Page 182 of Fractured Future

Squeezing his hand back just as tightly, I’m struggling to summon an ounce of hopefulness after everything.

On the screen, Archer is advancing closely behind Josh to inspect what looks like the master bedroom on the second floor. Their guns are raised in an attack position, prepared for any eventuality.

His camera swings around the vast space, complete with a four-poster bed draped in unmade, white sheets. A few drawers in the mahogany sideboard are yanked out, while the door to what seems to be a walk-in wardrobe is ajar.

“Signs of a disturbance,” Josh whispers lowly. “I think someone tore through here.”

Warner’s spine curves as he leans even closer to his laptop to capture every detail on the feed. “Be careful.”

“Was Perez fleeing, or was someone searching for him?” Hyland ponders in a hush.

“Why would someone break into his apartment?”

“Perhaps they’ve been paid to tie up a loose end. Eliminate a potential rat and search his apartment for any incriminating evidence.”

After checking each corner and crevice, Archer and Josh head for the ensuite. My palm has grown so slick with sweat, it’s sliding in Hyland’s firm hand.

Unease is a powerful tornado firing alarm bells inside my overwhelmed mind. With Hyland’s gruff words playing on repeat, I feel like that tornado is about to sweep us all into its destructive spiral.

Pausing to flick the bathroom light on, the sound of Archer spitting out a shocked curse resonates from the laptop’s speakers. Josh is a couple of metres in front of him, blocking our sight.

“What is it?” Warner demands.

“Well… I’m not sure your perp is going to be up for making any phone calls to his boss.”

Encouraging a still-cursing Josh to move aside, Archer steps farther into the oversized, white-tiled ensuite. His chest camera offers a perfect shot of a slumped figure sitting atop a closed toilet lid.

White tile ends where a spray of dark, congealed blood begins. Only it doesn’t stop there. Crimson rivulets spatter across the walls. Floor. Nearby mirror. Bathroom sink. It’s been distributed in a wide geyser.

“Fuck me gently,” Hyland blurts.

“Is that… Tyler Perez?”

“Looks like it.”

The source of the blood is the blown-open skull of our target. His lifeless body is lolling forwards, revealing the hole that a bullet has torn through him. I can make out a silver gun loosely clasped in his limp hand.

“No,” I whisper in abject horror. “No!”

Perez is dead.

Unable to look away from the macabre nightmare, it’s like something out of a slasher movie. I’m no stranger to death, but seeing it laid out in its rawest form is sobering.

He was our one lead.

Now he’s gone too.

This man has benefitted from every last dollar, pound and peso funnelled through Gael’s cartel and likely many others. He’s taken victims from their captors, packaged them up and shipped them across the globe for a tidy profit.

The bullet was a kindness. I wouldn’t have given it to him. After we’d gotten the information we need from him, I intended to ensure his grisly end myself. Now I’ll never get the chance.

Axel joins us to more closely observe the death of our sole clue. “Fucking hell.”

“Suicide?” Warner wonders aloud.

“More like an execution made to look like suicide.” Axel studies the camera shot. “Look at the site of the bullet wound. No one can bend their arm that far.”

“The gun’s in his hand,” I point out.