Code of death

Detective Mark Sloane didn’t believe in luck. He believed in angles, in timing, and in knowing which way someone was going before they did. Tonight, the rain slicked streets of Chicago reflected the city’s neon glare like broken mirrors. And somewhere in those reflections, a killer was smiling.

He parked his black Ford at the curb, engine idling, eyes scanning. The call came an hour ago: “We’ve got a list, Detective. People are dying, and it’s precise. Someone’s using it to kill.”

Sloane’s hand rested on the grip of his Glock. He didn’t wait for permission. Never had, never would.

Across the street, a man in a dark trench coat slipped into an alley. The rain made him ghostlike, half-shadow, half-reflection. Sloane followed, silent as a predator.

“Mark Sloane?” a voice hissed behind him.

He spun, gun raised, and found Dr. Eleanor Vance, ex-MIT hacker and the brains behind The Algorithm Killers. Her eyes were wide, almost frantic. “It’s worse than you think. They’re not just predicting murders. They’re orchestrating them.”

Sloane lowered his gun slightly. “Then why the hell are you here? Shouldn’t you be hiding?”

Eleanor shook her head. “I designed the algorithm to prevent deaths, to save lives. But someone got inside, someone smart, ruthless. He’s choosing the targets, using the program to hit people before they even know they’re in danger.”

A scream tore through the alley. Concrete and trash cans rattled. Sloane cursed and ran, Eleanor at his side.

At the end of the alley, a man lay sprawled, blood pooling around his head. Another list sat on his chest. Names. Dates. Times. All marked with a small, precise red X.

Sloane knelt beside him, checking for signs of life. None. He looked up at Eleanor. “This is just the start, isn’t it?”

Eleanor’s lip quivered. “Every list he releases… someone dies. Every prediction he makes… he makes a reality.”

They moved fast, slipping through alleys and backstreets, following digital breadcrumbs Eleanor hacked from the algorithm’s remote server. Every step felt like walking through a minefield. Somewhere ahead, the killer waited, knowing exactly where they would be.

Sloane stopped suddenly. He felt it, the silence before chaos, the faint hum of anticipation that came before every attack. “He’s here,” he muttered.

A figure emerged from the shadows. Tall. Lean. Wearing a hood. A gun gleamed in his hand.

“Detective Sloane,” the man said, voice calm. “I was hoping you’d come. You and your little friend.”

Sloane didn’t flinch. “You’re predictable. Too predictable.”

The killer smirked. “Predictable? I predict.” He fired once, a near miss. Sloane rolled behind a dumpster, elbows digging into wet concrete. He fired back.

Bullets splintered the rain-slick pavement, echoing off brick walls. Eleanor ducked behind a trash bin, hands shaking, typing furiously on a tablet. Lines of code scrolled by, a lifeline in a storm of bullets.

“You can’t stop the algorithm!” the killer shouted. “It sees everything! I am the future!”

Sloane leaned out, aimed, and fired. The man jerked, a bullet through the shoulder. He stumbled but kept firing.

Eleanor shouted, “Mark, the server! Shut it down!”

Sloane nodded, covering her. He moved fast, drawing the killer toward the alley entrance. Every step calculated, every breath measured. The man cursed, limping, trying to keep the upper hand.

“Too slow,” Sloane muttered, sliding behind him. With one brutal punch, the killer went down. Sloane pinned him, cuffing him with precision.

Eleanor’s fingers flew over the screen. “Done. The algorithm… it’s offline. No more predictions. No more deaths.”

Sloane stood, letting the rain wash the blood and adrenaline off his face. “And him?”

Eleanor gestured. “The one who corrupted it? He’s in your hands now. Justice, old-school style.”

The killer glared, teeth clenched. “You think you’ve won?”

Sloane shrugged, wet hair plastered to his forehead. “I don’t think. I know. You lose.”

Sirens wailed in the distance. The city was waking to the aftermath. Sloane holstered his gun and looked at Eleanor. “Coffee. You up for coffee?”

Eleanor laughed, relief breaking through the tension. “Yeah. Coffee. And maybe some donuts. You’re buying.”

Sloane smirked. “Always.”

The rain fell harder, washing away the blood and fear, leaving only the city, the night, and the knowledge that sometimes, surviving the algorithm meant outthinking the people who wrote it.

The code was dead. The killers were caught. The city could sleep ...for now.

And Mark Sloane? He walked into the night, a predator who didn’t wait for luck, only action.

END