She pulled a small digital drive from her pocket and dropped it onto the table between us.
It clattered against the metal, a sound that seemed to stop time itself in that cramped, sterile office.
Rourke froze, his hand hovering over his belt as he looked down at the device, his face draining of all color in a matter of seconds.
He knew what was on that drive.
He knew that the evidence I had collected was only half of the story, and that his partner had been recording him for far longer than I had.
The air in the room grew heavy, suffocating, as the realization dawned on him that his entire support system had just evaporated.
He tried to speak, but the words died in his throat, choked off by the sudden, terrifying reality of his isolation.
I didn't say a word, just watched the light fade from his eyes as the weight of his crimes finally crashed down on him.
The precinct outside seemed to grow louder, the sounds of telephones ringing and officers laughing serving as a cruel reminder that the world continued to turn while his life was unraveling.
He lunged for the drive, but the woman in the suit was faster, pulling it away with a grace that hinted at years of tactical training.
She turned to me, her expression unreadable, and whispered a name that I hadn't heard in years, a name that connected our pasts in a way Rourke could never have anticipated.
My blood ran cold, not from the confrontation, but from the sudden, jarring discovery that I was not the only one hunting him.
I realized then that my personal vendetta was just a small part of a much larger, darker conspiracy that involved people at the highest levels of the department.