The way they didn't even hesitate, Daniel, they just released the dogs on a woman carrying a newborn. Daniel reached for her hand in the darkness, careful to avoid her injuries. The video is everywhere now. Eric, the student who filmed it. He posted it online an hour ago.
It's already gone viral. Naomi grabbed her phone from the nightstand, wincing at the movement. The video had over a million views already. The comments section was exploding with outrage. Local news stations were picking up the story.
There's a crowd gathering at the precinct, Daniel continued, scrolling through his own phone. Protesters, signs saying justice for Agent Carter and protect black mothers. He paused, reading, "The police union just released a statement defending the officer's actions as following standard procedure when confronted with a suspicious individual." "Suspicious individual?" Naomi repeated bitterly. "A woman in hospital scrubs carrying a newborn." She sat up slowly, fighting the pain. "They knew exactly who I was.
This was a message." The baby monitor crackled with Elijah's soft breathing. Each tiny sound made Naomi's heart clench. How close had she come to losing him? Sleep proved impossible. As dawn broke, Naomi carefully dressed for work, her movement stiff and deliberate.
Daniel tried to convince her to take more time off, but she refused. "If I don't go in today, it looks like they won me,"she said, kissing Elijah's forehead before leaving. The FBI field office was unusually quiet when she arrived. Heads turned as she walked to her desk, but quickly looked away. Conversations died as she passed.
The familiar space felt suddenly hostile. Her longtime colleague, Tom Riker, approached her desk with obvious discomfort. "Naomi,"he said quietly. "Can we talk privately?" They moved to an empty conference room. Tom closed the door and lowered his voice further.
This case is too hot, he warned. There's pressure coming from upstairs to classify it as an unfortunate misunderstanding and move on. Misunderstanding? Naomi's voice was ice. They set dogs on my baby, Tom.
I know. I know. Tom ran a hand through his hair. But there are connections. Things bigger than a couple of racist beat cops.
People are nervous about where this investigation might lead. People inside the bureau, Naomi asked sharply. Tom's silence was answer enough. He wouldn't meet her eyes. Who's blocking it, Tom?
She pressed. Give me names. I can't, he said. But watch your back. Some of the section chiefs.
They're not happy about the publicity, the protests. They're calling it a powder keg. Naomi studied her friend's face. You know something specific. What aren't you telling me?
Just Tom hesitated. Be careful what you document. What you put in official reports. Some things have a way of disappearing around here lately. He left quickly, leaving Naomi alone in the conference room.
Through the glass walls, she could see her colleagues studiously avoiding looking in her direction. People she'd worked with for years. Shared cases with, trusted with her life. Now they scurried away like roaches from light. Back at her desk, she began pulling files on recent corruption cases involving that precinct.
Her arms ached as she typed, the bandages catching on her keyboard. Each record she accessed seemed to have irregular gaps, missing documents, incomplete witness statements. A shadow fell across her desk. Agent Carter, it was Deputy Director Phillips, his face carefully neutral. We need to discuss your status.
Sir, I'm gathering evidence of a coordinated. You're on administrative leave. He cut her off. Effective immediately. Standard procedure after a traumatic incident.
Take some time, rest. Let the internal affairs investigation run its course. Internal affairs? Naomi stood, ignoring the pain. Sir, this is clearly a criminal.
That's all, Agent Carter. Phillips turned away. Clear your desk. Security will escort you out. As she gathered her things under the watchful eyes of two security officers, Naomi noticed an envelope she hadn't seen before.
Plain white, no markings, sealed. She slipped it into her bag without opening it. In her car in the parking garage, she finally broke the seal. Inside was a single sheet of paper with typed text, "Drop it or your baby is next." The paper shook in her hands, not from fear, from rage. They had come for her son once.
Now they were threatening him again. Through her windshield, she could see more protesters gathering outside the FBI building, their signs demanding accountability. News vans lined the street. Her phone buzzed constantly with messages from reporters seeking comment. The threat note crumpled in her fist.
They thought threatening Elijah would make her back down. They didn't understand. Threatening her baby had just guaranteed she would burn their whole corrupt system to the ground. The next morning, Naomi sat across from Carla Mendes in the attorney's cluttered office. Sunlight filtered through Venetian blinds, casting striped shadows across the mess of case files and coffee cups on Carla's desk.
Naomi's hands trembled slightly as she passed over the crumpled threat note. Carla's face darkened as she read it. This isn't standard police intimidation, she said, turning the paper over in her hands. The timing, the specific targeting. This reeks of someone with real power.
What do you mean? Naomi leaned forward, wincing at the pull of her bandages. Think about it, Carla said, reaching for a legal pad. Local cops don't have access to your hospital discharge schedule. They don't know FBI internal procedures well enough to manipulate them.
Someone higher up is orchestrating this. Naomi nodded slowly. The deputy director put me on leave immediately. Called it standard procedure after trauma. Nothing standard about it.
Carla scoffed. They're isolating you, cutting off your access, she tapped her pen against the desk. What cases were you working on before the attack? Several ongoing investigations, Naomi said. But there's one, a task force looking into police corruption, specifically unexplained wealth among certain officers.
Start there, Carla advised. I can request officers Donnelly and Taylor's financial records through legal channels. It'll take time, but I already have them,"Naomi interrupted, pulling out her phone. I downloaded everything I could access before they escorted me out. She pulled up the files, spreading them across Carla's desk.
Together, they pored over bank statements, property records, and tax returns. Officer Donnelly's modest police salary couldn't explain his recent purchase of a vacation home in Florida. Taylor had made several large cash deposits just under the reporting threshold. "Look at this,"Naomi said, pointing to a series of transactions. Both officers received payments from shell companies on the same dates.
The companies trace back to offshore accounts. Carla whistled low. This is organized, professional, way beyond what beat cops could set up themselves. Naomi pulled up another document. I cross-referenced the shell companies.
They appear in other cases, all involving officers accused of brutality or corruption. And all those cases were quietly closed by the same FBI section chief, Alan Witford. Witford? Carla's eyebrows shot up. I've heard that name.
He has a reputation for handling sensitive cases. Always seems to find a reason why charges can't stick. Naomi's fingers flew across her phone, pulling up Witford's case history. In the past 5 years, he's closed 37 police corruption investigations. Each time, the evidence mysteriously became inadmissible or witnesses recanted.
"And now he's targeting you,"Carla said grimly. "Why? What were you close to finding?" Naomi spread out her task force notes. We were investigating a pattern of police protection rackets, officers demanding payments from local businesses, especially in minority neighborhoods. But it went deeper.
Drugs disappearing from evidence. Weapons being resold on the street. The kind of operation that needs someone high up to keep it running, Carla finished. Someone who can bury investigations, protect the officers involved. Someone like Witford.
Naomi's voice was hard. The attack wasn't random. They knew I was getting close. They wanted to scare me off the investigation, make me look unstable. Carla studied the threat note again.
This is his style. No direct confrontation, just pressure and intimidation until people backed down. She looked up sharply. How many other agents has he forced out this way? Naomi was already searching personnel records.