The West Precinct stood as a modern testament to contemporary municipal design, its L-shaped, three-story structure rising at 810 Virginia Street in the heart of Seattle. Completed in 2000, the 85,000-square-foot facility reflected the city's progressive approach to w enforcement infrastructure. Large windows punctuated its clean architectural lines, offering natural light to the open-pn interior where detectives and officers conducted their daily work.

  Detective Jack Russo sat near one of these windows, the urban ndscape of downtown Seattle stretching out before him. His desk, like those around him, was a carefully organized workspace that spoke to years of professional dedication.

  "Russo!" called Officer Jimmy Reyes from across the room, a stack of incident reports banced precariously in one hand. "Your mom called. Says you missed Sunday dinner again."

  A chorus of knowing chuckles rippled through the nearby desks. The camaraderie of the precinct was palpable—a tight-knit group united by their commitment to the city.

  His partner, Detective Michael Torres, dropped into the chair beside him, bringing with him the faint smell of fresh coffee. "Real professional," he muttered, but the slight curl of his lips betrayed his amusement.

  "Family tradition," Russo shot back, his eyes already turning to the digital archive of the dive bar where their current investigation had taken an unexpected turn.

  The footage they had carefully reviewed just two days earlier had completely vanished from the system.

  "This doesn't make sense," he muttered, refreshing the digital archive for the third time.

  Torres leaned closer, his experienced eyes scanning the bnk screen. "No system just loses forty-eight-hour-old footage. Not without someone deliberately intervening."

  Russo drummed his fingers on the desk, the rhythmic tapping a counterpoint to his racing thoughts. Nathan and DeShawn had been perfectly captured on multiple cameras leaving the bar. Their movements, their interactions, the subtle tension between them—all of it had been crystal clear. And now? Nothing.

  "We need to go back to the bar," Torres said, his voice firm. "Talk to the manager. Check their backup systems."

  Russo nodded, already reaching for his jacket. Something was wrong. The systematic removal of these specific files felt calcuted, deliberate. It wasn't just a glitch or a simple data loss. Someone was actively working to erase their trail.

  "Someone doesn't want us looking too closely," he said, more to himself than to Torres.

  As they walked out of the precinct, Officer Reyes called after them, "Bring me back a coffee!" The usual mix of jeers and supportive calls followed them out the door.

  Russo pulled open the passenger door of their unmarked Chevrolet Impa, the typical government-issued vehicle blending seamlessly into the urban traffic. Its neutral silver paint and standard design marked it as just another car on the streets of Seattle.

  "The Brass Tap," Torres said, more statement than question, as he slid into the driver's seat. "Their internal security system might be our st shot."

  When they'd first investigated the bar, the manager had been reluctant to discuss the security footage. The digital trail of two young men had been meticulously removed from every municipal system. Their only hope now was the bar's private security setup.

  Torres navigated through the mid-afternoon traffic, the harbor slowly coming into view—a complex network of cranes, shipping containers, and industrial buildings that formed the economic backbone of the city.

  The Impa turned onto Harbor Street, the rough industrial ndscape giving way to a stretch of older buildings—remnants of Seattle's maritime past mixed with newer development. The Brass Tap sat wedged between a closed maritime supply store and a parking lot filled with long-haul trucking rigs.

  "If the manager doesn't cooperate this time," Russo said, his voice tight with professional determination, "we'll need to start getting warrants."

  Torres pulled the Impa into a narrow parking spot across from the Brass Tap, the car's neutral silver paint blending with the industrial gray surroundings. They both adjusted their suit jackets—Russo in a charcoal gray with a muted blue tie, Torres in a navy suit that complemented his darker complexion.

  "Feels different in daylight," Russo muttered as they stepped out of the vehicle, their movements precise and professional.

  The bar looked more weathered in the afternoon light. Faded maritime memorabilia hung in the windows, and the exterior bore the marks of decades of hard use—scuff marks, peeling paint, and a certain weathered resilience typical of harbor-side establishments.

  They pushed open the door, and immediate darkness enveloped them. After the bright afternoon sunlight, the bar's interior was a dim, almost impenetrable shadow. Russo and Torres stood momentarily still, blinking and waiting for their eyes to adjust.

  Slowly, the interior took shape. Worn wooden floors, a long bar with a mirror running its length, and scattered tables that looked like they'd survived countless te-night arguments. The smell of stale beer and wood polish hung in the air.

  A bartender, different from their previous visit, looked up from polishing a gss. His expression was a mix of professional courtesy and underlying wariness.

  "Can I help you gentlemen?" he called out, setting the gss down.

