Rain hammered the alley in hard, slanted sheets, bouncing off the hood of Detective Sarah Keating’s black parka. She crouched beside the body, the streetlight’s yellow halo casting sharp shadows on the cobblestones. The victim’s skin was pale and slick, his mouth frozen in a silent scream. His wrists bore deep, symmetrical gouges, old-fashioned shackling marks.
Keating leaned closer. “Medieval strappado,” she muttered.
From behind, Jack Mercer, a former military investigator turned drifter, stepped out of the darkness. His boots barely made a sound on the wet ground. “And whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing. Rope burn’s too clean. Victim was hoisted, left hanging until his shoulders popped.”
Keating shot him a sideways glance. “You’ve been in town for less than a day, and you already know the murder method?”
Mercer didn’t answer right away. His gaze was fixed on the folded piece of parchment pinned to the victim’s shirt with a black iron nail. He tugged it free and opened it. Latin words, written in bold, deliberate strokes: Sic semper mendaci.
Keating frowned. “Always thus to the liar.”
Mercer’s jaw tightened. “And if the first one’s a liar… the second’s a thief. The third’s a traitor. It’s a sequence. Old… very old.”
* * * * * * *
Keating’s laptop pinged with the facial recognition match. “Our victim’s a city councilman. Corruption charges last year, case vanished mysteriously.”
Mercer paced the room, his massive frame moving with controlled precision. “So our killer’s not random. He’s following a code, targeting sins from some ancient judicial order.”
“Knights Templar?” Keating guessed.
Mercer shook his head. “Older. Roman Republic punishments. Someone’s re-enacting the Lex Talionis, eye for an eye but using public figures as examples.”
Keating clicked on another file. “And this just in—second victim. Downtown warehouse district. Says here…” Her voice faltered. “…death by the Pear of Anguish.”
Mercer was already grabbing his coat. “That’s not just execution. That’s a message to anyone watching.”
* * * * * * *
Warehouse District – 1:16 a.m.
They arrived to find a small crowd of officers standing in grim silence. The smell of coppery blood mingled with wet concrete.
The victim, a local art dealer, sat slumped in a chair, head tilted back, jaw grotesquely forced open by a cruel metal device.
Pinned to his lapel, another parchment. Sic semper furi.
Keating whispered, “Always thus to the thief.”
Mercer scanned the shadows. “We’re running out of time. Third sin’s a traitor. Which means your department’s next target.”
She shot him a sharp look. “And you know this how?”
He leaned closer. “Because I’ve seen this before. Kandahar, 2009. A rogue interrogator used the same methods to purge his own unit. Only two people knew his full playbook—me, and the man we never caught.”
* * * * * * *
4:37 a.m. – Police HQ
The storm intensified, lightning flashing through tall windows. Keating’s captain was furious. “I won’t have you running around with this ex-soldier stirring panic!”
Mercer ignored him, scanning the precinct bulletin board. Photos of high-ranking officers. He tapped one, Deputy Chief Roland Kane. “He fits. War profiteer during his National Guard days. Fits the traitor profile.”
Keating’s phone buzzed. A photo. Kane, bound, gagged, in the back of a delivery truck. GPS coordinates attached.
Mercer grabbed the keys from her desk. “He’s baiting us. Wants us there.”
* * * * * * *
5:12 a.m. – Abandoned Foundry
The foundry smelled of rust and damp ash. Mercer and Keating moved in silence, flashlights slicing through the gloom.
Kane was suspended from a steel beam, a noose of twisted leather biting into his neck. Beside him, a figure in a dark hood tightened the rope, his movements deliberate, almost ceremonial.
“Drop it!” Keating ordered, gun leveled.
The hooded man turned, revealing deep-set eyes, a face weathered like old stone. “Truth demands blood,” he said calmly.
Mercer stepped forward, voice low. “You’re Caleb Dorn. CIA interrogation unit. Disappeared after Kandahar.”
Dorn smiled faintly. “You knew the rules, Jack. Justice for liars, thieves, traitors. I finish the circle, the world remembers.”
Mercer’s finger flexed on the trigger. “Not tonight.”
In a blur, Dorn lunged toward the beam lever. Mercer’s shot echoed like thunder. Dorn crumpled, the metallic clang reverberating through the empty foundry.
Kane sagged, gasping as Keating cut him free.
* * * * * * *
The rain had stopped. Mercer lit a cigarette, the first sunlight breaking through the clouds.
Keating came up beside him. “We’ll book Kane. Internal Affairs can bury him for good this time.”
Mercer nodded, eyes still scanning the horizon. “Dorn wasn’t wrong about the sins. Just about who gets to judge them.”
She studied him. “You sticking around?”
He flicked the cigarette into the gutter. “I’m not the sticking-around type.”
Without another word, he walked into the awakening city, leaving the foundry and its ghosts behind.
Case closed. Truth survived.
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