McClane let out a bitter chuckle and led Soren into his private office, pulling the blinds shut.
He dropped into his chair with a heavy sigh.
"Don't bust my balls, kid."
"Los Santos has been a goddamn ghost town lately—every other day we get another bizarre murder and we can't even find a fingerprint. Feels like the whole city's cursed."
He locked eyes with Soren, voice dropping. "Level with me, brother. Something big coming? Give me a heads-up so I can at least get my affairs in order."
Soren paused. More weird deaths?
Looked like Mammon, trapped down in Hell, was finally getting impatient about his grand entrance.
But this was way above a regular cop's pay grade. Telling McClane would only get the guy killed.
Some secrets were better left unknown.
"Best thing you can do is keep your head down and your nose out of it. You know how this works."
Soren shifted gears. "The movie-theater incident a few days ago—that one yours?"
McClane's eyebrows shot up. "You're here about the Carrie girl?"
"What's the victim's story?" Soren didn't deny it.
"The victim…"
McClane rubbed his chin, thinking. "High-school kid with a drug record. His old man's a doctor at the psych ward…"
He hesitated, then added, "The mother's a little… off. Real nervous type, talking to herself half the time. Probably just grief."
He took another sip of coffee. "Right now they're glued to that girl like ticks, trying to squeeze every last cent out of her. But I remember she got bailed out a couple days ago, so I'm guessing…"
McClane looked at Soren, the implication clear.
Soren nodded. "My friend posted bail. She already paid them off once."
"I know," McClane spread his hands. "Off-the-books deal, no recording, no witnesses. They're playing dumb and we can't touch 'em."
"Can you set up a meet?" Soren's tone stayed flat.
McClane caught the chill in the younger man's voice and felt his neck hair stand up. He knew exactly what Soren was capable of—the punks Soren dropped off at the station usually arrived missing teeth or worse. The really unlucky ones came in pieces for the medical examiner to sort out.
"Easy, Soren. Don't go nuclear on me." McClane raised both palms. "I'll get them to a quiet little coffee joint on the outskirts. You two can talk privately."
He leaned in. "Handle it clean. I'll mop up whatever's left."
He paused, then added, "But you might want to move fast. Brass upstairs has started noticing the girl. She's on their radar now."
"Thanks."
Soren nodded, then tossed his empty cup in the trash.
As he turned to leave, something occurred to him. "One more thing—you know an Angela Dawson?"
"Angela Dawson?" McClane's eyes lit up with recognition. "Yeah. Her little sister jumped off a building a while back. Angela's been losing her mind trying to prove it wasn't suicide. I actually referred her to your office. She show up yet?"
"Something like that."
Soren didn't elaborate. He headed for the door.
…
Next morning – Outskirts of Los Santos
A retro diner famous for its cherry pie sat just off the highway. Even in an age of touch-screen everything, the place still had black-and-white checkerboard floors and old-school car-hop service. The old-fashioned vibe felt out of place in flashy Los Santos, but it had become a favorite hideout for burnt-out locals.
In a red vinyl booth by the window, Steve rubbed his face with both hands and let out a long, exhausted sigh.
In just a few months his family had been cursed by the devil himself.
First his weird mother-in-law died, then his youngest daughter was killed in some freak accident.
Now his only son was gone—and the body was so mangled they couldn't even put him back together for the funeral.
The back-to-back tragedies had ground the middle-aged man down to nothing.
Steve glanced sideways at his wife, Annie. She was chewing her nails raw, muttering under her breath like a woman who'd lost her mind.
He barely recognized her anymore.
Deep down Steve knew the whole mess had started with their worthless son. A grown man dressing up as a ghost and hiding in the women's bathroom to scare people? Getting his ass beat was practically karma.
He just never expected the girl to be that dangerous.
His original plan had been to take a quiet settlement, bury the kid, and move on. They were already well-off. A little time to grieve, then adopt another child and life would get back on track.
What he couldn't understand was why Annie kept sinking her teeth in like a street hustler, demanding more and more money.
At least the police had called yesterday—the girl's representative finally agreed to meet.
Steve clenched his fists under the table. Today he was ending this nightmare once and for all.
Ding-a-ling—
The door chimed. Steve looked up.
A young man in a long coat stepped inside, ordered an ice water at the counter with a polite smile, then walked straight toward their booth.
Soren stopped outside the table, face calm as he studied the couple.
The husband looked wrecked—hollow eyes, slumped shoulders. The wife was twitchy and wild-eyed.
Classic grief-stricken parents who'd been chewed up and spit out by life. No wonder they were clinging to the cash like it was oxygen.
Still, Soren figured he'd try talking first. If they wanted to play hardball, he knew a few other ways to persuade people.
The second he sat down, though, something felt off.
The woman reeked of rot—like something unclean had brushed up against her soul.
The stench was faint, but Soren had spent years around demons. He never missed that particular odor.
The smell of a demon.
His expression didn't change. He'd walked in expecting a simple shakedown.
Now it looked like the situation was a lot more interesting.
While Soren studied them, Steve was doing the same.
The kid across from him was way too young—smooth skin, no wrinkles. Looked like he'd just gotten out of high school.
Steve caught the cold glint in the young man's eyes when he sat down.
Impatience? Or a deliberate power play?
As a doctor who dealt with psych patients every day, Steve knew a thing or two about micro-expressions and mind games.
"Mr. Steve? Mrs. Annie?"
Soren rested his hands on the table, voice even.
Steve forced a tired smile and extended his hand. "That's me. This is my… wife, Annie."
He glanced at the disheveled woman beside him and sighed.
"You're the girl's representative?"