THE HIDDEN PARK SNARE

Rodriguez kept his voice low as he glanced toward the uniforms spread across the park. “I searched the serial through the mobile terminal,” he said. “These gloves entered central precinct evidence three years ago, tied to a copper-wire theft case.”

I fixed on the stamped code inside the rubber cuff, and the pavement seemed to tilt under my boots.

“So somebody signed them out,” I said.

“That’s the problem—they didn’t.” Rodriguez’s fingers tightened around the evidence bag. “The electronic chain says both gloves remain sealed in Locker 42, Level B, inside the secure vault.”

The sounds of the park faded behind a wall of cold silence.

The man in the gray jacket had not scavenged specialized gear from some job site. Someone had handed him equipment stolen from our own department.

That person had clearance enough to enter a guarded evidence room, break into a sealed package, remove the gloves, and rewrite the inventory trail afterward.

Captain Miller’s warning returned with brutal clarity.

Trust nobody right now.

This was bigger than a street-level attacker trying to hurt Titan. A mole with authority was operating inside the Jacksonville Police Department.

And Miller had instructed me to bring Titan, in a compromised SUV, into the central precinct garage.

That underground maze of concrete was the mole’s home field.

The second I drove down that ramp, Titan and I could be locked inside. A staged fuel leak, dead lights, a planted prisoner with a blade—there were a hundred ways to make sure my partner never reached court in the morning.

“Rodriguez.” I made myself speak evenly. “Those gloves do not go into the evidence system.”

His eyes widened. “Officer Mercer, procedure says—”

“Procedure has been breached.” The words came out hard enough to stop him. “Put them in your personal lockbox. Don’t discuss them with anyone.”

“If I don’t submit them, somebody will ask questions.”

“Let them ask tomorrow. The instant you create a record, the thief learns we recovered them.”

Rodriguez studied my face, saw that I meant every word, then gave a reluctant nod. “All right. Watch yourself, Danny.”

I left the SUV where it sat.

My radio came off my belt first. I shut it down completely instead of trusting another transmission over department channels.

Then I pulled out my issued phone and held the power button until its screen went black.

Titan watched me, ears forward, reading the change in my body before I spoke.

“We’re changing routes, partner.”

I kept him tight at my knee and headed away from the cruiser. We slipped behind the houses bordering the park, moving through narrow alleys and shadowed service lanes.

Several blocks later, we reached a battered all-night diner on Fourth Street, its neon sign buzzing above greasy windows.

Inside, I used the payphone near the restrooms to contact an old friend, retired K9 handler Marcus.

Marcus lived beyond the city on a small stretch of swamp ground, disconnected from nearly everything modern. He asked no questions when he heard my voice.

He simply gave me the code for his gate.

About an hour later, I gave a neighborhood teenager fifty dollars to take his battered Honda Civic toward the county line.

Titan and I stayed folded beneath a dark blanket in the back seat while the kid drove, every turn making me wonder whether headlights would appear behind us.

Night had swallowed the sky by the time we rolled up to the rusted iron gates surrounding Marcus’s land. Cicadas screamed in the blackness, and bullfrogs answered from unseen water.

Marcus waited on the porch of an elevated wooden cabin, a shotgun resting easy against his arm. Without much ceremony, he tossed me brass keys.

“Back cabin,” he said, barely meeting my eyes. “No electricity. No Wi-Fi. You came in on the only road, and nobody knows that place exists.”

“I appreciate it, Marc. I’ll repay you.”

“Bring me decent bourbon if you’re still breathing tomorrow,” he muttered, then turned toward his cabin.

Titan and I followed a choked dirt trail through the brush for nearly a quarter mile. The smaller cabin waited at the end, cramped, dusty, and scented with damp wood and mildew.

I secured the thick door behind us, set the deadbolt, and dragged the curtains across the lone window.

For the first time since the park, a shaking breath escaped my chest.

No GPS signal. No active phone. No police radio. Nothing for the department traitor to trace. We only needed to last until eight, then get Titan straight to the courthouse.

I removed Titan’s harness. He gave his coat a vigorous shake, circled the worn rug twice, and lowered himself with a weary exhale.

I sat on the edge of the dusty mattress as the adrenaline drained away, leaving every muscle hollow and weak.

The night was finished. We had made it somewhere safe.

A harsh mechanical ring ripped through the swamp’s total quiet.

I went still.

Titan’s head jerked upright.

The sound came from the little wooden table in the corner: a yellowed rotary telephone buried under dust, a line Marcus had said had been dead for more than ten years.

It rang again, shrill and impossible.

I rose, one trembling hand near my holstered weapon, crossed the complaining floorboards, and stared at the ancient receiver.

When it rang once more, I drew in a breath, lifted the receiver, and answered the impossible phone.