Sam had the audacity to look hurt. Are you kidding me? It was he who had created an impossible situation for her; if any superior officer other than his own wife had observed this display, Sam would already be in shackles, and his badge in danger. Especially for pulling the gun.
A tense silence. Sam didn't move. Khlid traded volume for venom as she hissed at him, “Was I not clear?”
Well, our apartment won’t be pleasant tonight.
Sam turned to Chapman, muttered, “I am sorry,” and left without looking at Khlid again. Her husband became enveloped in a crowd that rapidly resumed the day’s shopping.
Full of regret and furious with herself for feeling it, she watched him go. The discipline had been more lenient than he deserved, and yet, humiliating one’s spouse in public was not something that felt good, no matter the circumstances.
Chapman looked at Khlid, confused, and said, “You did not have to do that.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Yeah, you did.” Chapman turned on the few still staring. “Get on! The show is over!”
* * *
Seeking relative privacy, Chapman and Khlid made their way to a pub just outside the market and grabbed a booth in the back corner. Patrons were typically required to order drinks to stay, but as they were on duty, and would guarantee no fighting in the establishment while they were there, the owner just smiled and nodded as they helped themselves to a table.
“I am sorry that—”
“Stop.” Khlid cut him off. “Yes, you were a dick. You always are. But Samuel was way out of line.”
Chapman looked down at a stain on the table. “I don’t always want to be.”
“I know.”
Khlid let silence hang in the air for a moment. Then: “You do owe us answers.”
Mugs of water were brought, and Chapman drank deeply from his before responding. “I do.”
He waited, apparently hoping against hope Khlid would somehow forget the topic and move on. After several minutes of silence, he drew breath.
“An informant.”
“No shit.” Khlid leaned forward. “But if you had a rebel informant and didn't at least bring that up to the captain, you’d be on the borderline of treason.”
Chapman flicked his eyes to hers, then looked away. “Yeah, I would be.”
“Fuck you.”
“C’mon, Khlid.”
“No. Fuck you.” Khlid leaned further forward until her stomach pressed against the table. “Sam was way out of line, but only because we expect better of him. You go around treating everyone else on the force like shit, every day.”
“I don’t—”
“Yes, you do.” She struggled to keep her voice low. “Even the captain bites his tongue with you because you can dish it but you sure as hell can’t take it. Sure, you solve cases. You’re valuable. Maybe even extremely so. But you’re a morale pit. No one wants to work with you. You and your pathetic lone-badass-with-a-badge routine.” Khlid realized she was letting years of irritation with Chapman spill out. “Maybe, if you actually decided to share what’s in that brilliant brain of yours, some of the officers might not dread being in the same room as you.” She sat back, regretting only about half of what she’d said.
After several long moments fiddling with his mug, Chapman replied, “Ouch.”
“Yeah. Ouch.”
Chapman finally looked up with the most emotion she had ever seen on his face. “It is very complicated.”
“What?”
“Being me.”
Khlid had often wondered if Chapman were one of those people who simply didn't seem to have emotions. At that moment, she realized she had been wrong. He was “off,” but at least it appeared he wasn't quite a sociopath. She decided to drop it.
“How did you find this informant?”
“Easily.”
She sighed. “Why was it so easy, Chapman?”
“Because the informant is me.”
His answer came so quickly, it was a moment before she fully processed it. Chapman had just admitted to being in contact with the shadow organization that had slaughtered hundreds of civilians over the last year, during which time the Empire had failed to capture even one of them. Was Chapman outing himself as a traitor? Khlid could think of no above-board reason he would have kept this secret from the precinct.
As the truth crashed home, her hand darted for her weapon.
Chapman put up a hand. “Wait.”
She paused, hand on her holstered pistol. Chapman put his hand down, meeting the other resting atop the table. He knew to keep them exactly where they were; that Khlid would have shot without hesitation at the slightest twitch.
Khlid slipped her finger next to the trigger. “What in the fuck have you gotten yourself into, Chapman?”
“I have a question for you. Put your hand back on the table.”
Khlid kept her hand where it was. “After what you just said, I—”
“Answer it, and I will gladly go straight to the captain, tell him everything I know and accept whatever comes. I swear it on the Almighty.”
Khlid couldn’t unclench her teeth. This was already the longest day of my life three hours ago. “What does the Almighty mean to a traitor like you?”
He stared back at her, hurt at the term. How dare he.
Khlid’s hand began to sweat as her grip tightened on her weapon.
“Are you sure our whole precinct is clean?” asked Chapman.
“Besides you, you mean?” she hissed.
“I have been working with them for months, and even I don’t know for sure who in the precinct might have rebel sympathies.”
“Who else,” she corrected him once more. That hurt look again.
Khlid was struggling to maintain objectivity. “You need to tell me everything now.”
Chapman scoffed, almost earning himself a bullet in the stomach from Khlid. “Do you really think we have the time for stories?”
Frustration bled into her voice. “Chapman.”
He relented slightly. “The rebels did not murder the Pruits.”
“Who did?” Khlid asked. Her tense jaw began to ache.
“Okay, listen. Bodies have floated ashore, Khlid. Ones with similar deformities. After blackmailing the right people, the rebels learned of a ship. It's a military cargo ship. It harbors at Dock Thirteen, takes a load from Warehouse Two, and sets sail at night. It returns before morning but nothing is ever unloaded.”
“So? Lots of waste is dropped into the ocean.”
“Discreetly at night with an entirely M.O.D. crew?”
It was infuriating the way he let a story drip out.
He fixed her with a dry look. “Corpses, Khlid. Desecrated corpses, filled with viscous black blood. Test subjects like Lord Pruit—ones who didn't survive the process. Best the rebels can tell, it's mostly homeless people.”
Khlid let the pieces fall into place. “That’s impossible. The Empire wouldn't put whatever that shit was into its own citizens. And for what?”
“I don’t know why. Because they are taking extraordinary steps to make sure we don't know why.” Chapman’s shoulders sagged. “Khlid, please think this through. They just used gallons of whatever this shit is on Pruit. We have to go to the warehouse district now. A member of...” Chapman waited for a drunken man to go by. “My friends are confident a shipment is going out tonight.”