CHAPTER 30: CHASE

Immediately, sleep fled from Sierra’s eyes as she sat up with a start, her hand tightening around the phone.

"Erisia." Sierra’s voice was low, but Erisia could hear the venom dripping through every syllable. It made her smile fade, if only slightly.

"You never listen, do you?" Erisia’s voice dropped, yet her tone stayed unnervingly calm.

Sierra didn’t reply. Her expression hardened, twisted into defiance, anger, and hatred. Moonlight spilled in through the tall window, brushing against the pale curtains, casting silver streaks across her bed. The bedside lamp cast a soft yellow glow from behind her, framing her taut shoulders and clenched jaw.

Erisia tilted her head, she didn’t bother circling the point—Sierra was nothing more than a stubborn, vile, and selfish human, arrogant enough to think she could hide her schemes and that thought amused her as much as it disgusted her. "When I told you not to plot against me, where did you go the very next day? To meet your pathetic little circle of friends. And the day after that? A car just happens to come racing toward me at full speed." She smiled around the lollipop, voice laced with mockery. "Tell me, Sierra—who exactly did you twist around your finger to hire someone to kill me?"

Sierra’s fingers curled into the sheets, her thoughts racing. How could she know this? How could she see straight through me like this? The disbelief pounded in her chest, threatening to suffocate her.

Erisia’s voice drifted through the line again, airy and casual, repeating the words Echo had told her earlier. "Adrian Hoffman, right? The third son of the Hoffman family. His cousin runs a biker gang. He’s straightforward, average-looking, all muscle and temper. Fierce, violent, pathetically protective of you because he has feelings you never returned. You used him. You played him like the fool he is, feeding him your lies until he believed I was the villain and you the helpless saint. And with his arrogance and temper, of course he acted. Maybe he went further than you expected, but still—it was exactly what you wanted. There’s just one flaw in your clever little plan, darling Sierra."

By now, disbelief painted Sierra’s expression. The sheer accuracy of Erisia’s words made Sierra’s chest tighten. To have her schemes laid bare, word for word, made her chest tighten. Her hands trembled as she clutched the sheets harder, silently wishing Erisia would stop peeling her apart.

But Erisia’s voice was merciless. "If someone warns you not to do something, don’t you think they’ll know when you’ve done it anyway? I didn’t know the when or the how, but I knew something was coming—and I knew you’d be behind it. As for Adrian? Didn’t I tell you before? I’m not the same Erisia anymore. You never listened."

Erisia turned around and leaned back against the railing, gazing at the New York sky where scattered stars glittered faintly, the lollipop stick jutting from her lips like a mock cigarette.

She removed it and her lips curved, but her voice shifted, carrying an edge of amusement and threat. "Tell me, Sierra. Remember the night that fire started? Whose room was it in—mine, or yours?"

She chuckled, recalling in the story how the original Erisia had once trembled in terror as flames closed in, only to be accused, hit, and condemned. The memory from ’Erisia’ bled into her mind—Mrs. Wrenford’s furious voice echoing: ’You bastard! How dare you! You tried to kill my daughter! I regret ever bringing you into this house! The fire should have burned you alive!’

Sierra froze, listening to that laughter. A thin shard of fear slipped down her spine at the sound, but Erisia’s next words made her blood run cold.

"Sierra... just wait until Mr. Wrenford and your precious elder brother come back from their trip. Then, I won’t hold back anymore. It’s a promise, Sister."

The call was cut off.

—•—

Detective Tyler hadn’t slept much. The glow of phone logs and wire transfer records still haunted his eyes, even after he’d handed the affidavit over to the prosecutor last night. Now, with the warrant signed and folded neatly in his folder, it was no longer about paperwork—it was about putting cuffs on the man who’d ordered the hit.

He stepped out of the precinct into the gray-blue morning, coffee in one hand, folder tucked under his arm. Ramirez was already waiting by the car, leaning against the door with that half-amused, half-exhausted look that came from running cases on too little sleep.

"Hard to believe we pulled it all together in one night," Ramirez muttered as Tyler approached.

"Driver’s confession, money transfer, the call right before the car went after the girl—it was airtight," Tyler replied, sliding into the passenger seat. He tapped the folder. "The DA signed off before midnight, and the judge didn’t hesitate. A case like this? With half the city screaming online? They couldn’t ignore it."

Ramirez started the engine, the hum filling the silence. "So... let’s do this. Get that bastard Razor or whatever he is called. That’s his name right?"

Tyler nodded, eyes narrowing at the name. Everyone in Niko Vance’s biker crew had a nickname, and this one fit well. Razor—bald head, thick arms, the kind of man who loved money, women, and did things before his brain caught up.

"Yeah," Tyler said. "First him. Then we see if Hoffman’s kid thinks he’s untouchable."

The car pulled away from the curb, city streets rising around them.

...

The unmarked sedan slowed to a stop in front of a row of weathered brick walk-ups in Brownsville, Brooklyn. The buildings leaned in on each other like tired old men, their windows streaked with grime, fire escapes rusting into the walls. A group of teenagers loitered across the street, watching with idle suspicion as the detectives got out.

Tyler shut the door quietly, eyes already scanning the block. Ramirez adjusted his vest, while Officer Chen—young, lean, fresh out of Vice—checked his weapon. None of them spoke as they crossed the cracked sidewalk and stepped into the dim lobby. The smell of fried food, mildew, and cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air.

