JAKE

I sat at my desk, staring at the glowing screen in front of me. The office felt empty—most of the agents had already called it a day, leaving behind a quiet stillness. Only the occasional clatter of my keyboard broke the silence as I searched the database for updates.

The only other sound was Luke's quiet humming from across my desk. He was flipping through a cold case file, hoping he could crack it. We had an entire cabinet of cases just like it—unsolved puzzles we turned to during lulls in major investigations or when we needed a mental reset.

Cracking one of those cases could be a small but satisfying win. Something to remind us we still got it, even when our current cases felt like they were going nowhere.

But I didn't have the luxury of stepping away. The Met's case had long since consumed my mind, leaving no room for anything else.

My brow furrowed as my fingers tapped restlessly against the desk. I had been poring over reports from Interpol and other international agencies, cross-referencing data, and chasing any lead that might have slipped through the cracks. But it was like searching for a ghost.

Weeks had passed without any new leads, and it felt like a massive ship had sunk beneath the surface, leaving the water above eerily still.

It was natural to assume that the thieves were lying low, waiting for the heat to die down before moving the painting. But something about that didn't sit right. My gut told me we weren't dealing with your run-of-the-mill criminals.

Wait... maybe that was it. Perhaps the fact that there were no leads was a lead in itself.

And then it hit me.

I sat up straight, my voice cutting through the silence. "It's been sold."

Luke's head snapped up from his file. "What?"

"The painting," I said, leaning forward. "I think they've already sold it."

He raised an eyebrow. "What makes you say that?"

"Think about it—there haven't been any new professional forgeries for weeks. Just the local amateurs trying to cash in. Everything before that was meticulously planned and meant to throw us off track."

Luke closed the file in his hand, leaning forward as he considered my words. "Go on."

"I think the thieves knew if they waited too long, the heat would eventually die down, and they'd have to settle for a lower price than what they wanted," I continued, leaning back in my chair. My fingers steepled under my chin as I tried to put myself in their shoes. "They needed to sell the painting quickly. That's why they orchestrated all those distractions—to keep us chasing smoke and mirrors. Maybe they even had a buyer lined up from the start."

He nodded slowly, a glint of understanding sparking in his gray eyes. "You might be onto something. If we can track down the buyer..."

"We can track down the thieves," I finished, a hopeful smile tugging at my lips.

My mind was already racing, like a computer scanning its database for something specific. Then, suddenly, it stopped, and a name flickered at the edges of my memory, one I hadn't thought about in years.

"Do you remember Simon Macklin?"

Luke's brow furrowed for a moment before recognition clicked. "The forger we put away a few years back? He was slippery as hell, that one."

True. Macklin was a smart and seasoned career criminal, and it took us a while before we finally slapped the cuffs on him.

"And he was damn good, too," I added.

Luke narrowed his eyes, studying me. "What are you thinking?"

I smirked, a plan beginning to solidify in my mind. "I think it's time I pay him a visit."

Walking through the prison gate, the heavy metal door slammed shut behind me. A chill ran down my spine. Even as an outsider, the weight of confinement within these walls was suffocating.

The air reeked of disinfectant, sharp and overpowering, barely masking the underlying stench of sweat and fear. Distant shouts from inmates mixed with the clanging of metal bars echoed through the halls in an unrelenting cacophony.

At the security checkpoint, I showed my badge to one guard, who scrutinized it carefully, and handed my gun to another. After a curt nod, they escorted me through the maze of corridors until we reached the visiting room.

The walls were a drab gray, the kind of color that seemed to leech the life out of the room. Overhead, buzzing fluorescent lights cast a sterile glow, emphasizing every crack and blemish in the worn surfaces. In the center of the room stood a bolted-down metal table, flanked by two equally fixed chairs. I took a seat and waited for Simon Macklin to arrive.

As I sat there, my thoughts wandered back to the time when I was part of the team hunting Macklin. His skills weren't just impressive—they were notorious. He was renowned in the art world for creating some of the most convincing forgeries in recent years.

His work had fooled even the most seasoned experts and left the best FBI authenticators scratching their heads. It wasn't long before he became one of our top priorities. But every time we thought we had him cornered, he managed to slip through our fingers—until I came up with the plan that finally brought him down.

At the time, Macklin's wife was pregnant, unable to go on the run with him. She had kept a low profile, constantly moving and changing addresses, but eventually, we tracked her down. We suspected she was communicating with her husband through coded letters, and our suspicions were confirmed when we deciphered those codes.

Using the same code, we sent a letter claiming she was ill and at risk of premature delivery. It worked. Macklin fell for the trap and walked straight into custody.

He was found guilty on multiple counts and sentenced to ten years. I couldn't help but wonder how he would react when he saw the very person who put him here now showing up, asking for his help.

I didn't expect him to be thrilled about it.

I sighed, leaning back. The guy was smart—brilliant, even. If he had put his skills toward something legal, he could've been successful in just about anything. But people like Macklin always seemed drawn to the easier road, even though it often led straight into a shithole they couldn't crawl out of.

The sound of heavy footsteps and jangling chains snapped me back to the present. Macklin entered the room, escorted by two guards. His orange jumpsuit hung loosely on his frame, and though he looked older and more worn than I remembered, the hardness in his eyes remained. It was a reminder that, despite everything, this was not a man to be underestimated.

I gestured for the guards to remove his cuffs. After they did, he rubbed his wrists before sitting down across from me, fixing me with a glare that could cut through steel.

"Hello, Simon."

"What do you want?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly.

I leaned forward slightly. "I need your help."

