The Last Call
By Olivia Salter
Word Count: 3,811
Birmingham, Aabama—where steel and history collide, where the past lingers in the bones of the city. It was a chilly October night when Detective Kamari Graves got the call. A body had been found outside The Blue Orchid, a dimly lit jazz lounge on 4th Avenue.
The victim was a man in his early 40s, well-dressed, a Rolex still on his wrist. No wallet, no phone. Shot once in the chest. A single .38 caliber shell casing glinted under the neon glow of the club's sign.
Kamari surveyed the scene, her partner, Detective Malik Carter, flipping through his notepad.
“Witnesses?” Kamari asked.
“The bartender, some musicians, a couple of regulars. But no one saw the actual shooting.”
Kamari glanced at the club’s flickering security camera. “And let me guess—footage is conveniently missing?”
“Bingo,” Malik sighed.
Inside, The Blue Orchid smelled of whiskey and regret. The bartender, a broad-shouldered man named Jermaine, wiped down a glass with practiced indifference.
“You see him before tonight?” Kamari asked, showing the victim’s picture.
Jermaine hesitated. “Yeah. Name’s Darnell Briggs. Came in around nine. Ordered a whiskey, neat. Looked nervous, kept checking his phone.”
“Who was he waiting for?”
“Not sure. But about an hour later, he got up, said something to a woman in a red dress. Then he stepped outside. Next thing, I hear a shot.”
Kamari’s pulse quickened. “Describe her.”
“Tall, dark skin, short curls. Looked expensive—like the kind of woman who makes a man forget his common sense.”
Kamari exchanged a look with Malik. “Got cameras inside?”
Jermaine nodded, leading them to the back office. The grainy footage showed Darnell at the bar, drumming his fingers against the wood. Then, the woman in the red dress entered, sliding into the seat beside him. They exchanged hushed words. A minute later, he followed her outside.
But the woman never came back in.
Back at the precinct, Kamari ran a search. The only recent Darnell Briggs in the system was an accountant for a construction company. No criminal record. But his phone records told a different story—several calls to a burner number. Malik traced it to Serena Tate.
Kamari’s stomach tightened. Serena Tate was no ordinary woman. She was the widow of Marcel Tate, a notorious loan shark who was murdered last year—shot with a .38 caliber. His killer was never found.
Kamari and Malik pulled up to Serena’s condo in Highland Park. She opened the door in silk loungewear, her eyes cool and unreadable.
“You should’ve called first,” she said, sipping red wine.
Kamari held up a photo of Darnell. “You met him tonight.”
Serena smirked. “Is that a crime?”
“He’s dead.”
Her smile didn’t waver, but something flickered behind her eyes. “I had nothing to do with that.”
Malik leaned in. “Funny. He was shot with the same caliber that killed your husband.”
Serena set down her glass. “Darnell was a client of my husband’s. He owed money. After Marcel died, he thought the debt disappeared. But business doesn’t work like that.”
Kamari crossed her arms. “So you lured him out, killed him?”
Serena laughed softly. “Detective, if I wanted Darnell dead, why would I meet him at a public bar?”
Kamari glanced at Malik. She had a point.
“Then who wanted him dead?” Kamari asked.
Serena leaned against the doorway. “You’re looking in the wrong direction. Maybe ask who benefits from tying this to me.”
The door shut in their faces.
Back at the precinct, Kamari couldn’t shake the feeling that Serena was telling the truth. Then, Malik’s phone buzzed.
“Ballistics just came in. The bullet that killed Darnell doesn’t match the gun that killed Marcel Tate.”
Kamari frowned. “Then who set this up?”
Malik exhaled. “Someone who wanted us looking at Serena instead of them.”
Kamari’s gut twisted. There was another player in the game. Someone with a deeper grudge. And they were still out there.
Waiting.
Kamari sat at her desk, the weight of the case pressing down on her. Serena Tate might have had motive, but the evidence wasn’t lining up. If she didn’t kill Darnell Briggs, then who did? And why stage it to make her look guilty?
“Alright,” Kamari said, rubbing her temples. “Let’s retrace Darnell’s steps.”
Malik tapped at his keyboard. “We pulled his financials, right? Let’s see if he made any suspicious withdrawals.”
A few keystrokes later, Malik whistled. “Darnell pulled out five grand in cash two days ago. That’s not pocket change.”
Kamari leaned in. “Who was he paying off?”
Malik clicked through the transactions. “Here’s something—Darnell transferred money every month to a company called Tate Holdings, LLC.”