  Russo approached the bar, his badge subtly visible but not aggressively dispyed. "We're looking to speak with the manager," he said firmly. "About our conversation yesterday regarding the security footage."

  Torres stood slightly behind him, his presence reinforcing the professional intent of their visit. Their suits and direct demeanor signaled this was an official follow-up, different from their previous undercover approach.

  The bartender's posture stiffened slightly. "Jerry," he called toward a back room, "detectives are here to see you."

  A moment ter, a heavyset man in his fifties emerged, recognizing the detectives immediately. His earlier reluctance was now repced with a carefully neutral expression—the look of someone who knew he was about to be pressed for information.

  "Detectives," Jerry said, "what can I do for you today?"

  Torres stepped forward, his posture rexed but his eyes sharp. "Jerry, we need to talk about the security footage from the night of the bar fight. The files we discussed yesterday—we want to review them now."

  Jerry's hand unconsciously moved to adjust his colr. He gnced briefly at the bartender, then back to the detectives. "Security footage? I'm not sure what you're talking about."

  Russo noticed the subtle tell—the slight shift in weight, the averted gaze. Jerry was lying, and badly.

  "The digital files from your security cameras," Torres pressed, his voice calm but leaving no room for evasion. "The ones we discussed in detail just yesterday. We need to see them."

  Jerry's fingers drummed nervously against the bar's edge. "Those? They, uh... they must have been accidentally deleted. System glitch, you know how technology is."

  Russo and Torres exchanged a look. This wasn't a casual denial—this was deliberate obstruction. Something was very wrong.

  "A system glitch that conveniently erased specific footage from a specific night?" Russo's voice was low, controlled. "That's quite a coincidence."

  Jerry's discomfort was palpable now, sweat beading slightly on his forehead despite the bar's cool interior.

  Jerry shifted his weight, avoiding direct eye contact. "Look, I don't know what happened to those files. We've got an IT guy who manages our system, but he hasn't given me any details. Could've been a backup issue, could've been anything." His hands moved restlessly, straightening already perfectly aligned bar towels.

  "Just a system glitch," he added, his tone attempting to sound casual but betraying an underlying tension.

  Torres leaned forward slightly, his gaze steady. "A glitch that specifically removed footage from the night of the bar fight?"

  "I'm just the manager," Jerry said, spreading his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "I don't handle the technical stuff. Maybe you should talk to our IT guy." He deliberately didn't offer a name or contact information, the omission hanging in the air like a deliberate obstacle.

  Russo watched Jerry's body nguage—the slight perspiration, the way he kept finding something to adjust or move on the bar, the careful avoidance of direct questions. It was clear Jerry knew more than he was saying, but he wasn't going to volunteer anything.

  Torres leaned in, his voice low and deliberate. "We can always come back with a warrant. And when we do, it won't be just the two of us. We'll have a full team. Uniforms swarming the pce, crime scene techs going through every inch of your bar."

  He paused, letting the implication sink in. "Imagine that during your peak evening hours. Customers walking in to find police everywhere. Cops questioning staff, blocking access, yellow tape... How do you think that'll look for business?"

  Jerry's face paled visibly. The unspoken threat was clear—a full-scale police investigation would be devastating for a small, working-css bar in the maritime district. The disruption, the potential loss of clientele, the reputation damage—all would be significant.

  His nervous fidgeting increased, hands now gripping the bar's edge. The choice was stark: cooperate minimally now or face a very public, very disruptive investigation ter.

  Jerry's defenses crumbled. He leaned in, lowering his voice. "Look, something weird did happen yesterday. A woman came in—young, absolutely stunning. The kind of beauty you only see once in a lifetime."

  Russo and Torres exchanged a quick gnce, their attention sharpening.

  "She approached me, asked to go to the back office," Jerry continued. "Paid me a substantial amount of cash. Said she just needed a moment, something about checking something on the security system. Couldn't have been more than a minute before she left."

  "And the security footage?" Torres prompted.

  Jerry spread his hands. "When she walked out, I realized our backup drives looked... different. Cleaned out. Like she'd done something to them." He looked nervous, a mix of confusion and lingering awe in his expression. "I didn't even catch her name."

  Russo's notebook was already out. "Describe her," he said, his tone making it clear this wasn't a request.

  Jerry leaned in, lowering his voice. "Young woman. Early twenties. Absolutely stunning—like a model, but with this... intensity about her. Dark hair, mixed-race, looked Asian-American, maybe. Dressed impeccably. Professional, but not in a suit. More like high-end tech professional."

  Russo's pen hovered over his notebook. "And she went directly to your back office?"

  "Just for a minute," Jerry nodded. "Paid cash. Seemed like she knew exactly what she was doing. Didn't say much, just walked in, did something with the computer, and left."

