Chapter 37: The Unseen Hand
Frank woke to the gray light of dawn. His first breath was smoke; he lit a cigarette before his eyes had fully opened. A mug of coffee sat cooling on the desk beside him.
He stripped down his pistol on the table, each part gleaming under his precise hands. Clean barrel. Slide smooth. Magazine checked and rechecked. He reassembled it, clicked the weapon back together, and laid it flat beside his bag. Inside the pack: a flashlight, spare mags, lock picks, a notebook. All routine. All his anchors.
Breakfast was plain — eggs and toast, barely touched. His mind drifted. Thoughts swirled back to the envelope from the night before, the junkyard, the painted dog. Questions without answers.
He stood under the shower for half an hour, letting the water run too long. When he finally stepped out and saw the clock, he cursed under his breath. He hadn’t even noticed the time slip away.
By the time he rushed into the Draeton Police Department, coffee in hand, the bullpen was already alive with chatter and paperwork. Frank logged into the system, scrolling through case files. He searched for patterns — codes, junkyards, anything pointing to "8 pm Café." Nothing. Just the usual mix of smuggling, thefts, cartel operations.
The more he looked, the less sense it made.
"Long face this early?"
Zoey Parker dropped into the seat beside him, her jacket draped over one arm, a coffee in the other. Sharp eyes, sharper wit.
Frank forced a smirk. "Guess I’m not as good-looking as you hoped."
She chuckled. "Not even close. What’s got you brooding?"
"Cases," Frank said, keeping his tone flat. "Trying to see a link."
Zoey leaned back, stretching. "Speaking of links — remember Brackmoor? That cartel bust? You and me cornering Vargas in that swamp shack?"
Frank allowed himself a thin smile. "Yeah. You almost got your head blown off."
"I almost?" She grinned. "If I recall, I dragged your ass out after you slipped in the mud. Don’t rewrite history."
Frank snorted softly. "Fine. You saved the day."
Their laughter lasted only a moment before Zoey turned serious. "We worked well together. We could again, if something’s on your mind."
Frank met her gaze, but after a beat, he turned back to the screen. "Nothing I can’t handle."
Zoey studied him for a second longer, then shrugged. "Suit yourself, Miller."
By lunchtime, Frank barely touched his meal. Three spoonfuls of rice, a piece of chicken, then he pushed the tray away. His stomach was tight, his thoughts elsewhere.
At 4:00 p.m., he signed out and slipped into the streets.
The 8 pm Café was smaller than he expected, tucked between a dusty pawn shop and an old bookstore with faded lettering. If you weren’t looking for it, you’d walk right past. Which made it perfect for a meeting spot. Perfect for an ambush.
Frank stopped across the road first, lighting a cigarette, eyes narrowing as he took in the block. One entrance up front — glass doors with a chipped brass handle. A narrow back alley with trash bins, one door propped slightly open. Two cameras at the corners, both angled down toward the sidewalk. Blind spots above each frame. Delivery trucks parked along the alley created cover, but also chokepoints.
He crossed the street slowly, blending with foot traffic. Inside, the café was warmer than the street, rich with the smell of coffee grounds and sugar. He ordered a tea — something simple, nothing memorable — and carried it to a table near the middle.
Every detail mattered.
Staff count: three. One barista, one waiter, one girl clearing tables.
Exits: main door to the street, back door through the kitchen.
Kitchen: stainless steel counter glimpsed through a cracked door. Enough space for someone to slip out unseen.
Seating layout: twenty tables, only half occupied. Best sight lines were near the corner window, but they made him too visible. The booth against the left wall gave partial cover but left him blind to the kitchen.
Frank stirred his tea slowly, pretending to relax. In truth, his eyes never stopped moving. He noted reflections in the window, catalogued faces, watched for anyone looking twice at him. Nobody did.
By the time he left, the café wasn’t just a place anymore. It was a map in his head, every line and angle etched into memory. A blueprint.
Back at home, Frank dropped his keys on the table and leaned against the counter, replaying the details. He could involve Zoey. She had instincts, she had his back. But...
He pictured her face from earlier that morning, the way she pressed him for answers. She’d walk into this headfirst if he told her. That was her strength — and her weakness.
And this didn’t feel like a normal case. It wasn’t about cartel busts or smuggling rings. This was personal. Someone had chosen him. Someone who knew him well enough to push the right buttons, to lure him like bait on a hook.
He poured himself another coffee and sat staring at the steam curling into the air.
If I tell her, I risk her life.
If I don’t, I risk mine.
The silence in the apartment weighed heavy, broken only by the tick of the clock.
After a long while, Frank stood, strapped on his holster, and looked at the packed bag resting by the door.
"Not this time, Zoey," he muttered under his breath. "This one’s mine."
Frank arrived at the café thirty minutes early that night. The place smelled of fresh bread and roasted beans, too warm, too normal. He sat at a corner booth, ordered a bitter coffee, and waited.
Every sip dragged. He checked his watch every few minutes, the ticking in his head louder than the hum of conversation. Staff bustled, couples laughed at tables, and still nothing. He shifted seats once, moving closer to the door, not wanting the staff to notice his long stay.
8:00 came.
No one.
8:05. Doubt crept in. Another wild goose chase?
At 8:08, a waiter approached his table. A sweet, puffed cake on a plate, set neatly before him.
"Compliments of the house," the man said with a smile, before walking off.
Frank’s eyes narrowed. He hadn’t ordered it. He waited, counted seconds, scanned the room. Nobody moved oddly.
Then he saw it. Beneath the cake, a folded napkin.
He slid it free with two fingers. A single line was written across it in bold ink:
"Never get out of the fight. Be ready for a mission."
Frank exhaled slowly, his breath steady, controlled. A signal. A warning. Or both.
He stared at the cake for a long moment, then, with deliberate calm, took a bite. The sugar was sweet, but it sat heavy on his tongue.
When he left the café, the night air was sharp. He bought a bottle of beer on the way home and drank it slowly, one swallow at a time, walking the long route back through dim streets.
Back inside his apartment, he didn’t cook dinner. He didn’t need it. His mind was already full, circling the message.
He lay back in bed, the napkin folded on the desk beside his gun.
Whoever was pulling the strings wasn’t finished.
And Frank knew: tomorrow, the real fight would begin.