Kamari’s eyes narrowed. “Serena’s company?”
“Not quite. It’s registered under a different name—” Malik’s voice trailed off.
Kamari leaned closer. “Who?”
Malik turned the screen toward her. “Marcel Tate’s little brother. Anthony Tate.”
A slow chill crept up Kamari’s spine.
Anthony Tate had always been a ghost—never in the limelight, never making waves. But if he was still collecting debts under his brother’s name, he had motive to want Darnell dead.
And if he was setting up his sister-in-law, that meant he wanted something more than revenge.
Control.
11:45 PM – Southside, Birmingham
Kamari and Malik parked outside Tate Auto & Storage, a run-down car repair shop that Anthony Tate supposedly owned. The shop was dark, but a light flickered inside the office.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Malik murmured, hand resting on his holster.
Kamari nodded. “He’s either expecting us, or he’s cleaning up.”
They approached quietly. Kamari knocked. No answer.
Malik tried the knob. Unlocked.
Inside, the air smelled like motor oil and stale cigarettes. A desk sat in the middle of the room, stacks of papers scattered across it. And on the wall—security footage.
Footage from The Blue Orchid.
Kamari’s pulse quickened. “Well, well.”
A chair scraped against the floor behind them.
Anthony Tate stood in the doorway, arms crossed. He was in his late 30s, lean, with sharp eyes that carried the weight of too many bad decisions.
“Detectives,” he said, voice smooth. “You should’ve called.”
Kamari gestured to the monitors. “You watching your work?”
Anthony smirked. “Just staying informed.”
Malik stepped forward. “You set up Serena. You wanted us looking at her while you handled Darnell.”
Anthony shrugged. “I didn’t kill Darnell.”
Kamari’s jaw tightened. “Then why erase the security footage?”
Anthony chuckled. “I never erased anything. I just made sure the right people saw what I wanted them to.”
He stepped to the desk, tapping a keyboard. The footage played—this time, a different angle.
It wasn’t Serena leading Darnell outside.
It was Jermaine, the bartender.
Kamari’s mind reeled. “Why would Jermaine—”
Malik cut in. “Unless he owed you.”
Anthony’s smirk widened. “You catch on quick.”
Jermaine had been in debt, probably desperate. And Anthony had used him to get rid of Darnell while pinning it on Serena.
Kamari clenched her fists. “You really think you’ll get away with this?”
Anthony leaned in. “Detective, I already have.”
Then, a sudden screech of tires outside. Headlights flooded the room.
Kamari and Malik ducked just as bullets shattered the office window.
Anthony dove for cover, cursing.
Kamari pulled her weapon, heart hammering.
Someone wanted them all dead.
And whoever it was—wasn’t done yet.
Gunfire erupted outside, bullets ripping through the thin walls of Tate Auto & Storage. Kamari and Malik hit the ground as shards of glass rained over them.
Anthony Tate scrambled behind his desk, cursing under his breath.
"Malik, you good?" Kamari called out.
"I'm breathing," Malik muttered, pressing against a metal cabinet for cover. He peeked outside. "Black SUV. Tinted windows. Looks like they brought backup."
Kamari’s grip on her Glock tightened. "You expecting company, Anthony?"
Anthony scoffed, checking the revolver tucked in his waistband. "Not my people. Which means it’s yours."
Kamari’s stomach dropped. If it wasn’t Anthony’s crew, that meant someone else wanted to tie up loose ends. And considering how neatly they’d been led here, this was a trap from the start.
A pause in the gunfire.
Kamari signaled to Malik. “We need to move—back exit.”
Malik nodded, keeping low as they crept toward the garage bay doors. Anthony stayed put.
"You coming or what?" Kamari hissed.
Anthony shook his head. "I ain't running. If someone wants me dead that bad, I'd rather see their face."
"Suit yourself," Malik muttered.
Kamari didn't have time to argue. She reached for the door handle—
A figure appeared in the alley, aiming a gun straight at her.
She barely ducked in time as the shot rang out, the bullet sparking off the metal frame.
Malik fired back, forcing the shooter to retreat. Kamari pressed herself against the wall, breathing hard.
"Now what?" Malik asked.
Kamari glanced at Anthony. "You got another way out?"
Anthony hesitated, then nodded. "There's an old service tunnel beneath the shop. Leads two blocks south."
"You better not be lying," Malik muttered.
