Chapter 4 - Detective Nora PriceDetective Nora Price answered Tony’s call with two words.
“Who died?”
Tony looked at me.
I took the phone.
“Nobody yet,” I said.
There was a pause.
“Ferraro.”
She always said my name like it tasted bitter.
“Nora.”
“You have thirty seconds before I trace this call and make your evening complicated.”
“I have a seven-year-old girl alive after being declared dead. I have evidence of staged death certificates, child trafficking, and Victor Harlan using the Pulaski tunnels.”
Silence.
Then her voice changed.
Not softer.
Sharper.
“Where is the girl?”
“Safe.”
“With a real doctor?”
“Yes.”
“Name.”
“No.”
“Ferraro.”
“You want the children under Pulaski or paperwork?”
Another pause.
“Send me proof.”
I sent her ten seconds of the recording.
She called back immediately.
“Where do we meet?”
“Under the bridge.”
“No. You don’t go near that scene.”
I almost smiled.
“You still think this is your city after sunset?”
“I think if you storm a trafficking location with mob soldiers, children end up in crossfire and Harlan’s lawyers walk away because evidence gets poisoned.”
She was right.
I hated that.
“What do you suggest?” I asked.
“I bring a small unit I trust. No lights until we confirm. You stay back.”
“No.”
“Then I arrest you first.”
“You can try.”
Nora exhaled.
“You want to save kids or satisfy your ego?”
That landed.
I looked through the funeral home window toward the clinic van waiting outside, where Rosa and Tomas had gone back to Elena.
“I want them alive.”
“Then listen to me for once.”
I closed my eyes.
“Fine.”
Tony stared at me like I had grown another head.
Nora continued, “Send coordinates. Send the full recording. Send photos of the tracker. And Ferraro?”
“Yes?”
“If this is a trap, I will bury you under the jail.”
“Get in line.”
We hung up.
Twenty minutes later, the street beneath Pulaski Bridge looked empty except for rainwater shining under weak yellow lamps. The city above kept moving. Cars crossed the bridge. Horns complained. People lived their ordinary lives above a door that might lead to hell.
Nora arrived in an unmarked black sedan with three detectives and two federal agents I did not know. She wore a navy jacket, her hair tied back, her face pale from anger rather than fear.
She saw me, Tony, Bruno, and Marco zip-tied in the back of our SUV.
Her eyes narrowed.
“You brought the traitor?”
“He knows the layout.”
“He also knows how to lie.”
“That is why Bruno is here.”
Bruno stared at Marco through the rear window.
Nora followed the dog’s gaze.
“I hate that this makes sense,” she muttered.
Marco was pulled out.
Nora stepped close to him.
“Marco Ricci, you are going to point us to the entrance. You are going to remain silent unless asked a direct question. You try to run, I let the dog decide your future.”
Marco looked at me.
I shrugged.
“She’s less sentimental than I am.”
We moved under the bridge in two groups.
Nora’s people took the lead. My men stayed back as agreed, though every bone in my body hated it. Bruno walked at my side, low and silent, nose working the wet air.
Then he stopped.
Ahead, half-hidden behind graffiti and rusted fencing, was a blue steel door.
No handle.
Just a keypad.
Nora looked at Marco.
“Code.”
“I don’t know.”
Bruno growled.
Marco flinched.
“Rowe uses birthdates,” he said quickly. “Try 0314.”
Nora’s detective entered it.
Red light.
“No.”
“Try 1109.”
Green.
The lock clicked.
Nora gave me a look.
“Stay here.”
“No.”
“Ferraro.”
I lowered my voice.
“There are children in there. One of them may know my dog. I’m going.”
For a second, I thought she would argue.
Then a small sound came from beyond the door.
A child crying.
Nora’s face hardened.
“Fine. But your men stay out unless I call.”
We entered.
The tunnel smelled like rust, saltwater, and old concrete. Pipes ran along the ceiling. Emergency lights painted everything faint red.
Bruno moved ahead of us.
No growling now.
Just focus.
We passed a room with folding chairs, bottled water, medical supplies, and small shoes lined against a wall.
Small shoes.
Nine pairs.
Maybe more.
Nora whispered into her radio.
“Confirmed holding site. Move in.”
A door slammed somewhere deeper.
Then running footsteps.
A man shouted.
Bruno launched forward.
I followed.
Nora cursed behind me.
We turned a corner and saw three men in black jackets dragging two children toward another corridor.
One child screamed.
Bruno hit the first man like a storm.
The second dropped the child and raised his hands when he saw Nora’s gun.
The third ran.
I chased him.
My knee complained. My lungs burned. Age has a way of sending bills at the worst time.
The man reached a ladder leading up toward street level.
Before he could climb, someone opened the hatch above.
A tall man looked down.
Victor Harlan.
Silver hair. Calm eyes. Expensive coat.
He looked at me and smiled.
“Dominic,” he said. “You always did arrive too late.”
Then he slammed the hatch shut.
The runner began climbing.
I grabbed his ankle and pulled.
He fell hard but alive.
Nora reached me, breathing fast.
“Harlan?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Her jaw tightened.
Behind us, children cried as officers wrapped them in blankets.
Nine.
Marco had told the truth about that.
But Bruno was not staying with the rescued children.
He stood at the end of another corridor, staring into darkness.
Then he barked.
Once.
Twice.
Urgent.
Nora aimed her flashlight.
At the far end of the tunnel was another door.
Not blue.
White.
Small.
Like a freezer room.
A sound came from behind it.
Not crying.
Knocking.
Weak little knocks.
Nora whispered, “Oh God.”
I stepped forward.
Bruno pressed his body against the door.
May you like
And from the other side, a child’s voice called out:
“Is Elena there?”
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