  Torres studied Jerry carefully. "Did she say anything? Anything at all?"

  Jerry shook his head. "Not a word. But she moved like someone who was completely in control. Confident. Like she belonged everywhere and nowhere at the same time."

  The detectives exchanged a look. Someone had systematically removed their evidence, and they had just gotten their first, albeit vague, description of who might be responsible.

  The bartender chimed in, "She was there, alright. Door to the back office was open. Just stood there, looking around briefly, then left."

  Russo turned, his attention sharpening. "Looking around? Doing what?"

  The bartender shrugged. "Nothing specific. Just a quick gnce. Seemed to take in the room, then walked out as quickly as she'd come in."

  Jerry looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight. "I told you, she was only there a minute."

  "And you're sure she didn't log into anything?" Torres pressed, watching both men carefully.

  The bartender shook his head. "Positive. Didn't touch a thing. Just looked around, then left."

  Torres pressed firmly, "We need to see those backup files, now."

  Jerry defted, realizing he had no real choice. "Follow me."

  He led them to the back office, a small room with a desk, computer, and a wall of security monitors. Jerry pulled up the backup system, logging in and navigating to the specific date.

  The detectives leaned in, watching the footage carefully. Just as Jerry had described, there was a precise hour-long gap. The recording started moments before two men entered the bar—one a well-dressed African American, the other a rough-looking Caucasian in biker leathers. Then, abruptly, the next visible segment showed the aftermath—paramedics swarming the bar, treating the three biker gang members who had been arrested following the violent confrontation.

  Russo's hand traced the timeline. "Someone deliberately cut out the entire fight sequence."

  Torres studied the screen intently. "Precise. Almost surgical."

  The missing hour was complete—no footage, no audio, just a clean break in the digital record that told them nothing about what had transpired between the two men and the biker gang members.

  "Can you export these files?" Russo asked, his voice tight with professional frustration.

  Jerry nodded, already beginning the process of creating a digital copy for the detectives.

  Torres pulled a fsh drive from his jacket pocket, handing it to Jerry. "Copy the files directly to this. We need everything—including those bnk spaces."

  Jerry connected the drive and began the export process.

  Minutes ter, back in the Impa, Torres inserted the fsh drive into the car's computer system. "Those missing hours," he said, "are too deliberate to be a coincidence."

  Russo nodded. "The bikers might know something. Good thing they're all cooling their heels at King County Correctional Facility."

  "All three were wanted on potential felonies and parole viotions," Torres added. "Which means they'll be more than willing to talk if it might help their current situation."

  The Impa pulled away from the Brass Tap, merging into the afternoon traffic. The harbor's industrial ndscape rolled past their windows—a backdrop to an investigation that was becoming increasingly complex.

  As they drove towards the King County Correctional Facility, Torres tapped the in-vehicle computer system. His fingers scrolled through the arrest reports from the night of the bar fight.

  "Let's see," he muttered, bringing up the mugshots and details. "Jace Rollins, Derek Mancini, and Kyle Bradshaw. All part of the Silver Wolves biker gang, all with outstanding warrants."

  Russo gnced over. "Any priors that might make them chatty?"

  "Rollins has a history of plea bargaining," Torres said, studying the screen. "Might be our best bet for information."

  At the facility, they went through standard processing. Both detectives signed in, presented their badges, and checked their service weapons into the secure holding area. The booking sergeant nodded them through, familiar with the routine of detective interviews.

  "Rollins first," Russo said quietly to Torres as they were directed toward the interview rooms.

  The institutional hallways—stark, white, lined with institutional green—echoed their measured footsteps. Another routine interview, another attempt to piece together the puzzle of that night at the Brass Tap.

  Jace Rollins sat in the interview room, his orange two-piece jail uniform a stark contrast against the institutional white walls. A heavy white medical cast encased his right forearm—a testament to the severe injury sustained during the bar fight. His left hand was cuffed to the table, a precautionary measure for someone with Rollins' record of aggression.

  As Torres and Russo entered, Rollins looked up. There was a mix of pain and barely contained anger in his eyes—the look of someone nursing both physical and psychological wounds.

  "Mr. Rollins," Russo began, sliding a folder onto the table, "we'd like to talk about the night at the Brass Tap."

  The prisoner's posture stiffened, his gaze dropping to the cast on his arm. A muscle twitched in his jaw—a reminder of the encounter that had nded him in this institutional white room.

  Rollins' eyes narrowed as he recognized the detectives from that night. "Oh, it's you two," he snarled, shifting in his seat and gesturing with his casted arm. "What the fuck can I do to help out the fuzz today?"

