"Then you'll have to figure it out yourself," Ivan said coolly, leaning back on the worn sofa with a casual indifference. His tone was calm but firm, leaving no room for negotiation.
"Our deal only lasts two more days. After that, I'll hand over the remaining drugs to the Mexican Cartel. My mission will be complete. I've told you before, I'm only here to gather intelligence. The arrest is your job, not mine."
This arrangement wasn't just Ivan's stance; it was written in black and white. The contract he had signed with the police station included a key clause: the department could not disclose Ivan's identity under any circumstances during his external employment. In return, Ivan's sole responsibility was to uncover the identity and whereabouts of the Kangaroo Bandit. An additional clause allowed Ivan to terminate the agreement at any time, ensuring he was never trapped by their bureaucracy.
Snowden took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling the smoke in a slow stream. His expression turned sour, like someone forced to eat bitter medicine. "You haven't finished your job yet, Ivan," he said, his voice tinged with frustration. "All we know is that the Kangaroo Bandit is in the hands of the Mexican Cartel. But we don't know where exactly. Not the building, not the floor, not the room."
Ivan frowned slightly, sensing the subtle manipulation in Snowden's tone. This wasn't just a request, it was a guilt trip wrapped in the guise of a complaint.
"I don't care," Ivan said sharply, brushing off the sheriff's attempt to corner him. "We have a contract. You're well aware I can terminate it whenever I like."
Snowden sighed heavily, grinding his cigarette into the ashtray on his desk. "Fine, but there's one problem," he said, his tone shifting to something almost apologetic. "I don't have your 1,000 dollars reward right now."
Ivan's eyes narrowed. "Why not?"
Snowden shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "The reward comes from the state government, it's part of a fund they allocate for catching high-profile criminals. I used that same money to hire you because I wanted this problem solved fast. But the payout hasn't been approved yet."
Ivan's expression darkened. "So, what are you saying?"
Snowden leaned forward slightly, his smirk becoming more pronounced. "If you want your money now, you'll have to come with me to the Central Police Station and apply for it in person."
---
Before heading to the Central Police Station, Ivan and Snowden first dealt with the division of the drug sale money. According to an informal agreement made the previous day, the proceeds from the sale would be split 20/80 between Ivan and Snowden. Of course, in reality, the split was more complex: 20/20/60. Ivan received 20%, Snowden pocketed another 20%, and the largest share—60%—went to Chief Crowley, head of the Central Police Station.
Ivan found the arrangement less than ideal. The bulk of the money went to Crowley, who wasn't even directly involved in the operation. However, Snowden pointed out the reality: selling seized drugs was not just illegal but an extraordinarily risky crime. Crowley's connections and influence were the reason the operation could proceed at all. Without his protection, the state government or federal authorities could catch wind of their actions, which would spell disaster for everyone involved.
Ivan begrudgingly accepted his cut, but he didn't hide his irritation. "You're taking 20% for what, exactly? Sitting around while I did all the work?" he said with a pointed look at Snowden.
Snowden chuckled, unbothered by the jab. "I'm the one who bridged the gap between you and the Central Police Station. I vouched for you, put my reputation on the line, and ensured everything went smoothly. That's worth 20%, don't you think?"
Despite the back-and-forth, Ivan left the exchange with an extra 1,000 dollars in his pocket, which was a decent consolation prize.
---
The Central Police Station was a far cry from the modest North Beach outpost. It served as the headquarters for the California Police, overseeing law enforcement operations across the entire region. Located in San Francisco, it was only a thirty-minute drive from Snowden's station.
Half an hour later, Ivan and Snowden stepped out of their car in front of an imposing, long building that stretched across the block. The architecture was austere, with tall windows and a grand entrance that spoke of authority and efficiency. It was Ivan's first time in this part of the city, and he couldn't help but be struck by the contrast between this polished headquarters and the scrappy, disorganized nature of Snowden's precinct.
Ivan glanced up at the building, his sharp eyes taking in the details. "This looks more reliable than the circus you run," he remarked dryly, earning a chuckle from Snowden.
But Ivan wasn't here to be impressed. He turned to Snowden with a serious expression. "Let me make one thing clear. I'm only here to collect my bounty. If anyone here starts making strange requests or trying to rope me into something else, I'm walking out."
Snowden grinned and raised his hands in mock surrender. "Relax, Ivan. No tricks. Just business."
The two men entered the Central Police Station. The ground floor was a spacious hall, tastefully decorated with leather sofas, potted plants, and an air of professionalism that was entirely absent from Snowden's station. Officers moved with purpose, and the sound of typewriters clicking and telephones ringing filled the air.
Snowden flashed his badge to a receptionist, and they were directed upstairs to the second floor. As they climbed the staircase, Ivan couldn't shake the feeling that this place was too polished, too orderly. If the North Beach Police Station was a rowdy tavern, the Central Police Station was a cathedral. But beneath the surface, Ivan knew, the same corruption and opportunism lurked here, just better hidden behind pressed uniforms and polished badges.
When they reached the second floor, Snowden led Ivan to an office at the end of the hall. Ivan paused outside the door, his gaze flicking to Snowden. "Remember," he said, his tone sharp, "I'm here for the bounty. Nothing more."
Snowden gave him a reassuring smile, but Ivan wasn't buying it. In this game, trust was a luxury he couldn't afford.
