Unknown Number

The headache comes first—a dull throb behind Robert Cole’s eyes that pulses in time with the fluorescent lights of his cramped office. Outside his window, Austin’s skyline glitters against the Texas night, a jagged silhouette of ambition and power that seems to mock his own diminished circumstances. Three years ago, he occupied the fortieth floor of one of those gleaming towers. Now, his law practice operates from a converted storage room above a twenty-four-hour laundromat.

Robert massages his temples as he stares at the stack of case files threatening to topple from his desk. Pro bono work doesn’t pay the bills, but it’s all he has left after walking away from Hargrove & Meyers. The firm’s name still tastes bitter on his tongue—along with the memory of the whistleblower case they’d buried to protect a corrupt pharmaceutical company.

“You can’t save everyone, Cole,” Managing Partner Gregory Hargrove had told him with that patronizing smile. “That’s not what we do here.”

Three days later, Robert resigned. Three months later, the whistleblower—a lab technician named Maria Vasquez—was found dead in her apartment. Suicide, they said. Robert knows better.

His phone buzzes, and he glances at the clock: 11:47 PM. The office is empty except for him; even the cleaning staff left hours ago. He doesn’t recognize the number on the screen, but after a moment’s hesitation, he answers.

“Cole & Company,” he says, voice rough from too much coffee and too little sleep.

Silence. Then: “Robert Cole.” Not a question, but a statement. The voice is neither male nor female, neither young nor old, yet carries a resonance that makes the hairs on Robert’s arms stand up.

“Who is this?” Robert asks, suddenly alert.

“Someone who knows what you need,” the voice says. “And what you want.”

Robert’s jaw tightens. “If you’re selling something—”

“Justice,” the voice interrupts. “For Maria Vasquez. For others like her.”

The name sends a cold jolt through Robert’s system. He stands abruptly, nearly knocking over his lukewarm coffee. “Who the hell is this?”

“Not who, but what. I represent an opportunity, Mr. Cole. A chance to do what you’ve always wanted: help those who cannot help themselves.”

Robert’s laugh is harsh, defensive. “And how exactly would that work?”

“Ten million dollars has been transferred to a new account in your name. The funds will be replenished as needed. You will receive a case. You will win it. You will not keep any payment for yourself. And when it’s done, you’ll receive another case.”

“This is a joke, right?” Robert moves to the window, peering down at the street below as if he might spot the caller. “Or some kind of setup.”

“Check your email, Mr. Cole.”

Robert hesitates, then walks back to his desk and opens his laptop. A new message sits at the top of his inbox from an address that’s just a string of numbers. The subject line reads simply: PROOF.

He clicks it, expecting a virus or a prank. Instead, he finds himself looking at bank account details—his name, a new account number he’s never seen before, and a balance of exactly $10,000,000. Below that are detailed files on Maria Vasquez: autopsy photos the police never released, internal emails from Hargrove & Meyers discussing the cover-up, offshore payments tracing back to the pharmaceutical company.

“Impossible,” Robert whispers. “This information was buried.”

“Nothing is buried forever,” the voice says. “Not truth. Not justice.”

Robert’s mouth goes dry. “What you’re suggesting is vigilante justice. That’s not how the law works.”

“And yet, here you are, Mr. Cole, working in a converted storage room because the law failed. Because you failed.”

The words hit like a physical blow. Robert sinks back into his chair, staring at the Vasquez files—the evidence he couldn’t find when it mattered.

“Who are you?” he asks again.

“Call me the Benefactor,” the voice says. “And know that I see your heart, Robert Cole. I know you want to believe there’s more to justice than what humans have corrupted.”

A chill passes through Robert. “Are you saying you’re not…” He can’t finish the thought.

“Your first case will arrive tomorrow. A young woman named Ellie Brandt. Her son was taken. The police have given up. The system has failed her.” The voice pauses. “Will you fail her too?”

Robert stares at his reflection in the dark computer screen—hollow eyes, three-day stubble, the gaunt face of a man who’s already lost too much. “Why me?”

“Because you still believe,” the Benefactor says. “Even when you tell yourself you don’t.”

The line goes dead. Robert sits motionless in the sudden silence, the Vasquez files still glowing on his screen. He should call someone—the police, the FBI, someone who can trace the call and the money. It’s clearly illegal. Possibly dangerous.

But then his eyes fall on Maria’s autopsy photo—the ligature marks on her neck that never matched the cord they claimed she used. The evidence he couldn’t save her with. The truth he couldn’t prove.

Ten million dollars. Answers he never thought he’d find. And tomorrow, a new case—someone else the system has discarded.

Robert closes his eyes, feels the headache intensify. When he opens them again, his hand is already reaching for his empty coffee mug. He needs to be sharp for whatever comes tomorrow.

Outside his window, a shadow passes across the face of one of Austin’s gleaming towers—a cloud obscuring stars that were never really there.

^^^

Selina Ward knows she’s being followed the moment she steps out of the courthouse.

