Chapter 40: City of Silent Crimes
Frank woke rested, though the heaviness of the mission sat like a stone in his chest. He rose before dawn, stretched the stiffness out of his shoulders, and laced up his boots. The barracks yard was cold and still, but he pushed through his routine anyway — sprints across the cracked concrete, push-ups until his chest burned, pull-ups until his arms shook.
Zoey wasn’t far behind. She appeared in track pants, ponytail swaying, breath visible in the chill. Their eyes met briefly, no words needed, both of them locked into the rhythm of preparation.
After training, they showered, cleaned up, and Zoey’s voice buzzed through Frank’s phone.
"Mess hall. 7:30. Don’t be late."
Frank smirked, lighting a cigarette before heading in.
At breakfast, they sat across from each other with steel trays — thick slices of bread smeared with butter and jam, a pair of boiled eggs, a cup of milk. Simple, bland. Frank chewed methodically, while Zoey studied him.
"You ever gonna eat like a normal human being?" she asked, half-teasing.
"This is normal," Frank muttered. "Fuel, not flavor."
Zoey rolled her eyes, cracking her egg. "One of these days, I’ll get you to admit you like food."
"Don’t count on it."
They ate quietly for a few more minutes before reporting to the department. The mood shifted the moment they entered Colonel Rickleton’s command room. Ricky was already waiting, standing before a screen filled with data charts and blurred faces.
"Detectives," Ricky said, greeting them with a curt nod. "Sit. We’ve got work."
Frank and Zoey settled in, exchanging a brief glance. Ricky tapped a remote, and the screen flickered alive with the corporate logo of Vertex Technologies.
"This," Ricky began, pacing slowly, "is your next battlefield. Vertex Technologies — one of Northvale’s shining stars in the tech industry. Marketed as innovators in communication and home AI. But the truth? They’re rotten to the core."
Zoey leaned forward. "Rotten how?"
Ricky’s eyes hardened. "Mass data breach. Illegal surveillance. They’ve been recording users through personal devices — cameras, smart mirrors, home hubs. Private moments. Intimate ones. Entire lives. These recordings are being sold, extorted, traded. Cartels are knee-deep in it. Ordinary citizens are bleeding money, and lives have already been ruined."
The slide changed, showing blurred screenshots of people in their homes, unaware they were being watched. Frank’s jaw tightened.
Zoey exhaled sharply. "That’s... monstrous."
"It’s more than monstrous," Ricky said. "It’s organized. Coordinated. This isn’t just a data scam. It’s a machine built to blackmail and destroy. And it’s feeding into Veltheria’s cybercrime surge."
Frank finally spoke. "You want us inside."
Ricky nodded. "Undercover as employees. Vertex is hiring dozens of new recruits. You’ll slip in, integrate, blend. Find out who’s pulling the strings and how they’re funneling this data. And when you know enough — we burn them to the ground."
Zoey frowned. "What’s our cover?"
"Fake IDs, clean records," Ricky replied. "You’ll be mid-level tech specialists. Nothing flashy. Stay invisible."
Frank’s tone was sharp. "Invisible is my specialty."
For three long hours, Ricky walked them through the operation. Layers of data, charts of laundering schemes, redacted names. By the end, their heads ached but their mission was clear: Vertex was the enemy, and every second inside would be walking on glass.
At last, they were dismissed. By the time they made it to the mess for a late lunch, it was already past three. Frank picked at his rice while Zoey leaned back, watching him.
"You know," she said lightly, "this mission feels... normal. Go in, play employees, dig around. No bullets flying. No bodies dropping."
Frank looked up at her with a humorless smile. "That’s exactly why it isn’t normal. The quieter it looks, the deadlier it is."
Zoey tried to laugh, but it came out uneasy. She rubbed her temple. "Headache. I think I’ll head back to the barracks early, rest a bit."
Frank studied her for a moment — the slight tension in her shoulders, the way she avoided his eyes. "Take medicine. Sleep it off. I’ll check equipment."
She nodded quickly. "Yeah. See you later."
Frank left her there and headed back toward the armory. Ricky intercepted him halfway with a sealed envelope.
"Your covers," Ricky said, handing over two ID cards. "Frank Dawson and Zoey Lane. You’re tech consultants now. Company orientation starts in two days. Gear requisition is handled. Phones, passes, even your fake résumés. Don’t break character."
Frank tucked the IDs into his jacket. "Anything else?"
"One thing," Ricky said, leaning in. "Trust your instincts. Vertex isn’t just a company. It’s a trap disguised as opportunity."
Later that evening, Frank returned to the barracks. He laid the IDs on his desk, staring at the unfamiliar names. His mind ran over details — how to talk like a tech specialist, what routines to mimic, how to hide his military sharpness behind casual office mannerisms.
But something gnawed at him.
He reached for his phone and dialed Zoey. It rang. Once. Twice. Then she answered.
"Zoey," Frank said, "meet me. Now. We need to run over cover details."
But the line was filled with background noise. Wind. Street sounds.
"Where are you?" he asked sharply.
"I—uh—just stepped out. Needed some air," she replied too quickly.
Frank’s gut tightened. "Outside the barracks?"
Silence. Then the call cut.
Frank cursed under his breath, shoving his chair back. He stormed into the corridor and flagged down a passing female officer.
"Check the women’s barracks," Frank ordered. "Zoey Parker. Room check. Now."
The officer frowned but nodded. She left, boots echoing down the hall.
Five minutes crawled by.
Finally, she returned, face grim. "Detective Miller... she’s not there. Her bed hasn’t been touched."
Frank stood frozen in the corridor, cigarette still smoldering between his fingers. The noise of the barracks faded to nothing, just the low hum of blood in his ears.
Where the hell could she have gone? Headache, she’d said. Rest, she’d promised. Yet now she was missing — no note, no word, not even her jacket left behind.
He walked back to his quarters in silence, dropped into the chair at his desk, and stared at the two fake ID cards. Frank Dawson. Zoey Lane. Names that weren’t theirs. Covers they were supposed to carry together.
He ground out the cigarette and lit another, smoke clouding the room. His thoughts looped, restless.
Did she wander out? Did she get pulled into something? Did someone take her?
Every possibility cut sharp, none of them giving him peace.
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes fixed on nothing. For once, the man who always had answers found himself with none.