She reached for it in the darkness, checking the caller ID. Unknown number. She hesitated, then answered. Hello. Silence.
No breathing, no background noise, just emptiness. Hello. She repeated more firmly. The line went dead. Angela sat up in bed, fully awake now.
It was the third such call this week. She checked that her bedroom door was closed, then reached for her secure phone, a separate device kept hidden in her nightstand. She sent a text to a number saved only as I. Another row call same pattern. The response came seconds later.
Noted protocol 7. Angela deleted both messages, returned the phone to its hiding place, and tried to go back to sleep, but her mind raced with worry. 16 Years of careful living, of guarding their family's secrets, and now this new officer was asking questions. It wasn't a coincidence. The next day, officer Grayson sat at his desk in the police station, coffee in hand, scrolling through database records.
He'd found basic information on Angela King. Employment history, driver's license, property taxes, all normal. Jallen's school record showed he was a good student with no disciplinary issues. But Isaiah King was proving more elusive. Grayson had basic confirmation that Isaiah existed.
Marriage license, joint property ownership with Angela, listed as father on Jallen's birth certificate. But his employment history was vague. And when Grayson attempted to pull his military file, he hit an unexpected roadblock. Classified clearance required. "What the hell?"
Grayson muttered, staring at his screen. "Problem?" Asked Sergeant Wallace passing by his desk. Grayson quickly switched screens. "No, sir, just researching something."
After Wallace moved on, Grayson returned to the database. The classified designation could mean many things. Isaiah could be a military contractor, intelligence analyst, or any number of roles that required security clearance, but it didn't necessarily confirm special forces. Still, it was enough to make Grayson uncomfortable. He had told colleagues about the punk kid with the special forces fairy tale, expecting to disprove Jallen's claim easily.
Now, he wasn't so sure. That evening, Grayson returned to Cedar Street in his personal vehicle, a black Dodge Charger with tinted windows. He parked a block away from the King residence and settled in to watch. It was after 11 when the lights in the house finally went out. Grayson waited another hour before slipping out of his car and making his way toward the property.
He stayed in the shadows, moving with the confidence of someone who believed, himself, unobserved. His plan was simple. Get a closer look, maybe peek in the windows, see if there was any evidence of Isaiah King's presence or absence. What Grayson didn't realize was that he was being watched. Three houses down in a darkened room, a figure observed Grayson's approach through specialized optics.
When the officer crept into the king's sideyard, the figure lifted a secure phone and spoke quietly. As at midnight, we have activity at the King residence. Local police. Plain clothes. Unauthorized surveillance.
Identity confirmed as officer Bradley Grayson. A pause then. Understood. Continue monitoring only. The figure returned to the window, watching as Grayson crept around the king house, peering into windows, testing the back door.