JAKE

I was sitting at my desk, my gaze fixed on the computer screen. The office was quiet because most of the other agents had already gone home. The only sounds I could hear were the gentle tapping of the keyboard as I searched through the database for any updates and Luke's occasional humming.

Luke was sitting across my desk, reading through a cold case, hoping he could crack it. We had an entire cabinet full of them. When we were between major investigations or in any kind of a lull during a case, we usually resorted to them to fill the time or sometimes just to clear our brains.

Dealing with a tough case and being unable to find new leads for months could be quite frustrating. Everybody could use a small victory, a glimpse of hope to assure them that they still got it.

Unfortunately, I didn't have that luxury. The Met's case had long since consumed my mind, leaving no room for anything else.

My brow was furrowed in concentration as my fingers tapped restlessly against the desk. I have been looking at the last reports we received from Interpol and other international law enforcement agencies, comparing them and analyzing the data for any clues we might have missed. But it was futile.

Weeks had gone by without any new leads. Things were starting to look as if a huge ship had sunk entirely beneath the surface, and now the water was eerily still.

It was natural to assume that the thieves were biding their time, waiting for the perfect opportunity to sell or smuggle the painting out of the country. But my gut was telling me that this wasn't the case. I just couldn't shake the feeling that we weren't dealing with typical criminals.

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

Suddenly, I sat up straight, a determined look on my face. "It's been sold," I exclaimed, my voice cutting through the silence like a knife.

Luke looked up from the file he was reading; confusion etched on his face. "What?"

"I think they have already sold the painting."

"What makes you say that?"

"Think about it. No new professional forgeries have surfaced for weeks. And only the local, a dime a dozen forgers are still attempting to profit from the stolen painting." I leaned forward, my eyes slightly narrowed. "Everything before that was meticulously planned and meant to throw us off track."

Luke closed the file in his hand and fixed his gray eyes on me, gesturing for me to continue.

"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. They needed to get rid of the painting sooner rather than later. That's why they created all those distractions, to keep us off their trail."

Steepling my fingers under my chin, I leaned back in the chair again, my mind racing with dozens of possibilities. "I bet they managed to find a buyer who was willing to pay top dollar for the painting, someone they think we won't be able to track."

Luke nodded slowly, a look of understanding dawning on his face. "You might be right," he said, his tone thoughtful. "I think we need to go back to our street contacts and see if anyone's heard anything. If we find the buyer, we find the thieves."

I nodded absentmindedly as my thoughts had already spiraled into chaos, like a computer running a scan through its database, searching for something very specific. Then, finally, it came to a halt, and a certain image popped up in my mind.

A small smile tugged at the corners of my lips as a plan started to form in my brain, piece by piece.

"Do you remember Simon Macklin?"

Luke's eyebrows furrowed for a few seconds, and then I saw his expression change as realization dawned on him.

"He's the forger we put in prison a few years ago," he said. "He was a slippery fish, 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."

Luke looked at me with eyes full of skepticism. "What are you thinking?"

I smiled before answering, "Well, I think I'm going to pay him a visit."

***

Walking into the prison gate, the heavy metal door slammed shut behind me. A chill ran down my spine. Even as an outsider, the palpable sense of confinement and loss of freedom within those walls was unmistakable.

The smell of disinfectant mixed with sweat and fear hit my nostrils, and the cacophony of clanging metal and shouting inmates filled my ears. I passed through several checkpoints, showing my badge to an armed guard and handing my gun to another before finally reaching the visiting room.

My gaze wandered around the room. The walls were painted a drab gray, and the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting an eerie glow. In the center of the room was a metal table bolted to the floor, with two chairs on each side. I sat on one of the chairs and waited for the guards to bring Macklin to me.

My thoughts began drifting back to when I was part of the team hot on his trail. Macklin was renowned in the art world for creating some of the most convincing forgeries in recent years. He had a natural talent. It was a shame that he decided to waste it on mimicking the styles and techniques of other famous artists instead of creating his own work.

His remarkable skills duped even the most astute experts and left the best FBI authenticators in awe. And so, he quickly made it to the top of our list.

But he slipped through our fingers every time we felt we were closing in on him. That was until I devised a plan to ambush him and finally bring him in.

Macklin was married, but his wife was pregnant at the time and couldn't go on the run with him. Even though she kept a low profile and constantly changed addresses, we eventually managed to track her down. We suspected she was communicating with her husband through coded letters, and our suspicions were confirmed when we deciphered those codes.

With this knowledge in hand, we sent Macklin a letter using the same codes his wife had used, informing him that she was sick and at risk of delivering the baby prematurely. This ruse worked like a charm, luring Macklin out of hiding and into our custody.

My wandering thoughts were brought back to the present moment when I heard the sound of heavy footsteps and the jangling of chains as Macklin was escorted into the room. He was dressed in an orange jumpsuit, and his hands were cuffed in front of him. He looked older and more weathered than I remembered, but there was still a hardness in his eyes that made it clear he wasn't to be underestimated.

I gestured to the guard to remove the cuffs. After he did, Macklin rubbed his wrists and walked over to the table, sitting across from me. All while fixing me with a hard stare.

