Chapter 7

Grayson sat behind his desk, the soft glow of his desk lamp casting long shadows across the polished wood. The office around him reflected years of hard work, the kind of space reserved for someone of his rank. The walls were lined with commendations, framed certificates, and awards from years of service. But the one that caught most eyes—his Medal of Honor—hung prominently in its frame, a reminder of a time when going against orders had saved lives. The quiet hum of the city outside the window contrasted with the storm of frustration building inside him.

The silence in the room felt heavy, pressing against him as he stared at the case files scattered across the desk. His fingers drummed lightly against the wood, the rhythm steady but his thoughts anything but. The father and brother—they hadn't said a word, and that was what gnawed at him. It wasn’t just fear. There was something else there, something deeper. They either trusted the masked man more than the law, or they were too scared to betray him. Either way, it left Grayson chasing ghosts.

His gaze drifted from the files to the wall, settling on the Medal of Honor. The memory of that day came rushing back—the heat of battle, the screams, the chaos. He had gone against orders, pulled his men out, and saved those kids. It had cost him three bullets and nearly his life, but he’d do it again in a heartbeat. That day had earned him the medal, but it had also left him with the understanding that sometimes, doing what was right meant stepping outside the lines. That same feeling tugged at him now, the weight of responsibility settling heavy on his shoulders.

Grayson leaned back in his chair, the worn cloth cushion giving a soft groan under his weight. His office might have the accolades on the walls, but the rest was simple—a basic metal desk, the kind you’d find in any government office. He preferred it that way. Fancy furniture didn’t make decisions any easier. He let out a slow breath, fingers rubbing at his temple, trying to piece together the mess laid out before him. Kids and families were disappearing, and no one seemed to care enough to connect the dots. It felt too much like the battlefield—chaos everywhere, but orders that never quite fit the reality.

He stared down at the files again, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. The papers in front of him felt more like fragments of a puzzle with pieces deliberately missing. The father and brother had been no help, clamming up the second the masked man came up in conversation. It wasn’t just fear—there was trust there too, a loyalty that ran deeper than anything Grayson had expected. Whoever this guy was, he had a hold on these people. The question that kept nagging at him was why?

Grayson’s thoughts shifted to the boy, and the planted drugs that had nearly destroyed the kid’s life. No seasoned gangster would be dumb enough to use his own son as a mule. That much was obvious to Grayson. Whoever planted the drugs had done it to send a message, but what kind of message? He’d threatened the DA, making it clear that if they didn’t drop the charges, he’d blow the whole case wide open. It was a risk, but there was no way he was letting a 12-year-old take the fall for something so obviously staged.

The DA hadn’t liked it, but Grayson didn’t care. The system wasn’t built to protect kids like that, not when the ones pulling the strings knew how to work the cracks. The boy had been set up, plain and simple. The drugs, the arrest—it was all a ploy to keep people scared, to keep them quiet. He’d seen this before, in warzones where the powerful silenced the weak. Same game, different battlefield, he thought, fingers drumming lightly on the edge of his desk.

Grayson rubbed his hand over his face, the tension building with each passing thought. He knew pushing the DA had been risky, but there was no other choice. He wasn’t about to let a setup like that go unchecked, not on his watch. The system was supposed to be better than this, supposed to protect the ones who couldn’t protect themselves. But sometimes it failed—sometimes, people like him had to step outside the lines to set things right. He’d done it before, and he’d do it again if it meant getting answers.

The planted drugs weren’t just about taking down the boy. They were a part of something bigger, something designed to keep everyone in that building in line. The families there, they were already on edge—immigrants trying to stay out of trouble, trying to survive. Grayson knew how fear worked, how it spread. You get a kid involved, and suddenly no one talks. That’s what they were banking on, and that’s why the father and brother had kept their mouths shut. But what gnawed at him was how the masked man fit into all this. Was he trying to protect them, or was he part of something even bigger?

Another thing gnawing at him was how the boy had been used as a pawn. It didn’t sit right. There were a million ways Grayson could’ve gotten a warrant to search that building, but instead, they’d gone after a kid—dragged him through the mud to make their case. It stank of manipulation, a power play designed to rattle everyone involved. Grayson had seen it before, in operations where innocent lives were used to justify bigger moves. It was dirty, and it had him wondering just how deep this thing went.

Grayson shifted in his chair, the soft creak of the worn cushion the only sound in the quiet office. The missing persons reports sat in front of him, each one a painful reminder of how many lives had fallen through the cracks. Kids, families—vanishing without a trace, and no one seemed to be looking too hard for them. It was the kind of thing that had become background noise in the city, but to Grayson, it was an alarm bell. He could see the pattern, the gaps that others either ignored or didn’t want to see. It was all connected—he just didn’t know how yet.

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He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, as he scanned the reports again. Each one told the same story—families slipping away in the night, no witnesses, no leads. The official narrative was always the same: runaways, undocumented families avoiding trouble. But Grayson knew better. These weren’t just random disappearances. They were part of a larger game, and the stakes were higher than anyone in the system seemed to care about. The question wasn’t if they were connected—it was how.

