“Too bad, huh?” the Assistant Superintendent of Police said with a sigh as he noticed Taylor exiting the base by himself, only slightly bruised. The officer glanced around at the corpses lying about the battlefield. “So many casualties,” Barrett commented. “But at least the gang seems to be all but taken out. You win some, you lose some, I guess.”

Matthew Taylor frowned at him, his eyes empty. “I have something I need to check out.” He walked over to his police car.

“Oh? Well, do as you wish. I won’t have to be worried about your safety anyway.” Barrett laughed. This guy was always up to something, and then going on to the next thing.

Taylor ignored him and entered the car. “Jesus, Devon. And all of you guys. Gone. Dead!” He stared blankly at the windscreen. 

“What the heck did you die for?!” He tapped aggressively on his phone, trying to dig up something very specific. With one hand on the steering wheel, he dialled Charles Vance’s number. There was no response. 

“Could it really have been that Richard Tate and the gang did not want to kill us? Or that that wasn’t them?” He thought back. Once he had seen the 1564 on their balaclavas, he might have confirmed prematurely that it was them. But he could swear that he had seen Tate and Xander. Unless they were merely impostors. When he considered The Hangman’s words, anyone with that striking blue hair of Tate and that dusty orange face of Xander could have passed for them from a distance. Yet he was certain that he had seen their faces clearly, and they were identical. In any case, Charles Vance had to have the answers. 

The call was not answered. 

He called again. It was declined. 

He called again. It was declined again. 

“Well, how convenient. Uncontactable? Again? What is the meaning of this?!” He tugged oh his hair. He breathed. “Fine. His answer can wait. I’ll visit him later. I’ll ask someone else for confirmation.” 

Taking a black notebook out of his pocket, he contemplated bitterly, the fire rising in his heart. To draw all of Team AB into a gang fight. If it’s not Vance, it has to be one of his enemies. An enemy trying to destroy his allies. One of his enemies our team has antagonised as well. Their shared enemies. One of them on this list wanted to screw them up.

There were many of these enemies, to be sure. That was the problem of offending too many people. But not all of them had been involved with gangs. Not all of them had been involved with this gang. 

Samuel Ferguson? He would be the last person to love Vance. He had the power and devices to stage something like that, surely. But that was not his style. He wanted to appear totally clean and moral and upright. No. Whoever did this was far crazier. A madman. This didn’t make sense. Vance’s only other rival of any consequence was already dead. But perhaps not. Perhaps he was striking back from the grave! His spirit lived on! His vengeful spirit who would seize him wherever he went, speaking his name in blood. Like that ghost in that play.

Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?

That’s when Devon had glanced over his desk and seen him frantically searching it up on his laptop. When Jeff was still around. When John was there. God knows if Williamson would turn up ever again. Was Walter Lawyer here somewhere? His spirit. His ghost. Coming back for a haunting. A haunting.

No. He was going mad himself now. Devon was dead, and he was mad. 

But no. Whoever did this was madder. A true madman. 

Or a mad woman.

He looked up into the depths of the night sky. 

Yes. It might just be worth checking.

With a click of his tongue, he drove off.

*

In the glow of his mansion, Vance had his back against his large leather couch, up on the top floor of his mansion. He fiddled with the emerald ring on his finger and stretched his legs out on the leather stool in front of him. Realising his campaign materials and cash records were there, he swept them onto the ground with his feet and picked up a magazine from a side table, the Taured Property Investor. “Good things are coming.”

A call came from an unknown number as he flipped it open. Annoyed, he ignored one, only for another one to come. He declined it. 

“Jesus, man, give me a break.” A beep came from his computer. He looked at the notification on the screen. His public approval rating in Vine Creek had risen from 40% to over 70%. Ferguson’s had dropped massively—oh dear, he’d failed to clean up crime in the city! Walter Lawyer’s was now formally non-existent. “Ah, those voters with their commendable discretion and critical thinking. With one man out of the way, you just switch to the next man. Nicely done. I appreciate it. However, there are quite a few more promising people from those little parties that have banded together. They are going to be a bother… Perhaps I should send them away…” 

Another call from the same number. He declined it once more. He scrolled down on his computer. “Walter Lawyer’s private funeral wake held this week. Ah, old news now. Maybe I’ll pay a visit.” He scoffed.

His doorbell rang. He looked through the screen of his security system. It was a policeman, panting heavily.

“What the hell do you want—?!” Vance spoke through the intercom.

“I am Inspector Matthew Taylor. I’m with the Vine Creek Police Department—”

“Huh? What do you want with me? I’ll have you know, I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Ah, well, I’m sure you haven’t. That’s alright. But we can talk about that later. Right now, I am concerned that your life is in danger. And it is my job to ensure you—and every citizen around here—remain safe and sound.”