But all he cared about was finding Ava. He dialed the precinct again. His 17th attempt that night. The desk sergeant answered. The same dry tone as before.
"She's not available for contact. She's a federal official." Jaylen snapped. "You can't hold her without notifying her office." "Sir, I'm just following orders."
The sergeant said. Then hung up. Jaylen slammed his fist against the desk, his chest heaving. He knew what this meant. Someone up top was stalling, probably under Chief Maria Delgado's direction.
It was a strategy he'd seen too many times before. Isolate, intimidate, erase inside the cell. Ava pressed her palms together, trying to steady her breathing. Every second mattered. Somewhere out there, someone had her briefcase.
The one with her DOJ credentials, the corruption logs, the names, the bank trails, and the evidence tying Atlanta PD to stolen forfeiture funds. She thought about the hearing she he supposed to attend that morning. The room full of federal officials now wondering why the lead prosecutor had vanished. She smiled bitterly. Let them wonder.
She whispered. She wasn't beaten. She was waiting. Meanwhile, at police headquarters, Chief Delgado sat in her office with the blinds drawn. The phone on her desk buzzed every few seconds with updates, media calls, internal affairs alerts, protest notifications.
She rubbed her temples, staring at the paused frame on her tablet. Ava's face pressed against the car, blood on her temple, Callahan's hand gripping her arm. Delete it. She ordered softly. Her deputy frowned.
Ma'am, it's everywhere now. Delgado exhaled through her nose. The weight of her mayoral campaign pressing like a stone on her chest. Then we need time. Keep her in custody until the fire burns out.
No leaks, no comments. The deputy hesitated. And Callahan? He's a fool, but a useful one. She said.
Protect the department first. Everything else can burn later. By 6:00 p.m., the precinct was surrounded. Protesters gathered outside with handmade signs, "Justice for Ava", "No more broken cameras", "We see you". The chants rattled the windows.
Kayla Monroe stood among them, her drone hovering overhead, streaming live. Her feed had hit 15 million views, the number climbing by the second. She'd received threats, offers, even fake subpoenas, but she didn't care. She had the footage, the truth, and a million people behind her. Into her mic she said, "They thought no one would see, but we did, and we're not shutting up.