  Russo and Torres exchanged a quick gnce. Rollins' attitude suggested he might be more than willing to talk, if only to vent his anger.

  "We want to hear about the night at the Brass Tap," Torres said evenly. "Specifically about the two men who were involved in the fight."

  "What of it," Rollins muttered, his good hand tapping aggressively against the table. "Fucker had Jimmy's bike. We wanted answers. Answer doesn't change."

  His voice carried a mix of lingering anger and frustration. He looked to his casted arm, a reminder of the encounter that had gone catastrophically wrong. The detectives watched him carefully, waiting for more details.

  The African American guy in the nice outfit and the rough-looking guy in biker leathers had clearly triggered something more than a typical bar confrontation. Rollins' tone suggested there was a story behind their demand for "answers"—a narrative that went deeper than a simple territorial dispute.

  Torres leaned forward. "Tell us about Jimmy."

  "Jimmy went missing a couple days before we hit the bar. Just... vanished. No one in the club knew where he was," Rollins said. "We hang out at the Brass Tap pretty regur. One of the guys spotted his bike parked outside. Next thing, we see this white kid wearing Jimmy's jacket."

  "So you went in to confront them about the jacket," Russo stated, more a confirmation than a question.

  Rollins nodded, his good hand clenching. "We just wanted to know what happened to Jimmy. That jacket, that bike—something wasn't right."

  The memory of the confrontation seemed to simmer just beneath the surface—anger mixed with something closer to confusion.

  "And then?" Torres prompted, knowing full well the violent sequence of events that had unfolded.

  Rollins leaned back, his eyes fixing on the detectives. "You were there. You saw it. No one moves like that."

  Torres and Russo remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

  "The Bck guy in the nice clothing," Rollins continued, a mix of anger and disbelief in his voice, "he shattered my arm like it was nothing. One moment I'm coming at him, the next—" He lifted his casted arm. "The white guy was just as bad. Moving too fast, hitting too hard."

  His gaze challenged the detectives, as if daring them to expin what they had witnessed that night. The confrontation had been nothing like a typical bar fight. Something was fundamentally wrong with how those two men had moved, how they had fought.

  "Jimmy's jacket, his bike—none of it made sense," Rollins muttered, more to himself than to the detectives.

  Russo leaned forward, his tone measured. "Tell me about Jimmy. What happened to him before he went missing?"

  Rollins' expression shifted, a mix of confusion and underlying concern repcing his earlier anger. "Jimmy was solid. Veteran member of the Silver Wolves. Rode hard, knew the territory. Then he just... disappeared. No warning, no goodbye. Just gone."

  "When exactly did he go missing?" Russo pressed.

  "Four, maybe five days before we went to the bar," Rollins said. "Last anyone saw him, he was talking about some run down by the harbor. Routine stuff for our crew. Then nothing."

  "Did anyone report him missing?" Torres interjected.

  Rollins gave a harsh ugh. "We handle our own business. Cops weren't getting involved."

  Torres casually referred to the group, "So your gang—"

  "We're a club," Rollins interrupted sharply, his anger fring instantly. "Get that? A Club. We're not some street gang. We're a brotherhood."

  The distinction was clearly important to him—a line drawn between their self-perception and how w enforcement viewed them. His clenched jaw and intense stare made it clear this was more than semantics. It was about respect, identity, and how they saw themselves.

  Russo and Torres exchanged a brief gnce, acknowledging the correction without commenting further. Sometimes, letting a suspect define their own terms could reveal more about their mindset.

  "Tell me more about your gang," Russo said evenly, keeping his tone neutral.

  "Brotherhood," Rollins said, pride mixing with weariness in his voice. "Most of us are veterans or skilled trade workers. We've got mechanics, welders, guys who work the docks. We look out for our own, protect our territory along the harbor."

  "And Jimmy's role in all this?" Russo asked.

  Rollins shifted in his seat, the handcuff rattling against the metal table. "Jimmy ran parts. Had connections with every garage and shop from here to Tacoma. Twenty years building those retionships." His expression hardened. "Then these two show up with his bike, wearing his colors like some kind of trophy."

  "Let's talk about the bike," Torres interjected. "When exactly was the st time anyone saw Jimmy with it?"

  "Four, maybe five days before we spotted it at the bar. Jimmy was heading out for a routine harbor run. Said he had some deliveries to make." Rollins' good hand clenched. "After that, nothing. No calls, no messages. Just gone. Then his bike shows up with these guys who move like..." He trailed off, gncing between the detectives who had witnessed the impossible dispy of violence.

  "You said this was a routine harbor run," Russo pressed. "What exactly was Jimmy delivering?"

