A week later, Mercer walked into the precinct, looking like he hadn't slept in days. His usual cocky swagger was gone, replaced by tense shoulders and darting eyes. He flinched when his phone buzzed, staring at the screen for a moment too long before silencing it. His hands fidgeted constantly, rubbing at his jaw, tapping against his belt. Holloway noticed Natalie could tell from the way he spoke to him.
The quiet suspicion in his voice when he asked if Mercer was handling things. Mercer wasn't handling anything. Natalie made sure of that. The next move was more direct. She had been tracking his schedule.
Knew his routine just as well as she had known Holloways. She knew that every Wednesday night Mercer stopped at the same bar, a low rent dive near the edge of town, the kind of place where no one asked questions, where he could drink in peace and forget how deep he had sunk. She was waiting outside when he stumbled to his car. He was on edge, already checking over his shoulder, scanning for something he couldn't quite name. His paranoia made him sloppy.
He fumbled his keys, dropping them onto the pavement, cursing under his breath as he bent to pick them up. The moment his back was turned, she stepped forward and slid a small folded note under his windshield wiper before vanishing into the shadows. She didn't have to wait long. As soon as he straightened, his gaze flicked to his car, his breath hitching when he noticed the paper tucked under the wiper. His hands were shaking as he grabbed it, unfolding the single sheet of paper.
You should pay what you owe before someone collects. Mercer's head snapped up, eyes scanning the empty lot, his body stiff with tension, his breathing was ragged, his fingers clutching the note so tightly that the paper crumpled in his grip. He turned in a slow circle, searching for someone, anyone, watching him. But Natalie was already gone. It didn't stop there.
Over the next few days, Mercer's paranoia deepened. He started looking over his shoulder constantly, jumping at small sounds, snapping at his co-workers. He changed his routine, taking different routes to work, avoiding his usual haunts. He even skipped his Wednesday night bar trip. Too afraid to go back.
Then Natalie escalated further. Late one night, she slipped into the police parking lot and left a small package on the hood of Mercer's squad car. It wasn't anything dangerous, just a manila envelope filled with fake loan statements, overdue notices, numbers that painted the picture of a man drowning in debt with no way out. When he found it the next morning, his reaction was immediate. He tore the envelope open right there in the lot, his breathing shallow, his forehead glistening with sweat.
His hands trembled as he shuffled through the papers, the color draining from his face. He was already at his breaking point. Natalie just needed to give him one last push, and she knew exactly how to do it. Mercer was unraveling. The once arrogant cop who had sneered down at Natalie as he tightened the cuffs around her wrists was now a man barely holding himself together.
The paranoia was eating at him. His usual bravado stripped away by the mounting fear that he was being watched. That the people he owed money to weren't going to wait much longer. Natalie could see the cracks widening with each carefully placed move. The fake overdue notices, the anonymous warning under his windshield, the unshakable feeling that something was closing in on him.
It had all worked exactly as she had planned. But Mercer wasn't the type to think his way through a problem. He was the kind of man who lashed out when he felt trapped. And Natalie needed him right on the edge before she gave him the final push. It happened late one evening, just after his shift ended.
Mercer walked out of the precinct, head down, shoulders hunched. He had started keeping his hand near his belt more often, his fingers twitching toward his weapon like a nervous tick. He moved differently now, no longer the cocky enforcer who enjoyed throwing his weight around. He looked exhausted, worn thin by the constant tension of feeling hunted, but never seeing the predator. Natalie waited until he reached his car before she acted.
The parking lot was mostly empty. The street lights casting long shadows across the pavement. Just as he unlocked his door, his phone rang, an unknown number, his fingers hovered over the screen, hesitation flickering in his features before he finally swiped to answer. Yeah. His voice was tight, laced with unease.
Silence. Then a distorted voice, low and grainy. Your time's running out, Mercer. His breath hitched. Who the hell is this?
No response, just the sound of steady breathing on the other end. Mercer turned sharply, eyes scanning the lot, his free hand instinctively reaching for his gun. The line went dead. Natalie watched from a distance, hidden in the shadows of a nearby alley, her burner phone still clutched in her gloved hand. She had distorted her voice with a voice changer app, just enough to make it untraceable, but menacing.
Mercer was already on edge. She just needed to keep tightening the noose. He stood frozen by his car, breathing hard, eyes darting around like he expected someone to step out of the darkness. His paranoia was so consuming that he didn't even notice the small piece of paper tucked under his windshield wiper. When he finally spotted it, his movements were frantic.
He yanked it free, his fingers trembling as he unfolded the note. You know what happens to guys who don't pay their debts. Natalie watched as Mercer turned in a slow circle. His breathing ragged, his face twisted in desperation. He was losing it.
She had seen it before. In war zones, in interrogation rooms, men who thought they were in control until the pressure became unbearable. Mercer climbed into his car, his hands gripping the wheel, his body rigid with tension. He didn't drive off immediately. Instead, he sat there, unmoving, as though trying to piece together how his life had spun so far out of control.
Then, as if on quue, his phone rang again. This time, he didn't answer. He threw the device onto the passenger seat, cursing under his breath before finally peeling out of the lot, his tires screeching against the pavement. Natalie waited a few seconds before stepping out of the shadows. She had just planted the final seed.
Mercer wasn't just afraid anymore. He was desperate, and desperate men made mistakes. Mercer's paranoia reached its peak faster than Natalie had anticipated. She had expected him to crack, but she hadn't expected it to happen this spectacularly. The pressure had been building for weeks, each move chipping away at his already fragile sense of control.
Now he was a man barely keeping himself together. His once cocky demeanor replaced by erratic, jittery movements and a hair trigger temper. It all came to a head on a quiet Thursday evening. Natalie had been tracking his movements, watching as he changed his routine, doubling back on his own roots and scanning his surroundings like a man expecting an attack. He wasn't sleeping much, and it showed in the dark circles beneath his eyes, the way his shoulders stayed tense, even when he was sitting still.
That night, he left the precinct earlier than usual, avoiding the usual aftershift bars and heading straight home. But he never made it inside. As soon as he stepped out of his car, he noticed a figure across the street. Natalie watched from a distance, unseen, as Mercer's entire body went rigid. The man wasn't doing anything suspicious, just standing near a parked sedan, looking down at his phone.
But in Mercer's unraveling mind, it was confirmation of everything he had been dreading. Someone was following him. Someone was waiting for him to slip up. He reached for his gun without hesitation. "Hey!"
He barked, voice sharp and cracking slightly as he stalked toward the man, his weapon now fully drawn, shaking just enough to be noticeable. Hands where I can see them. The man barely had time to react before Mercer was on him, pressing the barrel against his chest. What the hell do you want? Mercer's voice was frantic now, his breathing ragged, his entire body coiled like a live wire.
The man lifted both hands slowly, his eyes calm despite the weapon aimed at him. Detective Julian Reyes, Organized Crime Unit. His tone was smooth, controlled, his badge gleaming under the dim glow of the street lights. Mercer blinked, his grip on the gun faltering for just a second. Then reality crashed down on him.