Anthony smirked. "I lie about a lot of things, Detective. My survival ain't one of them."
Anthony led them through a hidden trapdoor behind a stack of old tires. The tunnel was narrow, damp, and smelled like rust and mildew. Kamari’s heart pounded as they hurried through the darkness, Malik covering their backs.
After what felt like forever, they emerged behind an abandoned laundromat on 5th Avenue.
No sign of the SUV.
Malik exhaled. "We need to figure out who set this up before they find us again."
Anthony adjusted his jacket, eyes sharp. "I can tell you one thing—it ain't just about Darnell."
Kamari narrowed her eyes. "Then what is it about?"
Anthony smirked. "Power, Detective. The kind that don't forgive mistakes."
Before Kamari could press him further, her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number.
She answered.
A distorted voice whispered, "You’re running out of time, Detective. Walk away while you still can."
The line went dead.
Kamari stared at her phone, her pulse racing.
Whoever was pulling the strings wasn’t done yet.
And now, they were watching.
Kamari lowered the phone slowly, her mind racing. The distorted voice wasn’t just a threat—it was a warning.
“Let me guess,” Malik muttered, eyes scanning the street. “More bad news?”
“They know we’re getting close,” Kamari said, shoving the phone into her pocket. “Whoever’s behind this is watching us.”
Anthony chuckled dryly, lighting a cigarette with steady hands. “Told y’all—this ain’t just about Darnell.” He exhaled a stream of smoke, his sharp eyes glinting in the dim streetlights. “This city’s got layers, detectives. And y’all are about to peel back the wrong one.”
Kamari glared at him. “Then start talking. Because right now, we don’t know if we should be protecting you or arresting you.”
Anthony smirked. “Thing is… the people you’re up against? They don’t just kill you. They erase you.”
Kamari’s gut twisted. “Who are they?”
Anthony flicked his cigarette into the street. “The ones who really run Birmingham.”
2:30 AM – Kamari’s Apartment
Kamari triple-locked her door and pulled the blinds closed. It had been a long time since she felt unsafe in her own city.
Malik sat on her couch, scrolling through surveillance databases. “No luck on the SUV’s plates. Either they were fake, or our shooter’s got some pull.”
Kamari sighed, sinking into a chair. “We need to figure out why Darnell was killed now. Not just that he owed money—but who really wanted him dead.”
Malik hesitated, then turned the laptop toward her. “I ran another background check on Darnell.”
Kamari leaned in, reading.
And then her stomach dropped.
Darnell wasn’t just an accountant for a construction company.
He was a whistleblower.
Malik scrolled down. “He was set to testify next week. SEC had an open case against some big-name developers in Birmingham—shady contracts, money laundering, ties to organized crime.”
Kamari sat back, exhaling slowly.
“This wasn’t just about a debt,” she murmured. “Darnell was silenced.”
Malik nodded grimly. “And if we don’t tread carefully, we might be next.”
4:00 AM – The Warehouse
Anthony’s lead took them to a warehouse on the edge of town, near the old steel mills. It was supposed to be abandoned.
But a single black SUV was parked outside.
“Looks familiar,” Malik muttered, checking his gun.
Kamari’s heart pounded as they crept closer. If Darnell’s murder was connected to the corruption case, this was the first real lead.
A low hum of voices carried from inside. Kamari pressed against the cold steel wall, peeking through a dusty window.
Inside, Jermaine—the bartender—was pacing nervously.
Across from him stood a man in a navy suit, his back to them. He was flipping through a thick folder, his posture calm, controlled.
Kamari’s breath caught.
She recognized that man.
Isaiah Colton.
A real estate mogul. One of the biggest developers in the city. The kind of man who had judges, politicians, and police chiefs in his back pocket.
The kind of man who didn’t get his hands dirty—but always had people to do it for him.
Jermaine’s voice wavered. “I did what you asked. I led ‘em outside. But I didn’t pull the trigger.”
Colton sighed, closing the folder. “And yet, Detective Graves and her partner are still alive.”
Jermaine swallowed hard. “I ain’t got nothing else to do with this.”
Colton stepped closer. “That’s the problem, Jermaine.”
Then—
A gunshot.
Jermaine collapsed, a dark stain blooming across his chest.
Kamari barely held back a gasp. Malik tensed beside her.
Colton turned to his shooter—another man in a black suit, face unreadable.
“Clean this up,” Colton said smoothly. “And find the detectives.”
Kamari pulled Malik back. They had seconds before the men inside came looking.