They moved up the narrow stairwell, boots thudding softly against worn linoleum, until they reached the third floor. Tyler motioned for silence. His hand brushed over the grip of his Glock, then he rapped sharply on the peeling green door marked 3B.

Silence.

He knocked again, harder.

Still nothing.

Tyler exhaled, a muscle twitching in his jaw—then froze. From inside, came the unmistakable sound of a crash, followed by a string of curses and the rapid thud of feet.

"Get back!" Tyler barked.

He drew his weapon, sighting the lock, and pulled the trigger. One shot cracked through the hallway, splintering the knob. He kicked the door open, wood snapping on the frame.

They all surged inside.

The sunrise illuminated the apartment which reeked of sweat and booze. A tipped-over chair lay on its side, a half-eaten takeout box smeared across the floor. Razor was already halfway out the living room window, thick arms bracing as his bald head disappeared onto the fire escape.

"Go!" Tyler snarled.

Ramirez and Chen bolted for the stairwell while Tyler sprinted for the same window Razor had jumped out of, straight through it, vaulting onto the sill. He hit the iron fire escape hard, metal rattling beneath his boots, and gave chase. Razor was fast—faster than he thought—clambering down the rungs two at a time before leaping the last ten feet to the pavement.

Tyler didn’t hesitate. He vaulted after him, landing with a jolt that jarred up his spine, cursing, he pushed off into a sprint.

Razor tore through the alleyways, knocking over trash cans, scattering stray cats into the early morning. His boots slapped against puddles of water, the echo bouncing off the walls. Tyler was only a few strides behind, his breath steady, his focus locked. Behind him, Ramirez and Chen shouted, their footsteps pounding as they rounded the corner.

"Stop! Police!"

Razor didn’t stop. He darted into a side alley, only to find himself facing a wall of graffiti-stained brick.

Dead end.

He skidded to a halt, chest heaving, eyes darting wildly for an escape. His fingers clawed at the bricks as he tried to haul himself up the wall.

Tyler hit him like a freight train and both men slammed into the wall, Razor snarling as he twisted, throwing a wild punch. Tyler ducked by instinct, the fist grazing his ear. He drove his gun hard into Razor’s temple with a dull crack.

Razor stumbled, dazed. Tyler shoved him forward, pinning him face-first against the wall, arm wrenched behind his back.

"Don’t—move," Tyler hissed, pressing the Glock cold against the back of his skull.

Ramirez and Chen caught up seconds later, their breaths ragged. Ramirez snapped the cuffs over Razor’s wrists while Chen kept his weapon trained.

Tyler stepped back, chest rising and falling with controlled breaths, watching as Razor sagged in the officers’ grip.

"Got you," Tyler muttered under his breath, "You’re done."

Tyler exhaled, steadying his breath. "Chen, sweep the apartment. Grab anything that looks useful—phone, receipts, burner cash, whatever you can find. Bag it all."

Chen nodded and jogged back up the fire escape while Ramirez tugged Razor forward, half-dragging the cuffed man toward the unmarked car. Razor cursed under his breath, his bald head shining with sweat, but Tyler didn’t waste another glance at him.

—

The steel bars clanged shut with finality. Tyler shoved Razor into the holding cell, yanked the cuffs free, and stepped back. Razor sneered but didn’t speak, pacing the narrow space like a caged animal.

"Better get used to the view," Tyler said coolly, slipping the cuffs onto his belt. "Because this won’t be the last box of steel you’re stuck in. Might as well familiarize yourself with the décor."

He left Razor to stew and headed upstairs to the captain’s office. The blinds were half-drawn, sunlight cutting harsh lines across the desk where Captain Morgan sat, tapping his fingers against a stack of reports.

"So," the captain said as Tyler stepped in. "You got him."

"Ran, but he didn’t get far." Tyler remained standing, a folder tucked under his arm. "Confession from the driver, records tie the money straight to Razor, and we’ve got him cold."

The captain tapped the desk again, thoughtful. "Still doesn’t make sense. Why would Adrian Hoffman want the girl dead? And didn’t you tell me yesterday that the Wrenfords already sent in a lawyer, trying to smother the whole thing?"

Tyler’s mouth pulled into a crooked smile. "Yeah. But the victim—Erisia—refused. She wants it on record."

The captain snorted, shaking his head. "Rich families. Every one of them is a bunch of crazy weirdos."

That earned a chuckle from Tyler. "We’ve seen worse. Especially when you throw the entertainment industry into the mix."

The captain leaned back, sighing. "Well, see what Chen and Ramirez dug up. After interrogation, if Razor puts Adrian’s name on the record, we’ll need to prep a statement. But not before we talk to the girl again. The victim’s voice has to come first."

"Understood." Tyler gave a short nod. "I’ll head down, see what they pulled from Razor’s place."

—

Just as he reached the corridor, a familiar voice called out. Chen came striding toward him, holding up a sealed evidence bag. Inside was a battered smartphone, a wad of crumpled bills, and a cheap burner SIM card.

"We got this," Chen said, his expression alight with anticipation.

Tyler took the bag, opening it, his eyes narrowing as his reflection flickered in the phone’s cracked screen. "Good."

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