He blinked, then let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Why would I help you?"

"Because I can offer you a deal. Information in exchange for a commutation of your sentence."

He scoffed. "You serious? That's a one-way ticket to being labeled a snitch."

"I get it," I said calmly, meeting his glare. "But think about why you're here. Think about what you've lost. And what you could gain if you help me."

He studied me, suspicion flickering in his narrowed eyes. Then he shook his head. "Not interested."

He stood, heading toward the exit where a guard waited. But I wasn't done.

"How's Andrew?" I asked. "He's five now, isn't he? Bright kid, from what I hear."

He turned around to face me, his expression blazing with anger. "Don't mention his name."

The guard behind him took a few steps ahead, ready to manhandle the furious inmate, but I waved him off.

"I'm not here to twist the knife," I said, keeping my tone calm and non-threatening. "But you've never met him, have you? Because you don't want him to see you like this. Meanwhile, he's growing up without a father."

Macklin's jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

"Second chances don't come often, Simon. But here I am, offering you a way out. A chance to fix things, to reunite with your family," I pressed.

For a long moment, he didn't move, his expression a storm of emotions. Finally, he let out a long sigh and returned to the table, dropping into the chair across from me.

"What kind of information are you looking for?" he asked, his voice quieter now, but still edged with wariness.

Relief washed over me, and a flicker of hope sparked to life in my mind. I leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, my gaze fixed on Macklin's.

"Well," I said, "have you ever heard of the painting Corridor in the Asylum?"

Macklin was released into my custody, and I was responsible for ensuring he didn't slip away. That meant staying sharp at all times. I knew I was gambling with my career by taking this risk, but if it led to a breakthrough in the Met's case, it would be worth it.

Through our informants, we spread the word that Macklin was out on probation, broke, and desperate to claw his way back into the game.

Before his arrest, Macklin had built an extensive network in the underworld. His name and skills were still known among fences and dealers, and I was counting on that reputation to open doors.

The rest was up to him. Macklin planted the story that he had forged the Corridor in the Asylum painting and was looking to pass it off as the original for a decent profit.

The rumor spread quickly, as I had hoped.

Now, if the painting had been sold, the demand on the black market would have diminished. Word would circulate, and the art world's attention would shift to the next big target.

If that were the case, I knew it was only a matter of time before word reached Macklin. Thieves had their own unspoken code, after all—a twisted sense of loyalty that compelled them to support a former comrade whose life had been "ruined" by the feds. They would likely advise him to abandon his pursuit and look elsewhere for an opportunity to make money.

And it worked.

A few weeks after his release, Macklin called with news. He informed me that he had intel that could break the case wide open. We met in a secure location, and he wasted no time getting to the point.

"The painting's been sold," he said. "And I know the fence who handled the deal. His name is Owen Declan."

"Are you sure?"

Macklin nodded. "Positive. Declan couldn't resist bragging when I met him. Guy's a smug bastard."

"This is valuable information," I told him. "Do you know who Declan sold it to? Or who the seller was?"

"The seller went by 'Steve,' but that's obviously an alias," Macklin replied.

I nodded, my mind already racing through possibilities. Then I noticed the way his eyes flickered, like there was something he hadn't said yet.

"And the buyer?" I asked carefully.

Macklin hesitated, glancing down before meeting my gaze. "There's something else you need to know about Declan. He wasn't doing great on his own—barely scraping by. So, he latched onto someone bigger."

"Who?"

Macklin swallowed hard before he answered, "Saverio Vitale."

I felt all my senses sharpening at the mention of Vitale's name. Of course, I had heard of him before—everyone in law enforcement had.

Sav Vitale has been on the FBI's radar for years. His sprawling enterprise included shipping, real estate, and other legitimate businesses that served as a perfect cover for his suspected criminal activities.

Organized Crime believed his shipping company was a front for smuggling weapons and other illegal goods, and there were whispers of his ties to the Italian mob.

He was also a prime target for us in White-Collar. We linked him to money laundering and large-scale corporate fraud. Yet, despite years of digging, we had never managed to gather enough solid evidence to make formal charges stick.

"You're sure about this?" I asked, my voice measured.

"Yeah," Macklin said grimly. "I heard it straight from Declan's mouth."

I nodded. "Thanks, Macklin. You've kept your end of the bargain."

"And you'll keep yours?" His question was sharp, his eyes fixed on mine.

I met his gaze. "If your information checks out, you'll get what we agreed on."

He hesitated, then gave a slow nod. "Fine."

"Good." I reached out to shake his hand. "You've been a valuable asset to this operation, Macklin."

For a moment, Macklin didn't move. Then, cautiously, he reached out and shook my hand, his grip firm.

Macklin was wearing a tracking anklet, so I didn't see the need to take him in now. I told him that "he was free to go," but warned him that if he even toyed with the thought of making a run for it, I would stop at nothing to find him and throw him in jail again myself.

After he left, I returned to my car but didn't start the engine right away. My mind was filled with countless thoughts and possibilities, each one more urgent than the last.

Finding Declan could be the key to unraveling the Met's case and bringing everyone involved to justice.

And maybe, just maybe, this would be Vitale's downfall, too.

But the thought of going head-to-head with someone as powerful and ruthless as Vitale carried a weight of its own. This wouldn't just be a step forward in the investigation—it was a move that could tip the scales in a much bigger game.

But to get to the final level of a game, you have to tackle every obstacle along the way. Declan was the first piece of the puzzle. Once I had him, the rest of the dominoes would fall.

Turning the key, I brought the engine to life and pulled onto the road, ready to set the plan into motion.