Two Police Officers Harassed a Woman at a Gas Station, Never Knowing Who She Really Was

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.”