The reports frustrated him more with every read. He knew the signs, had seen them in warzones and on the streets. The patterns were too clean, too deliberate. But nobody else was asking the right questions. It felt like he was the only one staring down the barrel of something big, while everyone else chose to look the other way. Grayson clenched his fist, the tension building. How are we missing this? The system was too slow, too blind to see the real threat before it swallowed more people whole.

Grayson’s eyes flicked over to the black Stetson hanging on the rack by the door, the hat once belonging to his grandfather. It was a constant reminder of the values he was raised with—honor, grit, and doing the right thing, no matter the cost. That hat had seen its share of tough times, much like the man wearing it now. Grayson felt the weight of those lessons, the same ones that pushed him to keep digging when everyone else seemed ready to move on. He couldn’t turn a blind eye, not when there were still families out there waiting for answers.

He flipped through the pages again, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. The answers weren’t here, not in these reports. But the pattern was clear—whoever was behind this knew how to stay just out of reach. Grayson wasn’t about to let it go, though. He’d dealt with men who thought they could slip through the cracks, hiding behind layers of red tape and fear. But this wasn’t just bureaucracy failing—it was something more sinister, and Grayson knew he was on the verge of uncovering it. He just needed the right angle.

Grayson’s thoughts shifted back to the masked man—the one everyone was afraid to talk about. The body cam footage had been playing on a loop in his head, each frame more unbelievable than the last. The way the man moved, it was almost inhuman. Every strike was precise, calculated, like someone who had been trained for this their whole life. It wasn’t just about strength or speed; it was the kind of skill that came from years of drilling, maybe something more than just natural talent. Grayson had seen soldiers like that before—just not on these streets.

The more Grayson thought about it, the more the pieces began to click into place. There had been rumors during the war—genetic programs, hidden units, soldiers designed to be better, faster, stronger than the rest. Most of those stories had been swept under the rug, buried deep in classified files no one would ever see. But watching that footage, the way the masked man took down those men without breaking a sweat, Grayson couldn’t help but wonder if he was looking at one of them. A ghost from the old days, someone who’d slipped through the cracks just like the families he was trying to protect.

Grayson leaned back in his chair, the creak of the old cushion pulling him momentarily from his thoughts. If the masked man really was some kind of enhanced soldier, that raised even more questions. Why was he here, in this city, protecting immigrant families? What was his connection to the boy, and why risk everything to save him? It wasn’t just skill that bothered Grayson—it was purpose. Whoever this guy was, he wasn’t acting on impulse. There was a reason behind every move, and Grayson was determined to figure out what it was.

Grayson stood, pacing across the small office as his mind continued to turn over the possibilities. His eyes flicked to the computer screen on his desk, where an old Zorro movie was playing—more for background noise than anything. The scene had shifted to something that tugged at him: Zorro drinking from a jar while his brother’s severed head sat inside. The image lingered in Grayson’s mind, nagging at him for reasons he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It felt important, somehow, like there was something in that scene that he needed to see. But right now, the pieces weren’t connecting. Still, he thought, there’s something there.

Grayson’s eyes lingered on the screen a moment longer before turning away, but the scene stuck with him. Zorro and his brother—that bond, that cause for revenge. It nagged at Grayson, sitting in the back of his mind like an unsolved riddle. Maybe it’s nothing, he told himself, shaking off the thought. But it didn’t feel like nothing. That scene, the masked man, and the family he was protecting—it all felt connected somehow. And yet, Grayson couldn’t quite grasp the thread that tied it all together.

Grayson finally pulled himself away from the swirling thoughts and reached for his phone. Sylvia Gomez. The reporter who had been a thorn in his side but who was likely closer to the truth than anyone else. He dialed her number, keeping his tone polite but direct. “Not to be forward, ma’am, but would you mind if I come by your office and see what you have?” His voice was calm, the Texas drawl softening the edge, but his intent was clear—he needed information, and he needed it now.

“Hey, it’s Grayson. What’ve you got on those missing kids?” he asked, cutting straight to the point. No pleasantries, just business. Sylvia wasn’t one for small talk, and neither was he. There was a pause before she responded, her tone careful. “I’ve got enough to raise some serious questions, but nothing solid yet. Why? You finally interested in working together?” Grayson exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I need to see what you’ve got. Can we meet? Or should I come by your office?” “I’ll meet you, but I’m bringing a lawyer,” she said. “How about Lalo’s Diner? I’ll bring all my notes.” Grayson raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. She did her homework if she knows about Lalo’s. “Fine,” he replied. “Tomorrow. Noon.”

Grayson hung up the phone, leaning back in his chair. Lalo’s Diner, he thought. A small, no-frills spot with some of the best Tex-Mex in the city—and his go-to when he needed to think. He wasn’t sure how Sylvia had found that out, but it told him one thing: she wasn’t just a reporter fishing for a story. She’d done her homework, and she was serious. That was exactly what he needed right now—someone who was willing to dig deeper, just like he was.