Devil's Due

Devil's Due

The sunrise painted Dragonfly's fairways in deceptive calm as Scott Belchak swept his modified putter across the chains of basket seven. The Strike Commander tag at his hip hummed—its tactical scanner detecting frequencies that shouldn't exist on a disc golf course. Three devices, masterfully concealed within the chain assembly. Professional work. 🎯🔍

"Sector's compromised," he reported into his secure comm, military training evident in his clipped tone. "Multiple surveillance points. Someone's been listening to every putt, every conversation." His trauma-plated boots left distinctive prints in the morning dew as he methodically checked each basket, building a map of the infiltration.

Back at the clubhouse, Internal Affairs had transformed the pro shop into an interrogation chamber. Detective Chen circled Captain Ironclad like a predator, her questions sharp as broken glass. "Your access logs, Captain. You were here at 5:15. Conveniently early for someone who claims ignorance about the explosion."

Ironclad's hand drifted unconsciously to his coat pocket—not for an imaginary revolver, but for the weight of responsibility. The destroyed evidence had been their only proof of the corruption eating the force from within. Now, with trust shattered and allies turning suspicious glares his way, the path forward seemed impossibly narrow.

Eric Pearson worked frantically at his station, Sector Marshal tag interfacing with what remained of their digital infrastructure. "Captain," he called quietly, "Belchak's found something. The blast patterns from this morning—they match three unsolved cases. All targeting corruption investigations." His tactical overlay painted a disturbing picture: someone had been systematically destroying evidence for years. 🧨💻

The morning stretched taut with tension. Officers who'd served together for decades now eyed each other like suspects. Officer Webb sat isolated, his banking records spread before Chen like an accusation. Three deposits, each exactly $2,000. Clean money, untraceable source. The kind of payments that bought silence or service.

On hole thirteen, movement caught Belchak's trained eye. Not the usual grounds crew or early players, but someone moving with purpose despite obvious fear. A figure in a rumpled suit, clutching a disc like a lifeline. Belchak approached with tactical caution, recognizing the body language of someone about to break.

"I can't do this anymore," the stranger said, voice cracking. "The things I've seen, the things I've helped arrange..." They held out the disc—a limited edition stamped with UV-reactive ink. "I'm done being a Shadow."

The confession tumbled out in fragments. Marcus Volkov, former pro player turned Shadow operative. Recruited after a career-ending controversy, promised redemption through service to The Whisper. But watching the Regulators tear each other apart had finally broken something inside him. 🎭💔

"There's a mole," Volkov whispered, glancing nervously at the surveillance devices Belchak had marked. "Someone wearing a Regulator tag but dancing to The Whisper's tune. They planted those charges. They've been feeding information for months."

Belchak's military instincts kicked in. This wasn't just investigation anymore—this was combat. "We need to move fast," he told Volkov. "Can you identify them?"

Back at the clubhouse, Ironclad faced Chen's relentless questioning. The captain's notes rustled in his pocket as he pulled them out, squinting at his own handwriting from the morning. "I was following a tip," he said carefully. "Someone called about suspicious activity. I thought I could prevent..." He trailed off, realizing how convenient it sounded.

"This whole operation reeks of a setup, if you ask me," Ironclad muttered, more to himself than Chen. The pieces were falling into place—not the paranoid conspiracy he usually imagined, but something far more insidious. Someone had orchestrated this perfectly, using the Regulators' own procedures against them.

Scott Belchak burst through the door, Volkov in protective custody behind him. "Captain, we have a witness. Former Shadow operative ready to identify our mole." The Strike Commander tag gleamed as he shifted into tactical mode, securing exits and sightlines with practiced efficiency.

The room erupted. Chen demanded jurisdiction. Webb protested innocence. Eric's fingers flew across his tablet, cross-referencing access logs with Volkov's intelligence. And through it all, Ironclad stood still, processing the implications. A mole. Someone he'd trusted, worked beside, maybe even called friend.

"The devices in the chains," Belchak reported, "they're transmitting on police frequencies. Creating ghost communications, false reports. Someone's been using our own channels to coordinate this." His specialized 'Ricochet Rounds' technique had revealed the full network—a web of surveillance that turned their stronghold into a glass house. 🕸️📡

Volkov's testimony cut through the chaos like a blade. Names, dates, operations. The Shadow network laid bare by one of their own. But when asked to identify the mole, he hesitated. "They're here," he said finally. "In this room. Someone who's been above suspicion because they helped investigate the very crimes they committed."

The silence stretched unbearably. Every officer present mentally cataloged their colleagues, searching for the traitor among them. Ironclad's mind raced—who had access? Who had opportunity? Who had been conveniently absent during key discoveries?

Then Eric's tablet chimed. His sector analysis had found something—a pattern in the ghost transmissions. Each one originated from a specific tag frequency. A tag that was supposed to be in evidence lockup. A tag that had been logged out two days prior for "standard inventory."

All eyes turned to Officer Marcus Webb. His Protocol Enforcer tag pulsed weakly, its frequency matching Eric's analysis perfectly. The three deposits suddenly made sense—payment for services rendered. For evidence destroyed. For trust betrayed.

"It was never about the money," Webb said quietly, his facade finally cracking. "The Whisper knew things. About my daughter's medical bills. About the corners I'd already cut to pay them. One favor became two. Two became twenty. And then I was in too deep to stop." 🏥💰

The arrest was swift, Belchak's military precision ensuring Webb had no chance to destroy further evidence or signal his handlers. But even as they led him away, Ironclad felt no satisfaction. The Shadows had played them perfectly, using a good man's desperation against them all.

Chen's investigation pivoted immediately. With Webb's confession and Volkov's testimony, the real picture emerged. The Regulators weren't corrupt—they'd been surgically sabotaged. The destroyed evidence could be partially reconstructed. The investigation could continue.

As the sun reached its zenith, Captain Ironclad stood on the eighteenth tee, studying the UV message The Whisper had left. "Your partner says hello." The words burned deeper now. If The Whisper could turn Webb, could orchestrate such elaborate deception, what else were they capable of?

Scott Belchak approached, his tactical assessment complete. "Captain, we've secured the course. The surveillance network's been neutralized. But The Whisper will know we've found their mole. They'll escalate."

Ironclad nodded grimly. The battle was far from over, but for the first time in days, they had momentum. The Regulators had been bloodied but not broken. Trust could be rebuilt. Justice could still prevail.

"Assemble the team," Ironclad ordered. "Full tactical briefing in twenty minutes. If The Whisper wants to play shadow games, we'll bring the light." His hand found his coat pocket again, but this time with purpose rather than habit. Inside, next to his battered notebook, was Volkov's UV disc—proof that even in the darkest shadows, conscience could still spark redemption. 🌅⚖️

As officers scrambled to implement Belchak's security protocols, a figure in a plague doctor mask observed from the tree line beyond hole nine. Neither Shadow nor Regulator, they served a different purpose entirely. The mask tilted thoughtfully. The game was entering its final phase, and soon all players would discover what truly lay beneath the city's disc golf veneer.

The day had brought betrayal and revelation in equal measure. The Regulators had survived Internal Affairs' scrutiny and exposed the corruption within their ranks. But The Whisper's message lingered like smoke—personal, haunting, and promising that the worst was yet to come. 🎭🌃