It took me a while to find the main road. Before that, I used Soul Mirage to change how I looked. The process was strange, to say the least. I felt my skin shifting—it tore, mended, and reshaped itself. Hair sprouted where there wasn't any before, my skin turned from wheatish to pale, and my hair grew out blonde. I caught my reflection in a piece of broken glass nearby and saw blue eyes instead of my usual black ones. Honestly, I hadn't gotten a good look at this Don guy, but he didn't look half bad.

I dug through his pockets and found a wallet with his driver's license, some cash, a pack of mint gum, his phone, and an officer's badge. That badge might help me hitch a ride. And I was right. As soon as I flashed the badge, a car sped past but then pulled over and backed up.

An old lady was behind the wheel. She seemed suspicious, probably wondering what an officer was doing out here. I told her I'd gotten lost chasing a fugitive. It was a flimsy story, but she bought it. I thought about going to Don's home first, but that might raise questions. Instead, I decided to head to the police station and tell my side of the story. As I chatted with the granny, I practiced using Don's voice and mannerisms.

When we reached the station, I paid the kind granny with some cash from Don's wallet—he probably wouldn't mind—and said goodbye. Standing at the entrance, I took a deep breath. I needed to make sure my performance was convincing. It didn't have to be flawless, just believable enough.

I walked in and to my bad luck, I immediately locked eyes with Blake, who was chatting up a female officer with a big grin. His smile faded when he saw me. He excused himself and came over, grabbing my arm and pulling me into a corner.

"Why weren't you answering your phone?" he snapped. "Is it done? And what's with you?" He leaned in and sniffed. "You smell like dirt."

I shoved his arm off. "He got away," I grumbled, trying to sound as irritated as Don would be. "He blindsided me with a baton, knocked me out cold. When I came to, I was lying on some dirt road. Couldn't find the others, couldn't call it in, so I headed straight here."

Blake's fists clenched, a low grunt escaping his lips. Frustration was written all over his face. "Damn it, this isn't how Mr. Smith wanted things handled."

"Believe me, I'm fuming too," I shot back, channeling Don's anger. From the little time I'd spent with him in the van, I'd figured out he was an angry guy. "That little punk sucker-punched me and took off running. Can't imagine how mad Mr. Smith's going to be."

He scoffed. "He'll be more than mad. We're in code red now. We need everyone at the station pulling double shifts—cars, helicopters, the works. We have to lock down the area and start a full-scale search. We're already behind, but I doubt he got far. You did take him near the farm like I told you, right?"

I nodded, doing my best to keep up the act. He placed a hand on my shoulder. "Take the day off, head home. I'll talk to the chief and see how we can fix this mess."

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Blake left me standing there, feeling awkward and out of place. After a moment, I decided to leave the station. I headed straight to the parking lot, scanning the rows of cars. I was looking for Don's ride—a red Mustang, pretty flashy for an officer making only £29,000.

From Don's memories, I knew he usually kept his keys in his pocket like anyone else. But today, he'd stashed them in the passenger-side sun visor. I walked down a few rows until my eyes landed on a car that matched the one in my head. Just as I was about to move toward it, someone called out.

"Hey! Officer, please wait!"

I turned to see Amelia Shaw hurrying toward me, out of breath. Her handbag was slipping off her shoulder, and papers were spilling from her folder. I stepped over to help pick them up. Once she'd tucked them back in, she looked up at me.

"You were in the van with the suspect, Zakir Osman. Where is he? He didn't show up."

Crap. Do I tell her the truth? Do I lie? She seemed like she genuinely wanted to help me. Part of me felt I owed her honesty. But another part—a louder part—was screaming not to say anything. I didn't really know her; could I trust her?

"Listen to that voice, Zak," I told myself. "Don't spill anything. You'll just make things worse by revealing your secret to someone you barely know."

"I, uh, it's an ongoing investigation," I stammered. "But he's escaped. Knocked me out, and I don't know what he did to the other officers. You'll have to ask Officer Blake for more details. I'm not allowed to say anything else."

"How the hell did this happen?" she demanded.

I just shrugged and pointed her toward the police station. She grunted and headed inside. I made a beeline for Don's Mustang and jumped in before anyone else could stop me. The car was unlocked, which made me think that Don had surety no one would steal his ride. I mean you’d have to be stupid to steal a car from a police station car park. I found the keys tucked in the visor above the passenger seat and fired up the engine. I gotta admit, it's a sweet ride.

As far as I remember, Don lived in some apartments in Tower Hamlets—one of London's roughest neighborhoods. It's strange for a cop to live in a place crawling with crime, but Don wasn't your typical officer, as far as I can remember from his memories. This area was under the control of one of Mr. Smith's lieutenants, and Don had a cozy relationship with him. Don kept the police away so the guy could run his illegal operations, and in return, on Mr. Smith's orders, the lieutenant gave Don a cut of the profits. Shady business. But hey, this is London—dirty dealings are more common here than anywhere else.

It didn't take me long to reach Tower Hamlets. Traffic in London usually dies down after midnight. But entering the borough felt like stepping into a different world. Tents of homeless people lined the streets. Inside them were addicts sprawled on the ground. I saw folks shooting up right out in the open as groups of young guys walked by. Some homeless had set a trash bin on fire to keep warm.

Across the street was a concrete basketball court. No one was playing basketball; instead, they were smoking weed and chatting away. As I drove past, I heard someone shout for me to stop the car. I hit the brakes and glanced in the rearview mirror. I recognized the figure approaching. It was Tyrese, Mr. Smith's lieutenant.