The last time I saw him was during his trial when I testified against him. He was found guilty on multiple charges and sentenced to 10 years in prison. His baby was born while he was behind bars. So, it came as no surprise that he wasn't exactly thrilled about meeting me.

"Hello, Simon."

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

I let out a small sigh and decided to be straightforward. "I need your help."

He blinked, then let out a loud laugh dripping with insolence. "Why would I help you?"

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

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

"I understand that," I said, leaning forward slightly and looking him in the eye. "But think about why you're here. Think about what you've lost. And think about what you could gain if you help me."

The humor left his face, and he studied me with narrowed eyes, flickering with suspicion. After a few moments of silence, he blurted out, "I'm not interested."

He stood up and began walking to the exit, where a guard was waiting on standby. But the next words that came out of my mouth stopped him in his tracks.

"How's Andrew?" I asked. "I heard he's a bright boy. He's five now, isn't he?"

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 rub salt in your open wounds," I said. "But I know you have never met your son because you don't want him to see you that way. And right now, he's growing up without a father.

"What I'm trying to say is second chances are rare, Simon. But here I am, offering you an opportunity to make things right, to turn your life around and reunite with your family."

The anger had left Macklin's face. He was looking at me with eyes full of uncertainty as he was probably weighing his options. He finally let out a long sigh and walked back to the table.

Sitting down, he locked his eyes with me and asked, "What kind of information are you looking for?"

I couldn't help but feel a sense of relief wash over me. This was a step in the right direction, a chance to finally make progress in the case.

"Ever heard about the 'Corridor in the Asylum' painting?"

***

Macklin was released into my custody, and I was responsible for ensuring he wouldn't escape, so I had to be at the top of my game at all times. I knew I was putting my career on the line with this operation, but I was willing to take the risk if it meant having a breakthrough in the Met's case.

Through our other informants, we spread the word that Macklin was out on probation and that he was broke and desperate to get back into the game.

Before he was caught, Macklin had a massive network of connections in the underworld, and I was confident he and his top-notch skills were well-known to all the fences in town.

The rest was up to Macklin. He passed along the word that he had made a forgery of the 'Corridor in the Asylum' painting and that he wanted to flip it for a tidy profit by passing it off as the original.

I was hopeful that this could allow us to identify the fences and the dealers dabbling in the art re-sell business who were looking for that specific painting. And that would eventually lead us to know whether the original had been sold.

It was inevitable that the rumor of the sale of the painting would spread like wildfire amongst those who showed keen interest in it. If it had been sold, the demand for it on the black market would have notably decreased, and the art world would have moved on to focus on the next big thing.

And if that was true, I knew it was only a matter of time before Macklin heard about it. There was a code of honor among thieves, after all. One that would make them obligated to offer support to a former comrade whose life has been ruined by the feds, advising him to let go of his pursuit and search for a different opportunity to make money.

And it happened.

A few weeks after his release, Macklin called me and said he had obtained important information. We agreed to meet in a secure location to discuss it. And as soon as we met, Macklin immediately launched into his report.

"The painting has indeed been sold," he said. "And not only that, I know the fence responsible for the deal. His name is Owen Declan."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Declan is a smug bastard. When I met him, he sang like a canary and couldn't keep himself from bragging about it."

"This is valuable information, Macklin. But do you know who he sold it to or who bought it from him?"

"He said the seller was a man who went by 'Steve,' though I'm pretty sure that's an alias."

I nodded, but then I noticed something in Macklin's eyes that made him uneasy.

"And the buyer?" I asked cautiously.

Macklin hesitated for a moment before speaking. "There's another thing you need to know about Declan. He used to be a small-time crook who wasn't meeting ends meet on his own. I guess he wanted to move up in the world, so he's now one of Saverio Vitale's henchmen."

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

Sav Vitale has been on the FBI's radar for years. The organized crime suspected that his shipping company was a front for smuggling weapons and other illegal items, and he was even rumored to have ties to the Italian mob.

He was also a top target for the white-collar unit. We suspected him of money laundering and other business fraud crimes. However, we have never had enough evidence to make any formal charges stick.

"Are you sure about this?" I asked.

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

"Thanks for letting me know, Macklin. You've kept up your end of the deal."

"And what about you?" he asked pointedly. "Are you going to keep your end of the deal?"

I met his gaze evenly. "Of course. As long as your information pans out, you'll get the deal we discussed."

He swallowed hard and nodded.

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

He looked hesitant at first, but he finally returned the shake with a firm grip.

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.

After that, I got into my car but didn't start the engine. My mind was filled with countless thoughts and possibilities, leaving me lost in deep contemplation. And I couldn't help but feel a tiny glimmer of hope.

Finding Declan could be the key to unraveling the Met's case and bringing all parties involved to justice. Not just that, but this also could be Vitale's death knell.

Yet, at the same time, I couldn't shake off the feeling of dread, knowing the danger that came with tangling with someone as powerful and ruthless as Saverio Vitale.

Finally, I brought the car to life after having made up my mind. One could never hope to reach the final level of the game without overcoming all the other obstacles in their path.

And so I had to get my priorities straight. Nailing Declan was the first on the list. And after that, I was confident the rest of the domino pieces would begin falling one after another...