Detective James Morrison sat in his car outside the federal building, staring at the stack of files on his passenger seat. The investigation into Adrian Ashford's criminal organization had opened doors that he never expected to find, and each door revealed something darker than the last. Frederick Ashford had provided him with bank records, phone logs, and witness statements that painted a picture of corruption so widespread that Morrison was beginning to wonder if there was anyone in the city he could actually trust.
The morning sun reflected off the glass buildings of downtown Swinton, and Morrison felt the weight of exhaustion settling into his bones. He had been awake for thirty-six hours straight, following leads and making connections that seemed impossible just days ago. But the mo