Her mind raced.
Isaiah Colton had just proven what they suspected.
Darnell was killed because he was a threat to powerful men.
And now, so were they.
Kamari and Malik crouched in the shadows, their hearts pounding as the warehouse doors creaked open. The suited man who had executed Jermaine stepped outside, scanning the lot like a wolf catching a scent.
“We need to move. Now,” Malik whispered.
Kamari nodded. They slipped behind rusted shipping containers, keeping low as footsteps crunched on gravel.
Then—
A phone rang.
Not theirs.
The suited man pulled out his cell. “Yeah.” A pause. “No sign of ‘em.” Another pause. Then, “Understood.”
He turned to two other men. “Colton says we’re not waiting. Find them tonight.”
Kamari’s stomach twisted. They weren’t just being hunted.
They were priority targets.
5:30 AM – Safehouse
They drove in silence, Malik gripping the wheel as Kamari checked the gun at her hip. Their safehouse was a low-rent, barely-furnished apartment on the West Side, a place the department kept off the books for deep cases like this.
Malik locked the door behind them. “We’re in deep, Kam.”
Kamari sank onto the couch, rubbing her temples. “Colton’s not just covering up Darnell’s murder—he’s sending a message. Anyone who talks, dies.”
Malik exhaled. “So what’s the play?”
Kamari glanced at her phone. She had one contact who might help—a retired detective named Lionel Stokes. He used to work corruption cases before he got pushed out. If anyone had dirt on Colton, it was him.
She dialed.
It rang once. Twice.
Then a gruff voice answered. “Who’s this?”
“It’s Kamari Graves. I need your help.”
Silence. Then, “If you’re calling me, you’re already in trouble.”
Kamari swallowed. “Darnell Briggs. Colton had him killed.”
Another silence. Then, a slow sigh. “Meet me at Eddie’s Diner in one hour. And come alone.”
6:30 AM – Eddie’s Diner
The diner was nearly empty, the scent of burnt coffee lingering in the air. Kamari spotted Lionel Stokes in a back booth—older, graying, but with sharp eyes that had seen too much.
She slid into the seat across from him.
He didn’t waste time. “Colton’s been untouchable for years. He’s got judges, cops, even feds in his pocket.”
Kamari leaned forward. “But Darnell had something. He was ready to testify.”
Lionel nodded. “Yeah. And now he’s dead.” He slid a folder across the table. “This is what he was working on.”
Kamari opened it—and felt her breath hitch.
Bank statements. Offshore accounts. Wire transfers leading to shell companies.
And at the center of it all?
Isaiah Colton.
Kamari’s pulse quickened. This wasn’t just shady business. It was enough to bury Colton.
Lionel lowered his voice. “Colton’s got a kill order on you, Detective. You don’t walk away from this, you make sure it counts.”
Kamari closed the folder, determination hardening in her chest.
She wasn’t running.
She was taking Colton down.
Kamari gripped the folder tight, her mind racing. This was it—proof. Enough to expose Colton’s empire. But exposing him wouldn’t be easy. He had men on the inside, and she and Malik were already targets.
Lionel stirred his coffee, watching her. “You thinking about taking this straight to Internal Affairs?”
Kamari exhaled sharply. “If I do, Colton’s people inside the department will bury it before it ever sees daylight.”
Lionel nodded. “Then you need insurance.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning,” he leaned forward, “you don’t just turn this in. You make it public. Colton’s got power because he controls the information. You take that control away, and he’s just another man waiting for a prison cell.”
Kamari’s mind clicked into place. The media. A leak big enough that no one could ignore it.
But first, they had to survive the next few hours.
7:30 AM – Safehouse
Kamari shut the door behind her, locking it tight. Malik was waiting, pacing. “Well?”
She tossed the folder onto the table. “We’ve got enough to take him down.”
Malik flipped through the pages, whistling low. “Bank fraud, money laundering, bribery—hell, this man’s been running Birmingham like his own personal kingdom.”
“Which means he won’t go down without a fight.” Kamari sat down, running a hand through her braids. “We need to get this to a journalist. Someone who won’t fold under pressure.”
Malik smirked. “Good thing I still owe a favor to The Birmingham Tribune.”
Kamari raised a brow. “You and Erica Hughes still talk?”
Malik shrugged. “She likes when I give her good stories.”
Kamari rolled her eyes but nodded. “Call her. We do this tonight.”
Malik reached for his phone—
Then the lights in the safehouse flickered.