A woman develops instincts in the district attorney’s office, especially one who specializes in taking down the kind of men who believe they’re untouchable. Selina has put away three cartel lieutenants, two corrupt city officials, and a tech billionaire who thought trafficking laws didn’t apply to his private island. Each conviction earned her new enemies and taught her new survival skills.

Like now—recognizing the same black SUV that’s been parked across from her apartment for three days. Noticing how the man in the tailored suit has been lingering by the newspaper stand for twenty minutes too long. Feeling the weight of unseen eyes against her back.

She maintains her pace, heels clicking purposefully on concrete as she heads toward the parking garage. Her hand slips into her purse, fingers brushing against the cold metal of her legally permitted Glock 43. Ten years as a prosecutor has taught her many things, including never being unprepared.

Her phone buzzes with a text message:

Don’t go to your car. Exit the west side of the garage. Black sedan waiting. Now.

The number is unknown. Selina’s steps falter only briefly as she scans the area again. The suited man by the newspaper stand is moving now, angling toward the garage entrance. Behind him, two more men appear, walking with the deliberate casualness of predators.

Selina makes her decision in an instant, changing direction toward the west side exit. Her rational mind rebels—this could be a trap, another abduction attempt like the one last year after the Mendoza cartel case. But something about the message feels different. Urgent, but not threatening.

She pushes through the exit door and emerges into blinding afternoon sunlight. A black Lincoln idles at the curb, rear door open. Selina hesitates, one hand still on her weapon.

“Ms. Ward.” The driver’s window lowers slightly. “I represent someone who can help with your current situation. And your career dilemma.”

Selina freezes. Her resignation letter sits unsigned in her desk drawer. Only her direct supervisor knows she’s considering leaving the DA’s office—burned out, disillusioned with a system that too often lets wealth and connections override justice.

“How could you possibly—”

“The men following you work for Victor Reese,” the driver says. “The tech CEO whose company you’re investigating. They have orders to ensure you never file those charges.”

Selina’s blood runs cold. The investigation into Reese’s company for privacy violations and data theft is highly classified. She hasn’t even briefed the DA himself on all the details.

The men are at the garage exit now, scanning the street. In seconds, they’ll spot her.

“Last chance, Ms. Ward,” the driver says.

Selina slides into the backseat. The door closes with a soft, expensive click, and the car pulls smoothly into traffic just as her pursuers emerge onto the sidewalk.

“Who are you?” she demands. “And how do you know about Reese?”

The partition between the front and back seats is dark, revealing nothing of the driver except a silhouette.

“My employer knows many things, Ms. Ward. Including that you’re the best prosecutor in Austin, that you’re planning to resign because the system is failing, and that your talents are being wasted.”

The car glides through downtown traffic as if it exists in its own separate flow, untroubled by lights or congestion.

“Your employer has a name?” Selina asks.

“You can call him the Benefactor,” the driver says. “And he’d like to offer you a new position. One where you’ll still fight for justice, but with resources you’ve never had before.”

“I don’t work for private interests,” Selina says sharply.

“Neither does the Benefactor. And neither does Robert Cole.”

Selina blinks. “Robert Cole? From Hargrove & Meyers?”

“Former,” the driver corrects. “He left three years ago. Started his own practice defending the vulnerable. He could use a prosecutor’s experience.”

“And why would I work for Cole?”

“Because you’re both wanted for the same qualities,” the driver says. “Integrity. Skill. And a growing realization that the system you serve is inadequate for true justice.”

The car turns onto a narrow side street that Selina doesn’t recognize, then slows to a stop. “This is where I leave you,” the driver says. “Mr. Cole’s office is through that door. He’s expecting you, though he doesn’t know it yet.”

Selina makes no move to exit. “And if I just go home instead?”

“Then those men will be waiting,” the driver says. “And you’ll have made your last stand for a system that was already prepared to sacrifice you.”

The partition lowers slightly, though still not enough to reveal the driver’s face. A manila folder slides through the gap. “Evidence against Reese. Enough to put him away for decades. Plus what they had planned for you. Take it as a good faith offering.”

Selina takes the folder, opens it, and feels her heart stutter as she sees surveillance photos of herself, her home, her parents’ house in Houston. Details of her routine. A warehouse address. Chemicals listed. The words “staged suicide” underlined.

By the time she looks up, the partition has closed again. The car door beside her opens automatically.

“The choice is yours, Ms. Ward,” the driver says. “But I think you’ve been looking for a reason to make a change.”

Selina steps onto the sidewalk, clutching the folder. Before she can respond, the car pulls away, leaving her staring at a weathered door with a simple sign: Cole & Company, Attorneys at Law.

Above her, the sky darkens as storm clouds gather. Somewhere distant, thunder rolls—a warning or a promise, she can’t tell which.

A drop of rain touches her cheek as she pushes open the door and steps inside.

^^^

Robert is still staring at his computer screen—at the account with ten million dollars he shouldn’t have—when the door to his office swings open without a knock.

He looks up, startled, one hand instinctively moving toward the desk drawer where he keeps his father’s old .38 revolver. Then he freezes.