  "Parts. Maintenance supplies. Nothing that should've—" Rollins stopped abruptly, his jaw tightening. His eyes took on a guarded look that both detectives recognized—the expression of someone who had just caught himself saying too much.

  Torres noted the shift. "Nothing that should've what, Mr. Rollins?"

  "Nothing," Rollins said firmly, his earlier openness evaporating. "Look, you saw what those guys did to us. You were right there. Whatever they're involved in, whatever happened to Jimmy—it's bigger than some missing parts or a stolen bike."

  The institutional silence hung heavy in the room as the detectives exchanged gnces. They had just brushed against something significant, but Rollins had clearly decided to shut down that line of questioning.

  After interviewing Rollins, Russo and Torres stood in the facility's corridor, comparing notes.

  "Rollins gave us Jimmy's background, but let's talk to Mancini next," Torres said, reviewing his notepad. "His injuries are the most severe after their leader's death - lost three fingers and part of his palm when that guy intercepted his gss."

  Russo nodded grimly. "The medical report makes no sense. The gss somehow shattered with enough force to sever bones clean through." He paused. "And Mancini was in shock by that point - might give us a different perspective than Rollins."

  They made their way to the next interview room. Jace Mancini sat hunched at the metal table, his rge frame diminished by the orange jumpsuit. His right hand - now missing everything but the thumb and pinkie - rested on the table wrapped in thick bandages.

  "Mr. Mancini," Russo began, taking the seat across from him while Torres positioned himself near the door. "We're here about the incident at the Brass Tap."

  Mancini looked up, his face a mask of barely contained anger and lingering shock. His eyes showed no recognition of the detectives - he'd been too focused on his mangled hand that night to notice who else was in the bar. His remaining fingers twitched slightly against the institutional metal table.

  "What do you want that you don't already know?" Mancini snarled, keeping his heavily bandaged right hand close to his chest in its protective wrapping. "Got my statement at the hospital. Got the medical report. Got three of my fingers sitting in a goddamn evidence bag somewhere."

  He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, the pain from his still-healing injury evident in the tension of his shoulders and the way he carefully guarded his bandaged hand. The stark fluorescent lights emphasized the mixture of rage and lingering trauma in his expression.

  "Tell us about Jimmy," Torres said, keeping his voice level and professional. "About why you felt the need to confront those two men in the bar."

  Mancini's jaw clenched, his shoulders tensing as he kept his bandaged hand protectively cradled. "Jimmy was a brother. Twenty years with the club. Then he disappears, and a few days ter some punk shows up wearing his jacket? Riding his bike?" His voice carried equal measures of anger and disbelief. "That doesn't happen. Not in our territory. Not to our people."

  "Yeah, that part we understand," Russo said, keeping his tone measured. "What we want to know about is Jimmy. Last knowns, pces, all that. We want to find out how he disappeared and who the guy was who had his bike."

  Mancini leaned forward, his eyes taking on a dangerous gleam despite his careful protection of his bandaged hand. "Yeah? Well get in line. When I get out of here, I've got some business with that psycho myself." He paused, a muscle working in his jaw. "Jimmy was running parts along the harbor route. Nothing special, nothing new. Been doing it for years. Then he just... vanishes. No word, no trace. And that guy shows up wearing his colors like some kind of trophy." His voice dropped lower, taking on an edge. "Guy might've gotten the drop on us at the bar, but next time..."

  "There won't be a next time Mancini. Unless you wanna see more years behind bars," Torres said firmly. "But we can likely find him and deal with him ourselves. Get him where he belongs. But we need to know where Jimmy was when he was st seen."

  Mancini stared at Torres for a long moment, clearly weighing his options. His bandaged hand remained cradled close to his chest, a constant reminder of what had happened the st time they'd confronted these men. Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter but still carrying an undercurrent of rage. "Last time anyone saw him was at Murphy's Garage down on Harbor Drive. Said he had some special delivery run to make. Seemed routine enough - Jimmy'd been running parts through there for years." He paused. "That was five days before we spotted his bike at the Brass Tap."

  Russo nodded. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Mancini," he said, standing. The interview had given them another piece of the puzzle - a solid location to investigate next.

  In the facility's corridor, Torres turned to his partner. "Murphy's Garage. Last confirmed sighting of Jimmy before he vanished."

  "And five days ter, his bike shows up with our mystery fighters," Russo added as they headed toward the exit, signing out their weapons from security. "Let's see what this garage can tell us about Jimmy's final delivery run."

