After Viktor had filled him in, he returned to his car to grab a pair of latex gloves and a few evidence bags. Bent cop or not, this was still a crime scene—and he’d treat it as such, on his own terms.

  He moved through the warehouse, collecting anything that might offer a clue to Mikal’s disappearance. Bloodstains. Bullet fragments. A discarded coffee cup. Every object held data, and data was power.

  Viktor, still visibly shaken, had agreed it would be best to call in the NYPD and have the case officially declared a homicide or kidnapping. That meant drones, forensic units, and cyber investigators—resources Tucker could utilise.

  But the investigation would run on two levels.

  Level One: The official story. Tucker, the lead investigator, is running the case by the book.

  Level Two: The real story. Tucker filters every piece of evidence before it reaches the system. Anything that could incriminate Viktor, his family, or his empire would quietly vanish. Only the information needed to find Mikal—or his body—would be submitted.

  A controlled truth.

  Tucker’s eyes scanned the room, instincts pulling him toward the living area. Something digital. Something personal.

  Then he found it.

  Mikal’s laptop was tucked away in a drawer.

  He slipped it into an evidence bag and turned to Viktor, who still stood near the bloodstained floor, fists clenched.

  “Take this with you. I’ll have one of my corrupt nerds check it out—see if there are digital breadcrumbs.” Tucker kept his tone casual, though his mind was already working the angles. “My guess? It’s tied to the mugging bots. You haven’t had beef with any other crime families lately, have you?”

  Viktor exhaled slowly. His head shook once. “No… Find them, Tucker. Whoever took him. Do you think he’s alive?”

  Tucker studied him. The grief was raw—his hardened features strained, his usual steel demeanour cracked just enough to reveal the father beneath.

  For the first time in decades, Viktor Romanov looked human.

  “If he’s alive, Viktor, we’ll find him.”

  Viktor raised an eyebrow and gave a half-smirk. “You sound like a movie cop, Tucker.”

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  The moment of levity vanished as quickly as it came. He tucked the laptop under his arm and turned toward the elevator.

  “I’ll leave one of my boys here—we’ll say he found the blood,” Viktor said.

  Tucker called after him. “I’ll need you and your men’s prints to eliminate them from the scene.”

  Viktor froze mid-step.

  A thought surfaced—one he should’ve remembered earlier. There is a hidden CCTV camera in the ceiling. Installed to monitor his son’s more reckless impulses. A silent watcher.

  Viktor decided not to mention it. Not yet.

  Instead, Viktor muttered over his shoulder, “The ones who still have fingerprints, yeah. Sure.” His voice was quieter now. “Find him, Tucker. Don’t let me down.”

  Tucker couldn’t tell if it was a plea or a threat. Probably both.

  His phone buzzed.

  The robotic voice of Police Buddy Bot—his department-assigned AI partner—filtered through: polite, precise, and unnervingly cheerful.

  “Inspector Tucker, I am en route to your location. I have acquired your dandelion coffee and snacks. Estimated arrival: fifteen minutes.”

  Tucker rubbed his temples. The bot was helpful, sure, but its pre-programmed enthusiasm grated on his nerves.

  He pulled aside the bodyguard Viktor had left behind—Davos—and drilled him on what to say. When the robot arrived, Davos had to act as if Tucker had never set foot inside the warehouse. No hesitation. No slip-ups. The robot would be recording everything.

  Satisfied the goon could stick to the script, Tucker stepped outside to wait.

  Right on time, the robot appeared, striding up with a paper tray in its metallic hands. Tucker took the coffee and grimaced after a sip. It was cold.

  His irritation had nothing to do with the temperature.

  “It’s cold, asshole,” he muttered, throwing the cup in the robot’s face. The dark liquid slid down its polished frame. But the anger wasn’t aimed at the machine—it was aimed at the cops who might be watching through its eyes from NYPD HQ.

  The robot, unfazed, wiped the excess coffee from its face. “Perhaps next time, Inspector Tucker, you will allow me to take the car. That way, I can deliver your refreshments more promptly.”

  Tucker exhaled sharply. “Wipe your face. I don’t want you contaminating my crime scene.”

  The robot tilted its head. “It’s a crime scene? How do you know that, Inspector Tucker?”

  Tucker paused mid-step. Think fast.

  “Because my informant said something happened,” he shot back. “He’s upstairs.”

  Nice try, dent-head. You’ll need sharper circuits to outplay me.

  Upstairs, Davos played his part well, pointing to the bloodstains, explaining how he’d come to check on his good friend Mikal and found the mess.

  The robot’s sensors whirred softly. “What is Mikal’s full name? Do you have a photo of him for identification?”

  Tucker didn’t even glance at it. “I ask the questions. Go to the car and suit up—I want you in forensic mode.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Moments later, the robot returned in a sterile forensic suit, lugging a sleek metal case packed with tools. It set to work, swabbing blood, dusting for prints, and taking high-res images for the NYPD database.

  Tucker moved downstairs and stepped outside.

  Circling the red-brick building, he searched for signs of forced entry. Nothing. The air buzzed with forklift engines and distant dockworker shouts.

  The Hudson stretched before him, its surface shifting like the scales of a massive serpent. The sun gleamed over the water.

  He strolled toward the dock’s edge, pulling out his vape for a slow drag—not out of craving, just to buy a moment to think.

  Did they come by boat? Did they take the bodies—Mikal, maybe Seb—with them?

  This wasn’t just a missing person. Too much blood.

  Surely Viktor knew that too.

  As Tucker neared the edge, he glanced down at the water—green, translucent, gently slapping the dock.

  Then he saw it.