"Well, damn. I thought you were dead or, worse, playing golf," Cole chuckled. "What do you need, boss?"
"I need a footprint on two Fulton County detectives: Garrett Riggins and Thomas Kessler. I need their financials, their burner phones, their GPS history for the last six months, and the private addresses of their offshore or hidden safety deposit boxes. They hit my shop tonight under color of law."
The line went dead silent. The amusement instantly vanished from Cole's voice. "They hit you? They stole from you?"
"250,000 cash."
Cole let out a long, slow whistle. "These boys just strapped themselves to a bomb and don't even know the fuse is lit. Give me two hours. I'll give you the keys to their entire existence."
By 3:00 a.m., the psychological warfare began.
Riggins was sound asleep in his sprawling, gated suburban home—a house he easily paid for with his cut of illicit seizures. He awoke suddenly to a strange sound. It wasn't a crash; it was a digital beep. He sat up in bed, instantly alert, reaching for the Glock 19 on his nightstand. He listened intently.
It was his home security system. But the alarm wasn't blaring; the keypad in the hallway was emitting the soft, rhythmic chime indicating the system had been voluntarily disarmed.
Riggins crept out of his bedroom, sweeping the hallway with his weapon. The house was pitch black. He moved down the stairs, adrenaline pounding in his ears. He checked the front door: locked. He checked the back patio: locked. He walked into the kitchen and flipped on the overhead light.
There, sitting perfectly in the dead center of his pristine granite kitchen island, was a single, unfired 5.56 mm rifle cartridge. Beneath the brass casing was a folded piece of paper.
Riggins's hands trembled as he kept his gun raised, scanning the empty kitchen. Seeing no one, he slowly reached out and unfolded the paper. Written in perfect, block-lettered handwriting were four words:
I want it back.