  Twenty minutes ter, they pulled up to Murphy's Garage - a weathered concrete building with faded signage that had become a fixture of Seattle's working waterfront. The original red and white paint scheme had dulled to rust and gray, but the pce still seemed to draw steady business.

  Through the open bay doors, they could see mechanics working on an assortment of vehicles. The sounds of impact wrenches and the smell of motor oil filled the air as they approached the office entrance.

  Behind a desk covered in invoices sat a lean Asian man in his forties, working through paperwork. The detectives entered, badges visible but not prominently dispyed.

  "Seattle PD," Russo said. "We're looking for the owner."

  The man looked up from his paperwork. "That'd be me. Marcus Chen." He gestured to the faded 'Murphy's Garage' sign visible through the window. "Old man Murphy passed away about seven years back. Heart attack. I was his head mechanic, bought the pce, kept the name. Built up fifty years of trust in this neighborhood - would've been stupid to change it."

  "We're here about Jimmy," Torres said, studying Chen's reaction. "Member of the Silver Wolves motorcycle club. We understand this was the st pce he was seen about a week ago."

  Chen's expression shifted subtly, his attention sharpening. "Jimmy? Yeah, he was a regur. Did parts runs through here for years." He set down his paperwork, giving the detectives his full attention. "Haven't seen him in a while though. Something happen to him?"

  "That's what we're trying to figure out," Russo said. "Can you tell us about the st time you saw him? We heard something about a special delivery run."

  Chen leaned back in his chair, his eyes moving between the two detectives. "Yeah, he came by... must've been st Tuesday. Had his usual route, but mentioned something about an extra stop. Didn't say where exactly, just that it was a rush job for good money." He paused. "Seemed normal enough at the time. Jimmy knew every garage and shop from here to Tacoma."

  "Did he mention who the delivery was for?" Torres asked.

  "Nah, but that wasn't unusual. Lot of business down here works on handshakes and reputation. Jimmy had both." Chen's brow furrowed. "Now that I think about it though, he did act a little different that day. Kept checking his phone, like he was waiting for instructions or something."

  "His phone?" Russo asked, interest piqued. "That unusual for Jimmy?"

  Chen shrugged, adjusting some papers on his desk. "Guy usually knew exactly where he was going, what he was delivering. That day he kept checking messages, seemed distracted. But Jimmy'd been running parts through here so long, I didn't think much of it at the time."

  "Any chance you remember what direction he headed when he left?" Torres asked.

  "Yeah, actually. Took off toward the container terminals. South end." Chen scratched his chin. "Struck me as odd - nothing but shipping operations down that way. No garages, no shops that I know of."

  Russo made a note. "Did he mention when he'd be back through?"

  "Said he'd swing by ter that day to pick up some manifolds I had coming in." Chen's expression darkened slightly. "Never showed. That wasn't like Jimmy at all. Man kept his word."

  Torres pulled out his card. "If you think of anything else about that day - any detail at all - give us a call."

  As they walked back to their car, both detectives knew they'd just found something significant. A reliable runner with years of experience suddenly goes off-route, acting strangely, and vanishes. Five days ter, his bike shows up with two men capable of impossible violence.

  The south container terminals would be their next stop.

  The Impa wound through the industrial ndscape, emerging into a maze of towering shipping containers and massive cranes. The te afternoon sun cast long shadows between the stacked containers while stevedores, trucks, and equipment moved in their constant choreography of maritime commerce.

  "Busy time of day," Torres noted, navigating past a line of semi-trucks waiting to pick up or drop off containers. The constant beeping of vehicles backing up mixed with the deep rumble of ship engines and the metallic cngs of containers being moved.

  "Perfect cover for anything you don't want noticed," Russo observed, studying the organized chaos around them. Dock workers in high-visibility vests moved purposefully between operations, forklifts darted between containers, and overhead, massive gantry cranes swung their loads with practiced precision.

  "Jimmy vanishes somewhere in all this," Torres said, pulling into a spot where they could observe the flow of traffic. "Five days ter, his bike shows up with our two mystery men at the Brass Tap. The question is - what happened in between?"

  They watched the systematic movement of cargo and workers, both knowing that somewhere in this industrial byrinth, something had gone very wrong for Jimmy. But the terminal's constant activity had long since erased any trace of what that might have been.

  Russo and Torres approached a dockworker directing truck traffic, their badges visible but not prominently dispyed. The worker wore a weathered high-visibility vest, his hard hat showing years of service at the terminal.

  "Looking for the foreman," Russo said over the constant background noise of equipment and engines.

  The worker gnced at their badges, then pointed toward a cluster of portable offices set up between container rows. "Mike's in the white one with the blue trim. Can't miss it - got the American fg hanging out front."

