Chain of Custody

It was the hottest day of the year, and the pavement shimmered like it was trying to disappear. Catalina stood on the edge of the gas station lot, sweat sticking her shirt to her spine, holding a paper cup of melted ice and bad coffee.

Across the road, the desert stretched out like a dead ocean. No trees, no birds, no sound. Just wind and the occasional hiss of a tire over sun-baked asphalt. Her pickup was dead, the radiator wheezing steam like a dying animal, and her phone showed one bar and 12% battery. Perfect.

She hadn’t planned to stop in Elbridge.

Hell, she hadn’t even planned to be driving through the middle of Arizona on a Thursday. But when you’re running from a man with a badge and a reason to hate you, planning becomes a luxury.

“Car trouble?” the clerk asked, poking his head out the glass door. He was maybe twenty, wiry, with a lopsided smile that said he was either harmless or had bodies in his basement.

“Yeah,” Catalina said. “Overheated.”

He stepped out and squinted at the truck.

“Ford?”

“Chevy.”

“Figures.”

She gave him a look. “You got a mechanic in town?”

He shrugged. “Sorta. Old guy named Avin. Might help you out if you catch him sober.”

“Might?”

“Depends if he likes you.”

She didn’t like the sound of that, but she liked the idea of staying stranded even less.

“I’ll go find him,” the clerk offered. “You mind keeping an eye on the register a sec? No one’s gonna rob the place. It’s too damn hot.”

Catalina blinked. “You serious?”

He grinned and tossed her the keys. “Just in case someone wants cigarettes. Don’t let 'em steal my tip jar.”

He disappeared around the side of the building before she could object.

Inside, the gas station was a relic — cooler humming too loud, faded posters of NASCAR drivers on the wall, a rack of jerky that smelled like regret. She stood behind the counter, scanning the empty lot, wondering how long she had before someone recognized her.

Not for who she was. For what she’d done.

Five months earlier, she was Officer Catalina Girald of the LAPD — beat cop, three years in. Not a hero, not a screw-up.

Just another badge in a city full of ghosts.

Then she found a flash drive in a busted-up Escalade, wedged under the passenger seat. She almost tossed it.

Curiosity won.

Inside- files. Dozens of them. Surveillance videos, emails, bank transfers. A whole rotten tree of corruption, linking half a dozen cops — including her sergeant — to cartel money.

Dirty money.

She made copies. Hid them. And the next morning, Internal Affairs was at her apartment with a warrant and a story- she'd been selling information to dealers. Her prints were on the flash drive. Her name was on bank slips she'd never seen. Evidence fabricated so neatly it could've passed a federal audit.

She ran. Disappeared. Changed her name, chopped her hair, started drifting from town to town, working odd jobs, living out of her truck. Waiting for the right time to strike back.

That time wasn’t today.

The door jingled. She turned.

It was a man. Late 40s, sweat-stained shirt, mirrored sunglasses. He walked with purpose. And he didn’t look like someone who wanted cigarettes.

“You work here?” he asked.

She hesitated. “Just watching it.”

“You see a girl come through? About your height, dark hair, name’s Catalina. Might be using the name Barbara or Lori.”

Her stomach dropped.

“Nope,” she said.

“You sure? She's driving an old Chevy pickup. Busted radiator. Said she might’ve come this way.”

Catalina kept her face calm. “Haven’t seen her.”

The man stepped forward. “You got a bathroom?”

She pointed. He walked back slowly, giving her a long look before disappearing behind the door.

She moved fast. Out the back door, behind the ice machine. She crouched, heart slamming. Her truck was still smoking. No good. Her bag — ID, cash, the last burner phone — was stashed under the seat. If he found it, she was done.

The bathroom door opened. She heard footsteps inside. Heard the scrape of the counter. Then nothing.

Catalina crept back inside. The man was gone. So was the tip jar. And the clerk's keys.

She froze.

From the lot came the roar of her engine trying to turn over. He’d found the spare key.

She bolted.

Out the door, across the lot, sprinting. He was inside the cab, jamming the gear stick, not seeing her coming. She yanked the door open and grabbed for his arm.

He punched her, hard. Stars burst behind her eyes. She fell, rolled, scraped her shoulder on the gravel.

Then she heard it.

The click of the glovebox.

He’d found the drive.

The truck reversed. Fast. She dove, hit the ground, felt the heat of tires skid past her leg. He peeled out, tires spitting sand, and was gone before she could get up.

Catalina staggered to her feet. Blood on her lip. Pain screaming in her ribs. She looked down the road.

Desert silence again.

Then the clerk showed up, sweating and breathless. “Avin's not home — what the hell happened?”

Catalina wiped her mouth. “Guy stole my truck.”

“Jesus. You okay?”

“No.”

He looked at her. “You wanna call the cops?”

She shook her head. “No cops.”

He gave her a long, suspicious look. “You in trouble?”

“Not the kind you think.”

He didn’t press. Just pulled out a beat-up cell phone. “My cousin’s got a tow truck. You need a ride, or...?”

She shook her head. “I need a laptop.”

The clerk’s name was Rob. He took her to his place — two rooms behind a car wash — and let her use his ancient Dell.

“You're lucky I’m paranoid,” he said. “Most people’d tell you to go screw yourself.”

“I’m not most people,” Catalina said.

She plugged in the backup flash drive.

She didn’t trust clouds. This one had been duct-taped to the inside of her spare boot.

The files loaded. Still there. Still intact.

Rob leaned over her shoulder. “What is all that?”

“Insurance.”

He looked closer. “Holy shit. Is that—?”

“Yeah.”

“Is this real?”

“Very.”

“Why are you showing me this?”

“Because the guy who took my truck — he’s not a cop. He’s worse. And if he gets this to the wrong people, I’m dead.”

“Why not go to the FBI?”

“I tried. The ones I reached out to? Never called back. I think some of them are in on it.”

Rob rubbed his face. “You ever think about just... leaving the country?”

She gave him a flat look. “With what money? They took everything.”

He thought for a second. “So what’s your plan?”

She hesitated. “I find him. I get the drive back. Then I burn them all.”

Rob looked at her like she was either insane or the most honest person he’d ever met.

Then he nodded. “I know a guy in Phoenix. PI. Used to work border intelligence. Owes me a favor.”

Three days later, she found the man again. His name was Jonathan. Former deputy. Now a private gun for hire, freelancing for whoever paid best.

He was holed up in a motel off I-17, drunk, waiting to sell the drive.

She didn’t knock.

The door caved in on the second kick. He was too slow to grab the gun. She tased him and zip-tied his wrists before he hit the floor.

“You took something of mine,” she said, kneeling beside him. “I’m taking it back.”

He sneered. “You’re already dead, lady. You just don’t know it yet.”

She smiled. “We’ll see.”

She found the drive in his duffel. But she found something else too- a list. Names.

Contacts. Bribes.

He wasn’t selling it. He was recruiting.

She left him tied up, called Rob's guy with a burner. "You want to help clean house? I’ve got evidence and a list."

“What’s your name?” the voice asked.

“Catalina Girald,” she said. “Tell them I’m done hiding.”

She hung up, tossed the burner into a dumpster, and walked out into the brutal desert sun.

It was still the hottest day of the year. But for the first time in a long time, she felt cold fire in her blood. She was done running. Now it was their turn.