Chapter One: The Cold Call
The phone rang at 3:12 AM, its shrill sound cutting through the silence of the room. Frank Callahan sat up in his bed, wiping the sleep from his eyes. He knew what it meant. This wasn’t the kind of call you got in the middle of the night unless someone needed something—something that couldn’t wait until morning. Frank hated the middle of the night. It was when the city’s real face came out, when the worst parts of the job came crawling into your life like roaches in the dark.
He grabbed the receiver off the nightstand.
“Yeah?” His voice was thick with sleep, rough around the edges. He didn’t bother with pleasantries. Nobody called him this time of night just to say ‘hello.’
“Callahan, you’re needed,” a gruff voice said. Frank recognized it immediately. It was Tony “The Fish” Mello, a name that came with its own brand of trouble.
“I’m listening,” Frank muttered, his hand running through his unkempt hair.
“You’re gonna want to come down to Mercer and Third. We’ve got a problem.”
Frank’s pulse quickened. Mercer and Third wasn’t the kind of intersection you drove through unless you had a death wish or a badge. It was the heart of the city’s underbelly, a place where deals were made in the dark and the police stayed away unless absolutely necessary.
“Give me ten minutes,” Frank said, hanging up the phone without waiting for a response.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the hardwood floor cold against his bare feet. His apartment was a mess, clothes scattered across the floor, empty bottles of whiskey on the counter. He hadn’t been home long, but it was already clear he wouldn’t get any sleep tonight. Not with this kind of call.
He grabbed his coat, the leather worn from years of use, and slipped into his boots. His eyes caught a glimpse of his reflection in the cracked mirror on the wall. A man worn down by too many years on the force, too many dead ends and empty promises. His face was weathered, the lines of age and experience etched deep into his features. There was no denying it—Frank Callahan was getting old.
He grabbed his keys and slid them into his coat pocket. No time for regrets. This wasn’t about that. It was about solving problems. The only thing that mattered when you were in the kind of business Frank was in was finding answers before someone else did.
The city was still asleep as he stepped out into the street. A cool breeze swept through the alley, and the faint hum of distant traffic reminded him of the constant undercurrent of violence that always lingered beneath the surface. Mercer and Third wasn’t far. He’d walked it enough times to know the way by heart. The streetlights flickered overhead as he made his way down the sidewalk, each step echoing in the silence.
As Frank approached the corner of Mercer and Third, the scene was already set. A few squad cars were parked near the entrance to an old warehouse, their lights flashing, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. The air smelled like cheap cigarettes and stale beer. A figure stood near the back of the warehouse, his posture stiff, his face partially obscured by the shadow of his hat.
Frank’s eyes narrowed as he stepped closer, recognizing the figure immediately. It was Tony.
“You get here fast,” Frank said, his voice low and gravelly as he approached.
Tony “The Fish” Mello didn’t turn around at first. He just stood there, his eyes scanning the perimeter of the building, checking for anything out of place. When he finally spoke, his voice was tight, controlled.
“It’s not good, Frank. It’s bad. Real bad.”
Frank’s gut twisted. He didn’t need to hear more. Tony’s reputation for understatement was legendary.
“Talk to me,” Frank said.
Tony turned slowly, his face pale under the harsh streetlight. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a photograph, handing it over without a word.
Frank took the photo, examining it closely. It was a grainy image, but there was no mistaking the man in it. The face was bruised, swollen, unrecognizable. The kind of face you only saw on someone who was already dead—or about to be.
“Who is he?” Frank asked, though he already knew the answer.
“Name’s Jimmy Carter. Small-time hustler. Used to run with the wrong crowd. Thought he could change his ways, go straight. Turns out, the streets don’t let you walk away that easy.”
Frank looked at the photo again. “What’s he doing here?”
Tony’s eyes flickered, and for the first time, Frank saw something close to fear in them. “He’s the one who got caught in the middle. He was doing a job for someone—don’t know who—but he didn’t make it out in one piece. They found him here, on the ground, with his throat slit wide open.”
Frank felt a chill crawl up his spine. That wasn’t a message you sent lightly. The kind of people who left that mark weren’t interested in negotiation. They were in it for blood, and they didn’t stop until it was spilled.
“Who found him?” Frank asked, though he already suspected the answer.
“Some kids. They were walking by, saw the body, called it in. It’s a damn mess, Frank.”
Frank looked around, his eyes scanning the warehouse. The scene was grim, the kind of thing that would haunt him for weeks if he didn’t get to the bottom of it. He could feel the eyes of the other officers on him. They didn’t want to touch this. They wouldn’t. Too messy. Too dangerous.
Frank wasn’t afraid of danger. He’d seen it all before. What scared him more than anything was the silence—the cold, empty feeling that came with knowing someone had just sent a message, and now it was his job to decipher it before it was too late.
“Who’s covering this?” Frank asked.
“Nobody’s been assigned yet,” Tony replied, his voice tight. “But I thought you might want to take a look. You know this city better than anyone, Frank.”
Frank stared down at the photograph again. “You’re right. This isn’t just another dead body.”
Tony nodded. “Yeah. This one’s personal.”
Frank’s jaw clenched. This was the start of something bigger. He didn’t know who was pulling the strings yet, but he was sure of one thing—this was only the beginning.
And when it came to crime in this city, things always got worse before they got better.
“Alright,” Frank said, his voice hardening. “Let’s get to work.”
He turned and walked toward the building, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the darkness.
