21 Three faint knocks from inside a coffin revealed a secret that nearly went six feet underground.

The next morning, the police precinct was ablaze with activity. Adrian stood in the office of Captain Richard Vance—his commanding officer—with a bandage wrapped tightly around his forearm.

"You're out of your mind, Salim!" Captain Vance barked, slamming a fist onto his desk. "You brought a hospital room down, assaulted a man who hasn't even been identified yet, and you're claiming your wife was buried alive by a crime syndicate? Do you hear how insane this sounds?"

"Look at the toxicology reports, Captain!" Adrian shouted back, tossing the paper onto the desk. "She was poisoned with Tetrodotoxin! The man in the hospital tried to finish her off with potassium chloride! Someone wanted Preston dead and erased without an autopsy!"

Captain Vance didn't look at the papers. Instead, he slowly leaned back in his leather chair, crossing his arms. "Preston’s family is extremely wealthy, Adrian. The Sherrill Estate worth over fifty million dollars. Families like that have internal drama. You're a police officer, not a private investigator for your wife's rich relatives. You need to step back. Take administrative leave."

"Leave?" Adrian stared at his superior in disbelief. "My wife is fighting for her life in a safe house right now! My son is terrified! And you want me to sit on my hands?"

"That's an order, Officer," Vance said coldly. "Hand over your badge."

Adrian felt a sickening realization settle in his gut. Captain Vance wasn't just being cautious; he was suppressing the investigation. The way Vance refused to look at the toxicology report, the way the precinct had conveniently failed to secure the funeral home as a crime scene—it all pointed to one terrifying truth.

The corruption reached all the way inside his own department.

Without another word, Adrian unpinned his gold badge and placed it on the desk. "Keep the badge, Captain. But I'm not stopping."

He turned and walked out of the precinct, feeling eyes watching him from every desk. He needed answers, and there was only one place to start: Dr. Harold Vance, the private pathologist who had declared Preston dead.

Using a burner phone, Adrian contacted his longtime friend and former military buddy, Marcus, who ran a private security firm. Within an hour, Marcus tracked down Dr. Harold Vance's private clinic in the upscale district of the city.

Adrian arrived at the clinic just as twilight began to fall. The building was dark, except for a single light burning in the second-floor office. Adrian bypassed the lock on the back door using a simple tension wrench and slipped inside quietly.

He crept up the stairs, his senses heightened. As he reached the second-floor landing, he heard hushed, panicked voices coming from inside the doctor's office.

"I did what you asked!" a man was pleading—presumably Dr. Vance. "I signed the certificate! I forged the heart failure diagnosis! You said no one would check the casket!"

"And yet her husband smashed it open with a hammer," a cold, refined voice replied. "You made a mistake, Doctor. You left her alive long enough for the boy to hear her."

"Please! I have a family! Just give me the rest of the money and let me leave the country!"

"There is no rest of the money," the cold voice said softly. "Only this."

A suppressed gunshot silenced the doctor's pleas instantly.

Adrian kicked the door open, his weaponless hands ready for combat. "Freeze!"

Standing over the doctor's bleeding body was a man in a tailor-made grey suit, holding a silencer-equipped pistol. He turned slowly, revealing a scarred eyebrow and sharp, calculating eyes.