Inspector Grey walked into the command center. The unit was watching the disturbing grainy footage from Dr. Walsh’s lab on the big screen—a shocking reminder of Chief Inspector Sanderson’s recent death. Turner’s furrowed brow hinted at the troubles weighing on his mind.
“Did the street urchin provide any useful information?”
“The stable boy did confirm one notable detail, guv. According to his description, the man who handed him the supplement spoke with a distinctly Russian accent.”
Grey lit a cigarette as Detective Jamison shuffled over with a handful of paperwork. Dark shadows hung from under his eyes.
“You look like death warmed over,” Grey remarked.
Jamison ran a hand over his scruffy jaw. “I’ve been chasing the bloody serial number all night. It feels like my eyes are about to pop out of my head.”
He handed Grey a piece of paper with a weary sigh. “It was quite the rabbit hole!”
Grey took a long drag from his cigarette, briefly reviewing Jamison’s report. “Summarize the details for me, Detective Jamison?”
“The particular serial number in question traces back to a Russian pharmaceutical company called VitaVix. VitaVix shut down over a decade ago for numerous health code violations. An underground operation likely obtained the numbers on the confiscated supplement after the company closed.”
“Underground operation, eh?” Grey mused.
“Legitimate companies retire codes. They don’t hold on to them for ten years. More likely, these serial numbers were purchased by some illegal venture.”
“Do you have anything else to report?” Grey asked.
“That is all I have for now. But I’ll continue digging.”
“Thank you, Detective. Now go get some rest. You look dead on your feet.”
“Thanks…” Jamison mumbled.
He dragged his feet, heading for the door, almost tripping over a computer cord on the way out. Once Jamison had left, Grey studied the report, reading the finer details. He tossed the report onto Turner’s desk.
“Have we had any luck identifying the suspect from the royal box through the facial recognition yet?”
“You need to take a look at this, guv!”
Turner wheeled his ergonomic office chair up to his high-end workstation, with twin 4K monitors and a Nvidia Quadro graphics card. He put on his glasses and tapped the keyboard, booting up the data-intensive software. After a few more keyboard strokes, the results appeared on his work monitors. The screens lit up, projecting thousands of data points onto the man’s facial contours. “Guv, get this. It’s a prosthetic. He is wearing a mask.”
Grey looked on, taken aback. “A realistic prosthetic mask?”
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Turner tapped the touch screen, highlighting specific parts of the mask.
“The software uses infrared light to map real human features,” Turner explained, zooming in. “But here—look—the cheekbones and brow ridge don’t match.”
The glare from the screen illuminated Grey’s face. “Whoever this was, they’ve gone to extraordinary lengths to infiltrate the royal box. But why? Who? This wasn’t the work of some lone operator. It points to someone with deep resources.”
Grey lit another cigarette, the smoke curling into the ceiling as he drained his coffee. “Why would someone go to such lengths—prosthetic masks, royal access—only to leave a clumsy Russian trail? It feels deliberate, like a red herring.”
“But why would they want us to think it’s Russia, guv?”
“Because it keeps us looking east while the real culprits hide in plain sight. Someone’s playing a very clever game with us.”
“I suppose you’re right, guv. Handing off a supplement to a stable hand. Is taking the piss!”
As the software sequenced, grids of red dots converged on the suspect’s face, hollow eyes stared back like empty sockets. The cigarette hung from Grey’s lips like a wilting leaf; as he mulled over the implications of the Russian serial number.
“This goes far deeper than I had thought, Turner. What if the motive reaches to the highest levels?”
“The evidence is certainly pointing in that direction!”
Turner’s eyes circled to every corner of the command center, his paranoia mounting, as if a snake in the grass was listening to him. Turner’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“If the Royals are involved, we’re not investigating a case—we’re playing with fire. And Russia, for Christ’s sake! The two shouldn’t mix! With Sanderson gone, it may be unwise for us to question the Royals. What happens when they turn on us, guv?”
“It sounds like you’ve been reading too much, David Icke. What next, you’ll be telling me the Royal family are a bunch of lizard people.”
“Guv, powerful institutions have covered up worse—MI6, the Cambridge Five, even that royal nanny business in the ‘90s. You know, I don’t believe Princess Diana’s death was an accident.”
“Are you saying the Royal family killed Sanderson to derail this investigation? We don’t have time for such conspiracy theories, Turner. What we need right now is hard evidence before making such bold accusations.”
Bones snapped on the giant screen, sharp and violent, echoing in the command center like distant snapping twigs. Grey and Turner turned to see the alpha male rat in a frenzy, its blood-slick jaws clamping onto another rat’s cranium. Blood streaked the cage floor as the dominant rat tore through its rivals, leaving only twitching bodies in its wake. An unsettling image came to Grey’s mind: the political system destroying anyone who threatened to expose its secrets like a giant lab rat, killing off whistleblowers to maintain control. Turner’s previous statements had unnerved him. If Sanderson could be taken out, what chance did they stand alone? This wasn’t just about a dirty supplement or a Russian trail anymore. It was about power—power that could crush anyone who got too close to the truth. And if that power extended to the Royals—well. He shook the thought away, slamming his empty coffee cup onto Turner’s desk, grinding his cigarette to ashes.
“This has become far above our station. We cannot investigate this matter any further alone.”
Turner looked at him questioningly. “What do you mean, guv?”
“Get British Intelligence on the blower, Turner. I’ll brief them myself when I reach London. This case has implications going right to the top of government.”
Turner nodded slowly, grasping the gravity of the situation. “Right away, guv. I’ll make the call. You know it’s going to open the floodgates to bureaucratic nonsense!”
“That’s just how the cookie crumbles, Turner!”
His coat billowed behind him when he left the command center. The potential involvement of the Royal family and Russia endangered national security. One thing Grey knew for certain: this wasn’t just horseshit anymore—it was a brewing tsunami of bullshit, and he was right in its path.
