Six months into the FBI's war against the Moretti family, Marcus thought they were winning.He was wrong.It started as a normal Wednesday. Marcus left the Reid Justice Project office at 7 PM, later than usual. He'd been reviewing Robert Mitchell's case an armed robbery conviction that looked increasingly questionable.Emma had left an hour earlier to meet Sophie for dinner. Uncle James was home. The FBI surveillance team had been reduced two weeks ago Agent Parker insisted the Morettis were too fractured to pose a threat.Marcus walked to his car in the parking garage, mentally reviewing Mitchell's timeline. The man claimed he was at work during the robbery. His timecard supported it. But the manager who could verify it had died three years ago.He reached his car, keys in hand.Then everything went wrong.A van screeched to a stop beside him. The side door flew open.Three men in ski masks jumped out.Marcus ran. Made it five steps before something slammed into his back a taser. His

The bomb squad disarmed the device forty minutes before it would have detonated. Agent Parker arrived as paramedics checked Marcus for injuries a concussion, bruised ribs, cuts and abrasions, but nothing life-threatening."You should be in a hospital," Parker said, watching as Marcus refused the stretcher."I should be finding whoever did this." Marcus's voice was cold, controlled. "They tried to kill Sophie. They kidnapped me. They planted a bomb in our office. Where's the FBI protection you promised?"Parker's jaw tightened. "We scaled back surveillance two weeks ago because Vincent was cooperating and Anthony's assets were frozen. We thought—""You thought wrong." Marcus stood, ignoring the dizziness. "They have people on the outside. People loyal enough to commit murder even with their bosses in custody.""We're already tracking them. The warehouse where they held you we found it. No prints, no DNA, but we're analyzing everything.""That'll take days. They could hit us again befor

The Sterling River Bridge stretched across dark water, its old iron railings casting long shadows in the pale glow of the streetlights. Marcus had stood here before the night he'd met Emma, the night he'd proposed, the night he'd thought his life was finally beginning.Tonight, it felt like a killing ground.He arrived at 11:47 PM, thirteen minutes early. Parker had insisted on the early arrival time to position agents, check sightlines, confirm communications."We have six agents on the bridge approach roads," Parker's voice came through the earpiece. "Two on the rooftop of the river warehouse. Two in boats below. You are not alone out there, Marcus. Remember that.""Copy," he said quietly.The wire taped to his chest felt heavier than it should. The panic button in his jacket pocket felt like a grenade.He walked to the center of the bridge and leaned against the railing, looking down at the black water below. The same spot where Emma had stood three years ago, feeding ducks on her

Marcus couldn't sleep.At 2 AM he was at the whiteboard, marker in hand, building connections between Hale's four cases while Emma slept and the dogs watched him from the couch with quiet, patient eyes.The cases were too clean. That was the problem.In wrongful convictions, there were usually cracks rushed investigations, sloppy evidence handling, witnesses with questionable motives. Hale's cases had none of that. Every piece of evidence was pristine. Every witness credible. Every procedural box ticked perfectly.Which meant someone had worked very hard to make them look that way.Marcus photographed the whiteboard and sat down with his laptop. He pulled up public court records, cross-referencing Hale's conviction rate against the city average. Hale convicted at ninety-three percent. The citywide average was sixty-seven.Nobody was that good.Unless they were cheating.His phone buzzed. Unknown number. 2:17 AM.Marcus stared at it for two rings before answering."Reid." The voice was

Parker's secure facility was a converted office space on the fourteenth floor of a building Marcus had walked past a hundred times without knowing what was inside. No signage. Keycard access only. Cameras at every angle.She spread the contents of the waterproof bag across a steel table at 5 AM.Financial records. Case files. Photographs. A USB drive. And a handwritten letter addressed to nobody, signed only with initials D.W.Marcus picked up the letter first.*If you're reading this, I'm either dead or gone. Either way, I'm sorry I waited so long. I watched them do it. I watched Marsh call Hale after the Whitfield arrest and tell him to make it stick regardless of evidence. I watched evidence get altered. I watched witnesses get coached. I said nothing because I was afraid. That fear cost eleven people their freedom. Maybe more. I hope this is enough to bring them home. D.W.*Marcus set the letter down carefully."D.W.," Emma said quietly. "The informant.""We need to find him befor