Selina Ward. He recognizes her immediately, though they’ve never formally met. Every lawyer in Austin knows the DA’s rising star—the woman who takes cases no one thinks she can win and then wins them anyway. Selina the Certain, they call her behind her back. The prosecutor who doesn’t bring charges unless she’s already calculated every path to conviction.

“Can I help you?” Robert asks, quickly closing his laptop.

She’s rain-damp and slightly breathless, as if she’s been running. A manila folder is clutched tightly in one hand. Her eyes—sharp, assessing—take in his cramped office, the coffee-stained desk, the tower of case files.

“Robert Cole,” she says, not a question.

He frowns. Something about her tone triggers a memory of his earlier phone call. “That’s me.”

“Someone called the Benefactor sent me,” she says, watching his reaction closely. “Said you need a prosecutor.”

Robert’s pulse quickens. “The Benefactor called you too?”

“Not directly.” She sets the folder on his desk. “But they saved me from some men who were following me. Men who apparently planned to ensure I never filed charges against their boss.”

Robert stares at the folder but doesn’t open it. “And you came here because…?”

“Because I want to know who this Benefactor is,” she says. “And how they knew things about me, about my cases, that no one could possibly know.” She pauses. “And because I’m curious about a lawyer who walked away from a partnership track to work in a converted storage room.”

Robert’s laugh is short and without humor. “Who says I walked away? Maybe they threw me out.”

“No,” Selina says with certainty. “You left because of the Vasquez case. The whistleblower who later died under suspicious circumstances.”

Robert stiffens. “How do you know about that?”

“It was briefly on my desk. The death investigation. Then it was reassigned.” Her expression hardens. “Higher up intervention. Never sat right with me.”

Outside, rain begins to fall in earnest, drumming against the single window. Robert studies the woman standing in his office—confident despite being clearly rattled, sharp-eyed, determined. The kind of ally he could use if what the Benefactor promised is real.

“I received a call tonight,” he says finally. “Offering resources to help people the system has failed. My first case arrives tomorrow.” He hesitates. “A woman named Ellie Brandt. Her son was taken.”

Recognition flashes in Selina’s eyes. “The Brandt kidnapping. Six-year-old boy. Police investigation stalled three months ago.” She frowns. “How does your mysterious caller know I was briefed on that case?”

“The same way they knew about Maria Vasquez,” Robert says. “The same way they knew men were following you today.” He taps his closed laptop. “The same way they transferred ten million dollars into an account with my name on it.”

“Ten million—” Selina stops herself, eyes narrowing. “That’s not possible.”

“That’s what I thought.” Robert opens the laptop, turns it so she can see the bank statement. “Yet here we are.”

Selina stares at the screen, then back at Robert. Rain streams down the window behind him, distorting the city lights into watery smears of color.

“What exactly did this Benefactor ask of you?” she asks.

“To take cases they send me. To help people who’ve been abandoned by the system. To not keep any payment for myself.” He shrugs. “Justice, essentially.”

“And you believe them? You don’t think this is some elaborate setup?”

Robert’s smile is tight. “I think anyone with the resources to know what they know could find easier ways to set us up.”

Lightning flashes, briefly illuminating the small office in harsh white light. Thunder follows almost immediately—the storm directly overhead now.

“So what happens next?” Selina asks after the rumble fades.

As if in answer, Robert’s email chimes with a new message. They both stare at the screen as he opens it.

The email contains a detailed file on Ellie Brandt and her missing son, Thomas. Police reports, witness statements never followed up on, evidence the detectives overlooked or dismissed. And most damning of all—surveillance footage showing Thomas being escorted from the Westfield Mall by a man in a uniform, time-stamped from two days ago.

“The police told Ellie they’d exhausted all leads,” Selina whispers. “That Thomas was most likely dead.”

“But he’s not,” Robert says, scanning the documents. “And someone important wants him to stay missing.” He looks up at her. “The question is: are you in?”

Selina thinks about the envelope on her desk—her unsigned resignation. About the men who followed her today and what they had planned. About a system she no longer trusts to deliver the justice she devoted her life to.

“I have conditions,” she says. “Complete transparency between us. No illegal actions that would compromise cases. And I want to know who this Benefactor is.”

“That makes two of us,” Robert says. “But until then—” he gestures to the case file on the screen “—we have a six-year-old boy to find.”

Outside, the storm intensifies, rain lashing against the window like thousands of insistent fingers demanding entry. But inside, something shifts—a current connecting these two strangers, pulled together by an unseen hand for purposes neither yet understands.

Robert extends his hand across the desk. After a moment’s hesitation, Selina takes it. Her grip is firm, decisive.

Neither notices the security camera in the corner of the ceiling, its small light blinking once before going dark.

Nor do they see the figure watching from the rooftop across the street—a silhouette against the storm-dark sky that seems, for a moment, to be crowned with light where no light should be.

Thunder cracks again. When it fades, the figure is gone.

Only the rain remains, washing the city clean of secrets that will not stay buried.