  The detectives navigated through the organized chaos of the terminal, dodging forklifts and stepping around guide ropes as container movements continued overhead. The indicated office stood apart from the others, a small American fg hanging limply in the still air, its white paint stark against the industrial surroundings.

  They knocked once on the office door, receiving a gruff "Enter!" from inside.

  The foreman, Mike, sat hunched over his computer, barely gncing up as they entered. His weathered face showed the strain of managing the constant flow of cargo through his terminal. Paperwork was stacked in precarious piles around his desk, and a half-empty coffee cup sat precariously close to the edge.

  "Seattle PD," Torres said, both detectives dispying their badges. "Need a few minutes of your time."

  Mike's fingers continued moving over his keyboard, his attention split between his screen and the detectives. "Better be quick. Got three ships need to finish unloading before the night shift takes over."

  "Following up on a missing person," Russo said. "Last seen in this area about a week ago. Pretty important we find him."

  Mike barked out a ugh, finally looking up from his computer. "Good luck with that one. You're looking at over two hundred acres of active terminal space. Got about five thousand containers moving through here on any given day, two thousand people working various shifts, and that's just this terminal." He gestured vaguely toward his window. "Got three more terminals just like this one within walking distance. Person could vanish for years out there and we'd never know."

  "Motorcycle courier," Torres added. "Regur through this area."

  Mike's expression shifted, becoming more guarded. "Got at least three MCs that do that kind of thing around here. You're gonna need to be more specific."

  "Silver Wolves," Russo said. "Jimmy."

  The name got Mike's full attention, and he turned away from his computer screen entirely. "Jimmy. Yeah. Used to see him couple times a week." His tone was carefully neutral. "Haven't seen him tely though. Or any of the usual bikes, come to think of it."

  Mike's posture stiffened slightly as the implications of what he'd just admitted sank in. He turned back to his computer screen, his voice taking on a deliberately casual tone. "Look, I got ships waiting. Unless you got something specific to ask about, I got work to do."

  "Just trying to find out what happened to Jimmy," Torres said, noting the sudden shift in Mike's demeanor.

  "Like I said," Mike replied, his fingers moving purposefully over his keyboard, not looking at them. "Haven't seen him. Haven't seen any of them. And that's all I got to say about any of it." The dismissal in his voice was clear - he'd already said more than he should have.

  Russo and Torres exchanged a quick gnce. They'd gotten what they needed - confirmation that something had disrupted the usual motorcycle traffic through the terminal, and it coincided with Jimmy's disappearance.

  "Appreciate your time," Russo said as they turned to leave. Behind them, Mike's typing became more pronounced, a clear signal that the conversation was over.

  Outside in the constant noise of the terminal operations, Torres and Russo walked back to their car.

  "Mike cmmed up fast when he realized what he'd admitted about the MCs," Torres said, stepping around a coiled cable on the ground.

  "And you noticed he didn't volunteer those security cameras," Russo added. "Man like that, running this much terminal space? Has to have extensive coverage. But he's not about to let us see footage from that day without a warrant."

  They reached the Impa, the te afternoon sun glinting off its silver paint. "He knows something," Torres said, sliding behind the wheel. "Question is, how much paperwork do we want to generate trying to get those cameras? Start pushing too hard here..."

  "And we might spook more than just a dock foreman," Russo finished. The implications hung between them - pursuing official channels meant creating official records, and something about this case suggested that might not be the best approach.

  The sound of container movements and backup arms filled the silence as they considered their next move.

  "Got a better idea," Russo said as they pulled away from the terminal. "Remember Eddie down at Pier 7? Always seems to know when shipments go missing."

  Torres nodded, navigating around a line of trucks. "And Mei at the Golden Crown. Pce sees plenty of dock traffic, and she keeps her ears open."

  "Exactly. Rather than stir up paperwork about security footage we might never get..." Russo let the thought hang.

  "Off-record conversations with people who actually know what moves through here," Torres finished. "Eddie's usually at the pier by sunset. And Mei's pce will be starting their dinner service."

  The Impa turned away from the main terminal area, heading toward the older section of the waterfront where smaller operations and local businesses created a different kind of harbor ecosystem. The kind where information flowed more freely, especially to detectives who knew how to ask the right questions and maintained the right retionships.

  "Start with Eddie?" Torres asked, already knowing the answer.

  "Start with Eddie," Russo confirmed. Their CI might be a small-time operator, but he had an uncanny knack for knowing when routines changed along the waterfront. And something had definitely changed the week Jimmy disappeared.

