Page 101 of Scornful

"I know that too," Ortega says. "I also know who does. Same person who's been flooding my streets with fentanyl-laced everything. Same person who has an issue with your club."

Ortega knows about the Patriot, interesting.

"Let's talk in private," Runes suggests, and we head to the office.

Once the door closes, Ortega drops the official act.

He slumps in the chair, suddenly looking even older and more tired.

"I've been hunting that psychopath for three years," he admits. "Lost my nephew to his poisoned dope last summer. Sixteen years old. Good kid, straight-A student. Tried what he thought was Xanax at a party. Dead in fifteen minutes."

"Sorry for your loss," Runes says, and means it.

We understand what losing family does to a person.

"I'm tired of playing by rules that protect him," Ortega continues. "Tired of kids dying because this sick fuck cuts everything with fentanyl. I know you have your own issues with him. The explosion at the Strömberg house wasn't exactly subtle."

So, he knows about that too.

This cop's done his homework.

"What are you proposing?" Fenrir asks carefully.

Ortega sets down the evidence bag, leans forward. "Unofficially? You help me get his lieutenants—the ones I can prosecute. I’ll build cases that will stick. But the Patriot himself?" He meets Runes' eyes. "I wouldn't be upset if he had an accident before I could arrest him."

"That's a dangerous statement for a cop," I spit out.

"Three kids died last night," Ortega snaps. "Youngest was fourteen. Found her in her bedroom, foam coming out of her mouth. Her parents thought she was trying marijuana for the first time. It wasn’t, it was something harder, and I get kids want to experiment…but." His voice cracks slightly. "I had to tell them their daughter died because some asshole wanted to maximize profits by cutting his drugs with poison."

The room goes quiet.

We all have kids in our lives—children, siblings, grandchildren.

"I can't put anything on paper," Ortega continues, pulling himself together. "But I can make sure certain response times are slow. Certain evidence gets misplaced. Certain witnesses don't get interviewed too thoroughly."

"We might have intel on some locations, some I’d be willing to share with you," Runes says carefully.

I speak up. "We just learned about a safe house. North side, Willowbrook Drive."

Ortega nods grimly. "He left there two hours ago. I had surveillance on it, but my hands were tied. No warrant, no probable cause the judges would accept. The ones he hasn't bought, anyway."

"Convenient," Fenrir mutters.

"His organization is bigger than you think," Ortega warns. "Shell companies, offshore accounts, cops on his payroll—including two in my own department. But he's also getting sloppy. The overdoses are bringing federal heat. DEA's sniffing around. FBI's interested too."

Runes leans back in his chair, "So you want to clean up your department's reputation before the feds do it for you."

"I want that bastard stopped," Ortega speaks plainly. "I don't care who does it or how. You get him, I get his network. Everyone wins except the Patriot."

"And you can live with that?" Fenrir asks. "Knowing what we'll do to him?"

Ortega stands, straightening his cheap tie. "My nephew's parents ask me every week if we've caught his killer. You know what I tell them? That we're working on it. That justice takes time." His face hardens. "I'm tired of lying to them. So yeah, I can live with whatever you do to that piece of shit."

They shake on it—an unholy alliance between us and law enforcement, something I never thought would happen.

After Ortega leaves, we head back to the basement.

Marcus hangs limp in his chains, blood pooling beneath him.

---