The second floor of the Central Police Station felt more claustrophobic than the spacious lobby downstairs. A long corridor stretched out ahead, lined with offices on either side. The muffled sounds of voices leaked out from behind closed doors, and the occasional burst of laughter or angry shouting echoed through the hallway. It seemed as if the entire building was alive with activity.
Sheriff Snowden led the way, his polished boots clicking against the tile floor. Noticing Ivan glancing around, he smiled and offered an explanation. "It's been chaotic lately. Everyone's scrambling to deal with the 'three California pests', as we like to call them. It's not usually this noisy."
Ivan raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "The three California pests? I know the 'Kangaroo Bandit,' and I've heard of the serial killer they call 'Erie the Butcher.' But who's the third?"
Snowden stopped for a moment, a wry grin spreading across his face. "Ah, the third. His crimes aren't as deadly as the first two, but his... creativity and the sheer chaos he causes make him infamous."
He gestured toward the buzzing offices, his voice dropping slightly as if to add to the drama. "If you hear loud wailing or furious swearing anywhere in this building, it's probably because of him."
Ivan's curiosity deepened. "What did he do?"
Snowden shook his head, the grin fading slightly into something closer to disbelief. "This guy is a master of arson, vandalism, and stirring up riots. But his most infamous act? That was his first."
Ivan tilted his head. "What happened?"
Snowden glanced at him, savoring the chance to tell the story. "Back then, he was a technician for the San Francisco Water Company. A seemingly normal guy, until one day, he decided to re-plumb an entire street. And by that, I mean he connected the domestic water pipes to the sewage system."
Ivan blinked, horrified. Snowden continued, his tone both amused and awestruck. "Can you imagine? People woke up, went to their sinks to wash their faces, and instead of water... a golden-yellow liquid came spraying out."
Ivan's face twisted in disbelief. "You're joking."
"I wish I were," Snowden replied, shaking his head.
---
After walking down the lively corridor, they finally reached a closed door at the end. Sheriff Snowden knocked twice, his voice steady. "Sheriff Ed Snowden here."
A voice responded almost immediately from within. "Come in."
Snowden pushed the door open, and Ivan followed him inside. The room was spacious, bathed in warm sunlight streaming in from large, undrawn windows. Behind the wide oak desk sat Deputy Director Crowley, the man in charge of the Central Police Station. The light illuminated his sharp features, his expression both calm and calculating.
The office was tastefully furnished. A plush red sofa sat near a solid wooden bookcase lined with law books, city reports, and personal memorabilia. The space exuded both authority and comfort, a clear reflection of the man who occupied it.
But Ivan's attention was immediately drawn to another figure standing to the side. A man in a well-tailored gray suit, his hair slightly graying at the temples, stood with an air of calm composure. His presence was unassuming yet commanding, the kind of energy that turned heads without needing to demand attention.
Snowden gestured politely. "Deputy Director Crowley," he began, "this is our external staff member. As I mentioned in my reports, he has information to share with you."
Crowley smiled warmly, gesturing for Ivan to step forward. But before Ivan could speak, Crowley pointed to the man in the gray suit. "Perfect timing. The senator here was just asking to meet you."
Ivan stiffened slightly, his eyes flicking to the man in the gray suit. "Senator?" he murmured under his breath, surprised. Even Snowden looked startled.
The senator, noticing their reactions, offered a polite smile and a slight nod. "It's good to meet you," he said simply, his voice smooth and confident.
Before Ivan or Snowden could say anything further, Crowley cut in. "Mr. Snowden," he said with a faint edge of authority, "I believe you have other pressing matters to attend to. Why don't you leave us to speak with Mr. Ivan?"
Snowden hesitated. "But—"
Crowley raised a hand, silencing him with a look that brooked no argument. "You've already briefed me on the situation. You're dismissed."
Snowden paused for a moment, then nodded reluctantly. "Understood, sir." He glanced at Ivan, a flicker of unease crossing his face, then stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him.
As soon as Snowden was gone, Crowley's demeanor shifted slightly. His smile widened, but there was an unmistakable sharpness behind it. "Even if Snowden hadn't brought you here, we would have called for you eventually," he said, his voice rich with authority. "You've been making waves, Mr. Ivan, and we've been paying attention."
Ivan's heart beat a little faster. Something about Crowley's tone set him on edge, though he forced himself to remain calm.
Crowley gestured for him to speak. "Now, tell me. What is it you want?"
Ivan swallowed, steadying himself. There was no room for mistakes here. "Deputy Director Crowley," he began, his voice measured, "the investigation you assigned me, to locate the Kangaroo Bandit, has yielded results."
Crowley leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Go on."
"I want what I'm owed," Ivan said plainly. "The 1,000 dollars I was promised for completing the job."
Crowley's smile didn't waver, but something about his eyes grew colder. Ivan could feel the weight of the room pressing on him, the unspoken realization that this meeting was about much more than just the money. Still, he held his ground, refusing to show weakness.
The senator, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. "That's a fair request," he said, his voice calm and reasonable. "But I imagine your work isn't entirely finished yet, is it?"
Ivan tensed but didn't respond. He knew this wasn't going to be as simple as walking away with his payment. Crowley leaned forward, his tone casual but laced with intent. "Tell me, Mr. Ivan. Are you interested in earning much more than 1,000 dollars?"
Ivan knew he had just walked into another trap.