Page 178 of Controlled Burn
While the department has yet to issue an official statement, sources confirm Internal Affairs and federal authorities are now involved.
This is a developing story. We’ll continue to update you as more information becomes available.”
Chapter 60
Fallout
The fallout started before dawn.
The video had only been live for hours, but it already bled across every phone screen, every group chat, every whisper inside the station walls. Reporters camped outside HQ. IA moved fast. Too fast. Suspensions hung over the house like smoke, names thrown around like accelerant.
Brooks was suddenly “on leave pending investigation.”
But McKenna knew better.
He was already gone.
They met in the bay, where the morning light barely touched the rigs and the air still carried the echo of a shift that hadn’t quite ended.
Dean stood with his arms crossed, the tension in his jaw wired tight. McKenna was already there—folder in hand, face unreadable. Talia felt it like a live wire between them. Something had shifted. The game had changed.
"He opened it," McKenna said. "The fake file. We tracked the login—external IP. Not from the station."
Talia's chest tightened. Not from fear—but fury. The whole city had seen her body. Her humiliation. And Brooks had watched from the dark, feeding on it.
Dean's brows pulled tight. "Where?"
McKenna turned her phone off. "A rental unit off Mercury. Unit 312. We traced the burner alias to his city email. No paperwork, no security cams, all cash. He's sloppy now. Rushed."
Talia stepped forward. "We planted the bait. Let's see if the trap holds."
Dean gave a sharp nod. "We go in quietly. The FBI's been notified, but we can't wait. We're eyes and ears—unless we see something actionable."
Dean’s stomach churned. He wasn’t sure what scared him more—what they’d find inside… or the fact that some part of him wanted blood.
But none of them believed that. Not really.
They were done watching.
The wind knifed through the alley, rattling trash lids and slicing between shadowed storage sheds. The address led to a forgotten corner of an aging self-storage facility—Unit 312. Corrugated steel, bolted shut. No markings. Just a fake lease under a phony name and too many off-the-books modifications for comfort.
McKenna had followed him for weeks and traced his digital breadcrumbs. Flagged every anomaly. And one night, he slipped—just enough to lead her here.
Now, they were ready.
She parked a block away. Dean killed the lights. They moved on foot, boots crunching gravel, tension coiled in every step.
No signage. No exterior wiring. Just a bolted-on panel door—already cracked open. The padlock clipped and tossed.
Dean exchanged a glance with McKenna. "This is it," she murmured. He nodded, hand on his radio.
They went in.
The air hit first—stagnant, humid, burned. It smelled like scorched plastic and copper dust, the air soured by sweat and obsession. A bunker built for hiding. For hoarding. For hurting.
Flashlights swept across concrete. First: boxes. Then binders. Stacks of manila folders labeled in shaky block print. Shelves of drives, spools of cabling, and photos—hundreds—pinned with surgical precision to corkboard walls.
All of them were the same girl. Talia.
