Crimson Ties

Vince's mind replayed Johnson's words like a broken record. The evidence had been swapped—right under his nose. His jaw clenched as the realization hit. That old man. The one with the heavy boxes. His fingers curled into fists as he retraced the scene in his head. Every detail screamed misdirection. The act had been too smooth, too deliberate.

"Son of a bitch," he growled, spinning on his heel. His boots thundered against the tiled floor as he bolted toward the station's entrance. The cold air hit him as he shoved open the doors, his eyes scanning the bustling street beyond. His gaze darted from one face to another, each second ramping up the tension coiling in his chest.

But there was nothing. No old man. No heavy boxes. Just the usual chaos of city life.

"Fuck!" Vince hissed through gritted teeth, running a hand through his hair. The ache in his gut told him he was too late, and he hated that feeling more than anything.

"I will get the CCTV footage later" He grumbled.

Outside, tucked behind a crumbling brick wall, the old man lingered in the shadows. His lips curved into a sly smirk as he glanced toward the station entrance. His tattoo—a snake coiling menacingly around his neck—peeked out from beneath the collar of his tattered coat. In his gnarled hand, he clutched the stolen evidence: the bloodied bark. His fingers tightened possessively around it, as if the object itself held some dark secret.

Without hesitation, he melded into the crowd, his movements calculated and unhurried. The city swallowed him whole, leaving Vince with nothing but frustration and the weight of questions unanswered.

Back at the station entrance, Vince leaned against the railing, his mind dissecting the brief encounter. Something about the man had been off from the beginning. The supposed "heavy" boxes hadn't slowed him. His steps had been light, deliberate—too much for someone burdened with real weight.

His outfit nagged at Vince's memory. A uniform that didn't match the job, boots too polished for a worker, and then the tattoo—a clear, bold mark of affiliation. Not just a design, but a statement. A message for those who recognized it.

And that smell. Vince's brows furrowed as the memory struck—a faint but distinct scent of saltwater, mingled with grime. The harbor. It was more than a guess; it was a lead.

Yet another piece clicked into place. The evidence swap wasn't a random act. The bark wasn't just evidence; it was leverage, a threat, or perhaps a loose end that needed tying. Whoever the man worked for, they were meticulous—pros, not amateurs. Vince's gut screamed hitmen, smugglers, or enforcers.

But then another thought wormed its way in: how the hell had the man accessed the evidence room? That wasn't an open-door policy. With a sinking feeling, Vince headed to the log records. His stomach twisted as his eyes locked onto the name: Captain Simon. A stolen or loaned card—either way, it complicated things.

He shoved the thought aside. There was no time for politics. The harbor was his next stop.

Bog Bay City Harbor

The Bog Bay City Harbor sprawled before him like a beast, its steel and salt-soaked veins pulsating with life. The sharp tang of the sea filled his lungs, mingling with the oily stench of fuel and rust. Towering cranes loomed over the docks, their skeletal frames creaking as they hauled cargo from battered ships. Workers moved like ants, shouting commands, unloading crates, and weaving through the maze of stacked containers.

Vince scanned the harbor, his eyes narrowing. The air here wasn't just alive—it buzzed with something darker. This wasn't just a hub of trade; it was a den for shadows. The lines between legitimate work and underground dealings blurred here.

His thoughts turned to the two forces that ruled this territory. The Black Marlins operated like ghosts, their fishing vessels a perfect cover for smuggling drugs, stolen goods, and weapons. Their leader, Eli "Hook" Calder, was a mastermind who rarely got his hands dirty. Ruthless, calculating, and always a step ahead, Calder didn't make mistakes.

The Iron Fangs were the opposite—a gang of blunt force and fear. They didn't need subtlety; they thrived on chaos. Led by Dante "Wolf" Reyes, their grip on the harbor's eastern side was unshakable. Extortion, racketeering, human trafficking—the Fangs made no secret of their operations, relying on intimidation to keep anyone from talking.

Vince's instincts whispered that the old man worked for one of them. Both groups had the resources and reach to pull off the evidence swap. He just had to find the thread and pull it.

Vince made his way deeper into the harbor, weaving past stacked containers and abandoned machinery until he reached a dilapidated house at the edge of the docks. The structure looked ready to collapse, its paint peeling, windows cracked, and an air of abandonment clinging to it. But it wasn't the state of the house that caught Vince's attention—it was the symbol scratched into the wall near the entrance: three jagged slashes, unmistakably the mark of the Iron Fangs.

He stood there for a moment, his hand brushing the hilt of his holstered gun. This had to be the right place. If his memory served him, this was where Dante "Wolf" Reyes, the Iron Fangs' leader, conducted his business when he wasn't out causing chaos. Vince had only been here once before, years ago, during a bust that had gone sideways.

Pushing the door open, he stepped inside. The air was stale, carrying the faint scent of mold and oil. The interior was as rundown as the exterior—broken furniture scattered across the floor, walls covered in graffiti, and shards of glass crunching under his boots. He scanned the room, taking in every detail. Empty.

No signs of life, no movement, nothing but silence. The dust layering the surfaces suggested the place hadn't been used in weeks, if not months. Vince frowned, stepping further in. His eyes darted to the corners, searching for any clue—a piece of paper, a cigarette butt, something that hinted at where Reyes or his gang might be.

He muttered under his breath, frustration creeping in. "Damn it, where are you, Wolf?"

Vince scanned the desolate room one last time, his lips curling into a wicked smile. "Alright, Wolf," he muttered, his tone dark with amusement. "Since you don't want to play nice, I guess I'll have to change the rules."

The harbor hummed with its usual chaos—seagulls circling overhead, the briny air carrying the mix of fresh fish and diesel fumes. Workers shouted orders, crates slammed onto wooden docks, and the steady clink of chains rattling against metal created a rhythmic background. Near a battered fishing boat, however, a heated exchange drew attention from a few passersby.

An older fisherman with a sunburned face and trembling hands stood his ground, gripping a torn net like it was his last lifeline. His voice, rough from years of yelling over the waves, cracked as he pleaded, "I told you, I'll get the money! I just need another week."

Opposite him loomed a thug with a thick build, his face twisted in disdain. He wore a black leather jacket too clean for the grime of the harbor, a small fang tattoo on the back of his hand, his boots scuffing the wooden planks as he stepped closer. A faded scar ran across his cheek, lending an edge to his already menacing presence.

"We've heard that one before," the thug said, his voice dripping with malice. "Guess it's time to teach you what happens when you waste my boss's time." He grabbed the front of the fisherman's jacket, jerking him forward.

The fisherman struggled, his voice rising in panic. "Please, I just—"

The thug interrupted him with a cruel laugh, tossing him back like a ragdoll before rolling up his sleeves. "You're lucky I haven't smashed your boat yet. Consider this a warning."

A small crowd began to gather, murmuring among themselves but staying at a safe distance. Harbor disputes weren't unusual, and nobody wanted to get involved.

Just as the thug raised his fist, ready to deliver the first blow, a blur of movement flashed behind him. His arm froze mid-swing as a gloved hand clamped over his mouth, and he was yanked backward with startling force. The commotion silenced, the crowd gasping as the thug disappeared into the narrow alley between two warehouses.

The fisherman staggered back, clutching his chest in shock, his eyes darting toward the alley where the thug had vanished. The only sound left was the gentle lapping of the waves and the faint clinking of chains in the distance.