make him pay up?"
Pope's face twists into a sneer, but there's something calculating behind his eyes, like he's weighing how much to say. Then, his lips curl into a sly grin. "What if I told you it was Sierra's idea?"
Adam's jaw tightens, and I can see the effort it takes for him to stay in control. His voice is cold, steady. "Her name is Felicia. I'm not telling you that again."
Pope's smirk falters, but he continues, his voice slick with arrogance. "We had an argument. Yeah. But she was high on Xanax, and she fell."
"Yeah, she was high," Adam agrees, his voice steady but his hands flexing at his sides. "She was high because she knew she had to go through something she wasn't comfortable with, right? But she did it for the cause. For you."
Pope shakes his head, his eyes darting between Adam and Antonio like a trapped animal. "No, man. Her idea. She wanted to trap this dude, blackmail him. She and I were just arguing over my cut. She started tripping out, attacked me. And she started crying. And boom, a header right through the window."
I can see Adam's control slipping, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. Antonio steps forward, his voice a little more forceful now. "You pushed her," he points at Pope, each word measured and deliberate. "Then you decided to go ahead with your plan, send that video from Rutowski's house, and frame him to cover your tracks."
Pope's eyes flick to the floor, his jaw tightening in defiance. "Sierra jumped on her own," he mutters, but it's weak. The lie tastes sour even from here.
Adam's face hardens, and before anyone can react, he steps forward, grabbing Pope by the collar and shoving him back against the wall. The sound of the impact echoes through the room, but Adam doesn't flinch. His voice is a low, dangerous growl. "You say her real name."
Pope blinks, stunned, but Adam slaps him across the face, the sound sharp and harsh in the sterile room. "Say it," Adam growls, slapping him again. "Say it. Say her name. Say Felicia."
Pope stammers, his eyes wide with fear as Adam grips his shoulder, pinning him against the wall, his fingers digging into Pope's skin. "Huh? Try it. Felicia. Felicia!" Adam's voice is cold, lethal, his body vibrating with barely contained rage.
Pope's bravado cracks, his voice shaking. "Fine. Felicia. But I didn't do anything. I didn't push her that hard."
Adam's grip tightens for a moment before he releases him, stepping back, his breathing heavy. He's struggling to hold back the rage I know he's feeling, and I can't blame him. Pope straightens, rubbing his shoulder where Adam's hand had been.
"Hey," Adam grabs Pope's face again, forcing him to look at him. "You're gonna tell me what you did to that girl. You're gonna tell me. You understand? Or I swear to God, I'm gonna take you for a drive. And I'm the only one coming back."
Pope's lips tremble, but his eyes hold a glint of defiance. "She did it for the cause," he says, almost proudly.
Adam lets go of him, his face hardening as he takes a step back. "You're right. She did. But I figured I might as well make a little money while we were at it. I told her I'd split it with her. But she wouldn't listen. She said she was gonna call the cops. I didn't mean to push her that hard."
His words hang in the air, the confession we've been waiting for, but it feels hollow, like every bit of life and goodness Felicia had was stripped away by this one pathetic man. The room feels heavy, suffocating, and I can't shake the image of her being tossed out of that window like she meant nothing.
"We've got enough," Antonio says quietly, closing the file in his hand. Adam steps away from Pope, his fists clenched at his sides, his face a mask of barely controlled fury.
We've got the confession. Now we can charge him with Felicia's murder.
*
The air inside Molly's is thick with warmth, laughter, and the sweet scent of beer and whiskey. The familiar hum of chatter fills the space as Antonio and I step into the bar, greeted by a wave of cheers and claps from our friends. The place is packed with faces I know well—patrol officers, medics, firefighters, detectives, everyone we've called family over the years. The overhead lights reflect off the polished wood of the bar, casting a golden glow over the crowd.
Burgess is the first to rush over, her arms flung wide as she pulls me into a hug, "Finally! I thought you'd never get engaged."
I laugh, the sound bubbling up from deep inside, feeling lighter than I have in days. "Took us long enough, right?"
