He had just pulled a weapon on an undercover investigator. Reyes held his position, his expression unreadable. You want to lower that before we both regret it? Mercer took a step back, his breathing still uneven, his hands shaking as he holstered the gun with unsteady fingers. What the hell are you doing here?
He demanded, trying and failing to mask the panic in his voice. Reyes didn't move. Working a case, a pause. Then not everything is about you, Officer Mercer. But that was the problem.
In Mercer's mind, everything was about him. The paranoia had eaten away at whatever sense of reason he had left, and now he had made the kind of mistake that couldn't be easily erased. By the time news of the incident reached the precinct, Holloway had already started spiraling in his own way. Unlike Mercer, he wasn't erratic. He was the kind of man who kept things bottled up, convinced he could drink away his problems until they stopped feeling like problems at all.
But Natalie knew better. She had seen it before. Men who thought they could drown their demons in whiskey, only to find that those demons could swim. And Holloway was drowning fast. It started with the small things.
Missed calls, paperwork errors, showing up late to roll call. But then came the fight. A local bar. The kind where men like Holloway went to drink alone. The kind where no one asked questions when a cop stumbled in looking for something stronger than what was in his glass.
He had been on his third round when a man at the other end of the bar made an off-hand comment about the police. Something vague. Something meant more as a joke than an insult. Holloway didn't take it that way. No one knew who threw the first punch.
But by the time it was over, Holloway was on the ground, blood trickling from his lip, his badge barely still clipped to his belt. His suspension was announced the next day. Natalie watched it all unfold with the kind of satisfaction that came from knowing her plan was working. Mercer had just torched his reputation, and Holloway had let his temper make the decision for him. Neither of them was thinking clearly anymore.
Every move they made now would be dictated by fear, by anger, by the suffocating weight of not knowing who was pulling the strings. She should have felt like she had won. But Marcus had a different opinion. You're walking a fine line, Nat. His voice carried through the phone, low and serious in a way that made her pause.
She sat on her couch, staring out at the street, watching as the unmarked car that had been shadowing her for weeks was nowhere to be found tonight. They had other things to worry about now. I'm handling it, she said evenly. Marcus sighed. Are you?
Because from where I'm standing, you're pushing them exactly where you want them. But what happens when they push back? They already did. And what happens when they go further? Natalie didn't answer immediately.
She had been so focused on making them feel the fear they had tried to instill in her that she hadn't stopped to consider the endgame. She had been in control from the moment she started this. But control was a slippery thing. If they got desperate enough, reckless enough, she wouldn't be the only one pulling the strings anymore. Marcus sighed again, softer this time.
You sure you're ready for whatever comes next? She watched the street for another moment, her fingers tightening around the edge of the couch. "Yeah," she murmured. "I am." Mercer was crumbling, but it wasn't enough.
Natalie had watched as the paranoia seeped into every part of his life, turning his once arrogant swagger into a jittery, nervous wreck. He had already lost his reputation within the department after pulling his gun on an undercover investigator. The gambling debts had finally caught up to him, and now the men he owed were circling, waiting for their payment. His resignation had been the final sign of defeat. He thought quitting the force would keep him safe, that disappearing from the spotlight would stop the inevitable.
But Natalie wasn't done yet. He had spent years hiding behind his badge, wielding it like a weapon against those he deemed beneath him. He had terrorized people, knowing the system would protect him, that complaints would be buried, that his uniform would shield him from consequences. His gambling problem had made him vulnerable. But Natalie wanted him to feel something deeper.
She wanted him to feel what it was like to be truly powerless. She started with the bullet casing. It was a simple message placed carefully on the hood of his car, positioned so that he would see it the moment he stepped outside his apartment. Alongside it, a single note written in clear, bold letters. You won't see it coming.
The reaction was immediate. From her concealed spot across the street, Natalie watched as Mercer stepped out into the cold night air, his head down, rubbing his temples like he was nursing another hangover. His movements were sluggish, unfocused until his eyes locked onto the bullet casing. His entire body went rigid. His fingers twitched at his sides, hesitant to even touch the small, harmless piece of metal sitting there like a death sentence.
His eyes darted around wildly, scanning the empty lot, searching the shadows, his breath hitching in short, erratic bursts. Who's there? His voice cracked, raw with exhaustion and fear. Natalie remained silent. Mercer swallowed hard, grabbing the casing with shaky fingers, flipping it over in his palm like he expected it to reveal an answer.
His head snapped up again, and his hand instinctively went to his hip, only to find that there was nothing there. No gun, no badge, no authority to fall back on. She let him stew in the fear for a little longer before stepping forward, just enough for him to see her. His breath left him in a sharp exhale, his body stiffening as recognition settled in. You, his voice barely came out, horsearo and filled with disbelief.
Natalie didn't give him time to recover. She moved fast, closing the distance between them before he could process what was happening. A brutal, calculated strike to his ribs sent him stumbling back against his car, wheezing as pain shot through his body. His hands flailed, trying to steady himself, but she was already on him again, driving a knee into his stomach. He gasped, doubling over, his forehead pressing against the cold metal of the car door.
"You like putting people on the ground, don't you?" Her voice was calm, measured, the same way his had been the night he and Holloway arrested her. "Let's see how you like it." Before he could recover, she swept his legs out from under him. His body hit the pavement hard, his head bouncing slightly against the concrete.
He groaned, rolling onto his side, coughing violently. "Stop," she crouched beside him, grabbing his collar and yanking him up just enough so that their faces were inches apart. "You think I don't know who you are?" She said, her voice low, almost conversational. You think I didn't find out about every single person you harassed?
Every complaint you buried, every report that got lost? His bloodshot eyes widened slightly, panic flashing across his face. I have all of it, she continued, tightening her grip. Every excessive force complaint, every misunderstanding that ended with you beating someone down because you thought no one would hold you accountable. You, he coughed, his breath shallow.
You don't know. She let go abruptly, letting his head hit the pavement again. You should turn on the news in the morning, she said, standing up. Maybe you'll see some familiar names. Mercer wheezed, his chest rising and falling unevenly.
But she didn't wait for him to recover. She reached into her pocket and dropped something beside him. Another bullet casing. This time, he flinched. You're going to spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder.