“They already are,” Brooklyn said. “But they can’t come after the truth if it’s public.”
Priya held out her hand. “I’m in.”
They spent the next hour planning. Priya made calls, woke up her editor, contacted the Austin Press Club. By 6:00 a.m., it was confirmed. Friday, March 15th, 10:00 in the morning, one of the main conference rooms. Capacity for fifty journalists.
“We’ll livestream on three platforms simultaneously,” Priya said, typing on her laptop. “YouTube, Facebook, X. They can’t take down all three at once. By the time anyone tries to stop it, the story will already be out.”
“I need one more thing,” Brooklyn said. “Someone to authenticate the documents. A notary with credibility.”
“You have someone in mind?”
“Judge Martha Delgado, retired federal judge, seventy-two years old. She’s known for being incorruptible. If she verifies the bank records and witness statements, it adds weight.”
Priya nodded. “I know Judge Delgado. She hates corrupt cops more than anyone I’ve ever met. Her grandson was killed by a dirty officer in Houston. She’ll do it.”
Brooklyn felt something close to relief. Not quite hope—she’d learned not to hope—but at least a sense that the plan might work.
“One problem,” Priya said. “You still need that ledger. Without it, they can claim the recordings are taken out of context. They can claim the bank records are falsified. But if you have Brennan’s own handwritten records—”
“I know. Can you get it?”
“I’m going to try.”
“That’s not a plan.”
“It’s the only plan I have.”
Brooklyn finished her coffee. “In the meantime, prepare everything else. Assume I won’t get the ledger. Can we still make the case?”
“We can make a hell of a case,” Priya said. “But with the ledger, it’s ironclad.”
“Then I’ll get it.” Brooklyn didn’t know how yet, but she had four days.
Wednesday morning, Brooklyn drove to Carlos’s garage. It was destroyed. The front window was smashed. Tools scattered across the parking lot. One of the hydraulic lifts had been toppled over. Spray paint across the walls: “Snitches get buried.”
Carlos sat on the curb, head in his hands. His wife stood next to him, holding their two kids close. The children were crying.
Brooklyn parked and got out slowly.
“Don’t,” Carlos said without looking up. “Don’t come near us.”
“Carlos, I’m sorry. I’ll get you protection.”
“Protection?” He finally looked at her. His right eye was swollen shut, purple and black. Blood crusted around his nose. “Where was your protection last night when three men kicked down my door? Where was your protection when they held a gun to my daughter’s head?”
Brooklyn felt like she’d been punched. “What?”
“They came to my house. Two a.m. Ski masks. Knew my kids’ names, knew where they go to school, knew my wife’s work schedule.” Carlos stood up, wincing. “They said if I talk to you again, they’ll kill my family. Not me. My family.”
His wife was crying silently. The little girl, maybe seven years old, clung to her mother’s legs.
“I can get you into witness protection,” Brooklyn said. “Federal protection, new identities, new city. They’ll never find—”
“No.” Carlos’s voice was flat. Dead. “I’m not uprooting my kids’ entire lives. I’m not living in fear for the next twenty years. I’m done.”
“The press conference is Friday. If you testify—”
“I’m not testifying.” He shouted it, then caught himself, lowered his voice. “I’m not testifying. I’m not helping. I’m taking my family and we’re leaving Del Rio. Moving to San Antonio, maybe Austin. Somewhere Brennan doesn’t own.”
“He’ll find you.”
“Maybe. But at least I’ll have a chance.” Carlos picked up a wrench from the ground. “You should leave too, Brooklyn. You’re not going to win this. Nobody beats Brennan. Nobody ever has.”
He turned away, walked to his truck with his family.
Brooklyn stood in the parking lot surrounded by broken glass and scattered tools. She’d promised Carlos protection and delivered violence. She’d promised justice and delivered threats. Maybe he was right. Maybe nobody beat Brennan.
Her phone buzzed. Text from Priya: “Press conference confirmed. Do you have the witness?”
Brooklyn looked at Carlos’s truck driving away. She texted back: “No.”
Wednesday night. The Del Rio Police Department caught fire. Brooklyn heard the sirens from her motel room, grabbed her jacket, and drove toward downtown. By the time she arrived, three fire trucks were already on scene. Smoke poured from the back of the building—the evidence room.
She parked two blocks away and watched. Sheriff Brennan stood in the parking lot, arms crossed, watching his officers coordinate with firefighters. He didn’t look concerned, didn’t look surprised because he’d probably started it himself.
Brooklyn’s phone rang. Unknown number.
“Agent Lane.” A woman’s voice. “This is Deputy Chief Lisa Martinez, Del Rio Fire Department. I’m calling as a courtesy. The fire at the police station appears to have started in the evidence storage room. I understand you had property stored there.”
“Yes. Camera equipment, a bag.”
“I’m sorry to inform you that the room sustained significant damage. Most items will be total losses. The fire marshal is investigating the cause, but initial reports suggest electrical failure.”
“Electrical failure?” Brooklyn repeated.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m very sorry.”
Brooklyn ended the call. The bag with the hidden microphone was gone, burned, destroyed. But Brennan didn’t know, couldn’t know that every recording from that microphone had been transmitted in real time to FBI servers. The physical device was gone, but the data was preserved, encrypted, backed up, stored in three separate locations. They destroyed the recorder, but not the recordings. It was almost funny.
Brooklyn watched the firefighters spray water into the smoking building, watched Brennan shake hands with the fire chief, watched him play the concerned sheriff, worried about his department’s loss.
Her phone buzzed again. This time, a text from a number she didn’t recognize: “You have 24 hours to leave Del Rio. If you’re still here Friday morning, there will be consequences. This is your final warning.”
No signature. Didn’t need one.
Brooklyn deleted the text, put her phone away. She wasn’t leaving. Not now, not ever. They’d threatened her, arrested her, mocked her, destroyed her evidence, attacked her witness. But they hadn’t stopped her. And tomorrow, she was going to start pushing back.
But first, she needed to survive tonight because if they were sending threats like this, it meant they were planning something worse.
Brooklyn drove back to her motel, didn’t sleep, sat in her car in the parking lot with the doors locked and her backup phone on the seat next to her, waiting.
Thursday morning, the local news ran the story. Brooklyn saw it on the television in the motel breakfast area, the Del Rio morning show. A perky anchor with too much makeup smiled into the camera.
“In local news, District Attorney Paul Hendris announced yesterday that a woman claiming to be an FBI agent has been harassing local law enforcement. Authorities say the woman, identified as Brooklyn Lane, has been presenting a fake badge and making false accusations against Sheriff Wade Brennan and his department.”
Cut to footage of Hendris at a press conference. Suit and tie. American flag in the background. The picture of official authority.
“We take these allegations very seriously,” Hendris said gravely. “Ms. Lane has a history of mental health issues and was actually dismissed from FBI training several years ago. She’s been impersonating a federal agent, which is itself a serious crime. We’re currently working with the real FBI to bring charges.”
Brooklyn’s hands clenched around her coffee cup. Mental health issues. Dismissed from training. All lies, all documented in fake records that would take weeks to disprove through official channels. And by then, the damage would be done.
Her phone rang.
“Priya, have you seen the news?”