A Photo In The Locker

The doorbell rang again, followed by the heavy, authoritative thud of a fist against the door.

"Chicago PD! Open up!"

Elena stood frozen in the kitchen, her heart hammering against her ribs. She watched Marcus walk toward the foyer. He didn't hurry. He moved with the slow, deliberate grace of a predator who knew exactly where his prey was.

He stopped in front of the heavy steel door and glanced at the security monitor. Six uniformed officers. One plainclothes detective in a rumpled suit.

Marcus unlocked the door and pulled it open just a few inches, his body blocking the entrance.

"Can I help you?" Marcus asked, his voice dripping with cold boredom.

The plainclothes detective stepped forward. He had a sweat-stained collar, a cheap tie, and a smirk that made Elena's skin crawl.

"Detective Ruiz, Chicago PD," the man said. He held up a piece of paper. "We have a warrant for the arrest of Dr. Elena Vasquez for the murder of Judge William Holloway."

Elena felt the blood drain from her face. She gripped the edge of the marble counter to keep from falling.

Marcus didn't even glance at the warrant. "On what evidence?"

"Anonymous tip," Ruiz said, his eyes darting past Marcus into the penthouse. "Plus, she was the last person to see him alive. Now step aside, Blackwood. This doesn't concern you."

"It does when she's my wife," Marcus said smoothly. "And it does when you're standing in my hallway at three in the morning with a fabricated warrant."

Ruiz's smirk faltered. "It's a legal warrant. Hand her over, or we come in and get her."

Elena watched Ruiz's hand drop to his holster. Behind him, two of the uniformed officers exchanged a nervous glance. One of them shifted his weight, and his sleeve rode up just enough for Elena to see the edge of a dark tattoo. A skull with a serpent wrapped around it.

The cartel's mark.

*They aren't here to arrest me,* Elena realized, her stomach dropping. *They're here to kill me and make it look like I resisted arrest.*

"Marcus," she whispered, her voice tight.

He didn't turn around. But he heard her.

Ruiz took a step forward, trying to push past Marcus. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be."

Marcus moved faster than Elena could track. He stepped back, his arm sweeping out to push her behind him. He pressed her hard against the wall of the foyer, his broad back a physical shield between her and the police.

His hand gripped her hip, pinning her in place. His lips brushed the shell of her ear.

"Don't move," he breathed. "Whatever you hear, whatever they say, you stay behind me."

Elena nodded, her breath catching in her throat. She could smell the cedar and gunpowder on his skin. She could feel the heat radiating off his body.

Marcus turned back to Ruiz, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "You have exactly ten seconds to leave before I make a phone call that ends your career."

Ruiz laughed. "You think your money scares me, Blackwood? The cartel owns this city. They own your—"

Marcus pulled a sleek black phone from his pocket. He didn't dial. He just held it up.

"I have the Chief of Police on speed dial," Marcus said. "I also have the DA. And I have a very good lawyer who would love to file a harassment suit against a detective who is clearly on a cartel payroll. How long do you think you'll last in prison, Ruiz? Because the cartel won't protect you once you're a liability."

Ruiz's face went pale. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the radio on his shoulder crackled.

*"Ruiz, stand down."* The voice was harsh and panicked. *"The Chief just got a call from the DA's office. We're getting heat. Stand down immediately."*

Ruiz stared at Marcus, pure hatred burning in his eyes.

"This isn't over," Ruiz spat. He pointed a finger at Elena, who was still pressed against the wall behind Marcus. "The cartel wants her dead. You can't protect her forever."

He turned and stormed down the hallway, his officers scrambling to follow.

Marcus closed the door and engaged the deadbolt. He turned around, his chest heaving slightly.

Elena pushed off the wall, her legs shaking. She looked up at him. His eyes were wild, a storm of rage and adrenaline.

"We have to go," Elena said, her voice surprisingly steady.

"What?" Marcus asked, his brow furrowing.

"To the hospital," Elena said. "The cartel framed me for the Judge's murder to flush me out. But they didn't find the first photo. The one of me in my kitchen. I left it in my locker in a panic. If it has fingerprints, or something the police can use to trace back to the cartel, it might clear my name."

Marcus stared at her for a long moment, his eyes sharp and assessing.

"Fine," he said, grabbing his keys from a bowl by the door. "But we take my car. And you stay within two feet of me at all times."

***

Forty-five minutes later, they were slipping through the underground ambulance bay of Lakeshore General Hospital.

The hospital was eerily quiet. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting long, distorted shadows against the walls. The smell of antiseptic and bleach was overwhelming.

Marcus moved with the silent grace of a ghost, his hand resting on the small of Elena's back, guiding her through the dark corridors.

They reached the doctors' locker room. The door was slightly ajar.

Marcus held up a hand, signaling her to stop. He pushed the door open with one finger. The room was pitch black. He reached into his jacket, pulled out a small tactical flashlight, and clicked it on.

The beam of light swept across the metal lockers, the wooden bench in the center of the room, and the small window at the far end.

"Stay close," Marcus whispered.

They stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind them, plunging them back into near darkness. The only light was the beam of Marcus's flashlight.

Elena's heart pounded as she walked toward her locker. Marcus followed so closely she could feel the heat of his chest against her back.

She reached locker number 42. She spun the combination lock with trembling fingers, the clicks echoing in the silent room.

She pulled the handle. The door swung open.

Elena's breath caught in her throat.

The first photo—the one of her in her kitchen—was gone.

In its place was a new polaroid.

She reached out, her fingers trembling, and picked it up. She angled it toward Marcus's flashlight.

The photo showed her foster mother, Karen. She was bound to a wooden chair, her silver hair disheveled, her eyes wide with terror. A strip of duct tape covered her mouth.

Elena's knees buckled. Marcus caught her by the elbow, holding her upright.

She flipped the polaroid over.

Written on the back in thick black marker was a message:

**Tick tock, Doctor. You have 10 hours left. Check your husband's car.**

Elena looked up at Marcus, her eyes wide with horror.

"My mother," she whispered. "And... your car."

Marcus's face went cold. The muscle in his jaw ticked.

He grabbed Elena's arm and pulled her toward the door.

"Run," he said. "Now."

***