"About damn time!" Herrmann calls from across the bar, raising his glass. "To Antonio and Katie!"
The crowd echoes the toast, their voices mingling with the clinking of glasses as Antonio wraps an arm around my waist. His hand rests gently on the small of my back, and I lean into him, feeling the solid warmth of his body next to mine.
"Drink up!" Severide grins as he passes us two beers, and Matt Casey joins in, nudging Antonio playfully. "Hope you're ready for the karaoke later."
Antonio raises an eyebrow, smiling but trying to keep his composure. "I thought I was here to celebrate, not sing."
"Too bad, man," Casey laughs. "Karaoke's a tradition."
I feel a surge of happiness just watching them, knowing that Antonio's bond with these people is as strong as my own. They've seen us at our worst, supported us when life was toughest, and now they're here to celebrate our happiness.
The music from the jukebox blends with the soft clinking of glasses and occasional bursts of laughter from different groups scattered around the bar. Gabby makes her way over, beaming as she pulls me into a hug.
"You're officially family now, sis," she grins, her eyes sparkling with joy. "I couldn't be happier for you both."
"I think I've been family for a while," I joke, giving her an extra squeeze. But her words hit deep, and they warm me from the inside out. Gabby's always been like a sister to me, but hearing it out loud feels like a sweet affirmation of everything I've built with Antonio.
Nat, my best friend, comes next, her arm slung around Will Halstead, who raises his glass with a grin. "To Katie and Antonio," she says, her voice full of love. "But mostly to Katie, because, let's be honest, Antonio's just along for the ride."
Antonio chuckles, shaking his head. "Always second place with you, Katie."
I smile, looking into his eyes. "You'll never be second place, not to me."
Our friends' voices blur into the background for a moment, and it's just the two of us. His hand tightens around mine, and I can see the sincerity in his eyes. It's like a promise spoken without words.
Suddenly, the music shifts, and the unmistakable intro to Don't Stop Believin' pours out of the speakers. Platt, with her commanding presence, has already grabbed the microphone and started belting out the lyrics. The crowd erupts in laughter and cheers as she points at random people, demanding they join in.
Jay approaches us, a beer in hand, and there's a moment of silence between the three of us. But the tension I'd expected doesn't come. Instead, he smiles softly at me, his blue eyes full of understanding and something like peace. "Congrats, Katie. I'm happy for you. Really."
I nod, grateful that we've made it to this place. "Thank you, Jay. That means a lot."
Connor, who's been hovering near the bar, steps forward, his usual calm exterior intact. "I wouldn't miss this for the world," he says, and the genuine warmth in his voice is like a salve to any lingering awkwardness between us. He clinks his glass to mine. "I'm happy for you."
As the night moves on, I find myself singing alongside Kim, Nadia and Erin to a karaoke rendition of Living on a Prayer, our voices off-key and filled with joy. Nat and April are dancing near the jukebox, laughing like we're back in college. Connor stands near the edge of the group, leaning against the bar with a small smile, watching the chaos unfold.
At one point, Gabby, Matt, and Severide challenge Antonio and Herrmann to a beer pong match, and the room erupts in friendly trash talk as they face off.
"You ready for this?" I ask Antonio, handing him a ball. He raises an eyebrow at me with that confident smirk I love so much.
"Let's do it."
We play, we laugh, and we celebrate the life we're building together. And as I stand there, surrounded by everyone I love—my family, my friends, my team—I know I wouldn't have it any other way.
As the night begins to wind down, I find myself leaning against Antonio, his arm draped lazily around me, my head resting on his shoulder. The bar's quieter now, with just a few lingering voices and the soft clinking of glasses being cleared away.
"I love you," he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to my temple. His breath is warm against my skin, and I close my eyes, letting the moment sink in.
"I love you too," I whisper back, my heart full and content.
This night, this moment—it's perfect. And as I look around the room one last time, seeing all the faces of people who mean the world to me, I know that I wouldn't trade this for anything.