A second later—
Gunshots.
7:45 AM – Under Fire
The windows shattered as bullets tore through the apartment. Kamari and Malik hit the floor, scrambling for their weapons.
“They found us!” Malik yelled.
“No kidding!” Kamari pressed herself against the couch, gun in hand.
She peeked outside. A black SUV was parked near the curb, masked gunmen moving in.
More shots rang out.
Kamari’s mind raced. They had to get out now.
“Back exit!” she shouted.
Malik covered her as she bolted for the rear door. Kicking it open, they rushed into the alley—
Only to be met with another SUV blocking their path.
The driver’s side window rolled down.
And Isaiah Colton was sitting inside, calm as ever, watching them like a man who had already won.
His voice was smooth, almost amused. “You really should’ve walked away, Detective Graves.”
Kamari clenched her jaw, heart pounding.
Colton smiled. “But now?” He nodded toward his men. “You don’t walk away from this at all.”
Kamari’s grip tightened on her gun.
She wasn’t going down without a fight.
Kamari’s heart pounded as Colton’s gunmen closed in, their weapons gleaming under the streetlights. The alley was boxed in—two SUVs blocking both ends. No way out.
Malik tensed beside her. “We got maybe five seconds before they start shooting again.”
Colton smirked from inside the SUV. “Put the guns down, Detectives. Make this easy.”
Kamari’s mind raced. Giving up wasn’t an option.
Then she spotted it—an old fire escape, half-hidden in the shadows.
She met Malik’s eyes. “Follow my lead.”
Then—
She fired first.
The gunshot cracked through the night, hitting one of Colton’s men square in the shoulder.
Chaos erupted.
Malik took down another gunman, giving Kamari just enough cover to sprint toward the fire escape.
“Move!” she yelled.
Malik was right behind her. They scaled the rusted ladder as bullets ricocheted off metal. Kamari’s hands burned from the rough iron rungs, but she didn’t stop.
Colton’s voice carried below. “Find them! Now!”
Kamari and Malik scrambled onto the rooftop, breathless.
“We can’t keep running,” Malik said. “We need to end this.”
Kamari wiped sweat from her brow. “We’re going to.” She pulled out her phone. “But first, we make sure the whole damn city knows the truth.”
8:30 AM – The Leak
Inside a dimly lit newsroom, journalist Erica Hughes stared at the documents Kamari had just handed over. Her eyes widened as she flipped through them.
“This… this is enough to bring Colton down.”
Kamari nodded. “But only if it goes public. Now.”
Erica didn’t hesitate. She reached for her phone. “I’m calling my editor. This is going live within the hour.”
Malik exhaled, glancing at Kamari. “You think this will stop him?”
Kamari’s jaw tightened. “No. But it’ll take away his power.”
Outside, sirens wailed.
The city was waking up.
And soon, so would the truth.
9:15 AM – The Final Move
Kamari and Malik sat in an unmarked car outside City Hall, listening as the morning news blasted from the radio.
“Breaking news—The Birmingham Tribune has just released shocking documents linking real estate mogul Isaiah Colton to a web of corruption, bribery, and multiple murders. Federal authorities have launched an immediate investigation—”
Malik smirked. “Guess Colton’s having a bad morning.”
Kamari wasn’t smiling. She kept her eyes on the entrance of City Hall, where a line of black SUVs had just pulled up.
Then—
Colton stepped out, flanked by his lawyers. His expression was tight, controlled. But she saw it—the slight tension in his jaw. The realization that, for the first time, he wasn’t the one pulling the strings.
He turned.
Their eyes met.
Kamari gave him a slow nod.
Checkmate.
As federal agents swarmed him, Colton finally lost his smirk.
Kamari exhaled, gripping the steering wheel. “It’s over.”
Malik chuckled. “Damn right it is.”
As Colton was led inside in handcuffs, Kamari leaned back in her seat, exhaustion settling in.
It wasn’t just about Darnell anymore.
It was about all the people who had been silenced.
And finally—finally—justice had caught up.
One Month Later
The city was still buzzing from Colton’s downfall. His empire had crumbled, his allies turning on him. More arrests followed. Birmingham was changing.
Kamari sat on her porch, sipping coffee as the morning sun rose over the city.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Malik.
"Looks like we made the news again. Hope you're ready for your detective-of-the-year speech."
Kamari smirked.
She wasn’t in this for awards.
She was in it for justice.
And Birmingham still had a long way to go.
THE END.