  They found Eddie exactly where they expected - on the weathered bench outside Frank's Bait & Tackle, his worn leather coat pulled tight against the te afternoon chill. He was going through his usual routine of sorting receipts from his "logistics consulting" business, which mostly involved knowing who was moving what through the less official channels of the harbor.

  Eddie spotted the silver Impa before it fully stopped, his practiced eye recognizing the detectives' unmarked car immediately. He didn't look up from his paperwork as Russo and Torres approached, maintaining the casual appearance of a man simply doing business.

  "Eddie," Russo said quietly, settling onto the bench next to him while Torres remained standing, casually watching the foot traffic along the pier.

  "Busy day, busy day," Eddie muttered, still focused on his receipts. "What brings two of Seattle's finest down to my humble office?"

  "Looking for information about a motorcycle courier who went missing," Torres said, his voice low enough to be covered by the constant harbor noise. "Silver Wolves member named Jimmy."

  Eddie's hands stilled briefly over his papers, a subtle tell that both detectives caught. "Missing, huh?" he said, his voice carefully neutral. "Lots of things go missing around the harbor."

  "Save the song and dance, Eddie," Torres said quietly. "We both know how this works. What've you heard about Jimmy and the Wolves' routes going quiet?"

  Eddie gnced around reflexively before tucking his receipts into his coat pocket. "Fifty says I haven't heard anything worth mentioning."

  "Two hundred says you have," Russo countered smoothly, the familiar negotiation falling into its usual rhythm.

  Eddie studied the passing dock workers for a moment, his expression calcuting. "Make it three. Been an expensive week for information.

  "You're a crook, Eddie," Russo said, shaking his head. He rolled his eyes. "It'll be in your usual account."

  Eddie's posture rexed slightly, though his eyes kept tracking the dock workers moving past them. "Word is, something spooked all three clubs off their regur routes. Not just the Wolves - Iron Disciples and Night Riders too. Nobody's running anything through the usual channels." He paused, fiddling with his coat zipper. "Started right around when Jimmy disappeared. And I mean everything just... stopped. Like somebody flipped a switch."

  "That kind of coordination doesn't just happen," Torres said quietly.

  "That's the thing," Eddie leaned in slightly, lowering his voice further. "It wasn't coordinated. Way I hear it, they're all scared. Something happened out by the container terminals. Nobody's talking about exactly what, but..." He trailed off meaningfully.

  "Just local to the yard?" Torres asked.

  Eddie let out a short, humorless ugh. "No. Every corner dealer, every runner, every route in the city's gone quiet. People who've been working the same paths for years are suddenly finding new ways around." He gnced up and down the pier again. "Never seen anything like it. Everyone's spooked - not just the Wolves. Iron Disciples, Night Riders - they're all ying low."

  He shifted on the bench, lowering his voice further. "Nobody wants to be the next Jimmy. Way I hear it, something happened out by those container terminals. Something bad enough to make three rival clubs all back off at once." He paused meaningfully. "And in this business, that just doesn't happen. Not without a real good reason."

  "What about the other gangs in the area?" Russo asked. "Thirteenth Street still running their usual business?"

  Eddie's expression darkened. "That's the other weird thing. Thirteenth Street's supply lines got hit hard st week. Three locations carved up, real precise-like. Then nothing." He shook his head. "Kings too. Somebody's been methodically picking apart their operations. But it's... different."

  "Different how?" Torres pressed.

  "It's not normal gang warfare," Eddie said, his voice dropping even lower. "No territory grabs, no revenge hits. Just... surgical strikes. Pces get hit, people disappear, product vanishes. Then nothing. No bragging, no cims, no demands." He gnced around nervously. "And the people who've seen it happen? They're not talking. Too scared. Or dead."

  He shifted uncomfortably on the bench. "Something's hunting in the city. That's how people are talking about it. Not someone - something."

  Torres and Russo exchanged a quick gnce, both thinking of the impossible speed and violence they'd witnessed at the Brass Tap. But neither detective said anything while Eddie was still within earshot.

  "Thanks for the information," Russo said, standing from the bench. Torres was already moving toward the Impa, his posture suggesting he was eager to discuss what they'd just learned.

  Eddie went back to his receipts, deliberately not watching them leave - maintaining the careful dance of pusible deniability that kept informants alive.

  Once back in the car, with the doors closed and the harbor noise muffled, Torres turned to his partner. "Surgical strikes. People disappearing. Just like what we saw at the bar."

  "And three rival motorcycle clubs all backing off at once," Russo added grimly. "Something's moving through the city's underworld, and it's not following any rules we've seen before."

  The Impa pulled away from the pier, leaving Eddie to his "business" as the detectives processed just how much bigger this case had become.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Thank you to Everyone who has Inspired me on my path to being an Author!