Brogan, Dave & Marmalade: The Next Link

Brogan, Dave & Marmalade: The Next Link

The glowing kernel Dave had recovered from the Velvet Club kitchen sat on the scarred wooden table at the Rusty Nail like a tiny accusation. It pulsed faintly under the low light, the same unnatural sheen that had turned birds docile in the city and livestock compliant on the farm.

Brogan stared at it, jaw tight. “This isn’t just spreading through restaurant supply chains anymore. It’s evolving.”

Dave adjusted his tiny fedora, notebook open. “The ledger I lifted showed shipments going to three new locations. One is a big catering company that supplies half the political fundraisers in Boston. Another is a private school up in the suburbs. The third…” He tapped the page with a tiny paw. “A high-end assisted living facility called Evergreen Meadows. Fancy place. Rich old folks.”

Marmalade, lounging on the bar with one paw draped dramatically over the edge, flicked an ear. “Elderly humans make excellent test subjects. Compliant, quiet, and nobody listens when they complain about ‘feeling strange.’”

Brogan nodded once. “We split up. Dave, you take the school — small enough for you to slip through vents and walls. Marmalade, the assisted living facility. You can pass for a therapy cat if you play nice. I’ll handle the catering company. If any of us finds the next link in the chain, we meet back here. No heroics. No solo plays.”

Dave saluted with his straw cigar. “Copy that, boss.”

Marmalade sighed theatrically. “I suppose I can lower myself to purring for tuna and information.”

They moved that same night.

---

Dave’s Part – The Missing Mouse

Dave slipped into the private school through the HVAC system, moving like a furry shadow. The place was quiet after hours, but he quickly found the problem: several students and one teacher were acting strangely — too calm, too compliant, following instructions without question.

He discovered a small gray mouse named Pip hiding in the ceiling tiles above the cafeteria. Pip was terrified.

“They’re putting it in the lunch program,” Pip squeaked. “The corn. The new ‘healthy’ grain bowls. Kids who eat it stop fighting back. Stop asking questions. The principal is in on it. He’s getting paid by some guy named Crowe.”

Dave’s whiskers twitched. Crowe — the same name from the Ghost Platoon file and the Boston butchers case.

He got Pip out safely and copied the delivery manifests hidden in the principal’s desk. The next shipment was coming from a warehouse in Revere.

---

Marmalade’s Part – The Different Kind of Dinner

Marmalade strolled into Evergreen Meadows like he belonged there, purring on command and allowing the elderly residents to coo over him. The staff called him “Mr. Fluffington” and gave him premium tuna from the kitchen.

He hated every second of it.

But while “enjoying” belly rubs from sweet old ladies, he overheard two orderlies talking in the hallway.

“The new corn mash is working wonders on the difficult residents. They’re so much easier now. The director says the supplier is expanding the program next month.”

Marmalade followed the scent of the glowing corn to the industrial kitchen. He found the bags labeled “Premium Senior Nutrition Blend – Aether Dynamics.” One of the cooks mentioned the next big delivery was scheduled for a political fundraiser catered by the same company Brogan was watching.

And the man signing off on the invoices? Sergeant Harlan Crowe — the dirty cop from Brogan’s recent IA case.

Marmalade slipped out with a sample of the mash and a deep sense of disgust at how low he had sunk for tuna.

---

Brogan’s Part – The Old Couple

Brogan posed as a health inspector at the catering company’s warehouse in Revere. The manager was nervous. Too nervous.

In the back office, Brogan found an elderly couple — Mr. and Mrs. Whitaker — sitting quietly at a table, reviewing invoices. They looked perfectly normal… until Brogan noticed their eyes. Glassy. Compliant. Too calm.

“They’re test subjects,” the manager admitted under pressure. “The corn works on humans too, in higher doses. The Whitakers were having memory issues. Now they’re… cooperative. They sign whatever we need them to sign. Perfect cover for moving large shipments.”

Brogan’s blood ran cold. The network wasn’t just controlling livestock or schoolkids anymore. They were testing on vulnerable elderly people and using them as unwitting fronts.

The manager cracked completely when Brogan mentioned Crowe’s name.

“The next big drop is tomorrow night. A black-tie fundraiser at the Harborview Hotel. The corn is going into the catering. Crowe is overseeing it personally. After that, they’re moving the operation to a new facility upstate.”

---

They Come Together

They met back at the Rusty Nail just before dawn.

Brogan spread the warehouse manifests on the table. Dave added the school delivery logs. Marmalade dropped the sample of senior mash beside them.

“It’s all the same chain,” Brogan said. “Crowe is the next link. He’s running the distribution for the political and high-society crowd now. If this fundraiser goes through, super-corn gets into the water supply of Boston’s elite. Compliant donors. Compliant voters. Compliant everything.”

Dave tapped his notebook. “Pip heard Crowe say the new facility is called ‘Harvest Point.’ It’s where they’re refining the human-grade version.”

Marmalade’s tail lashed once. “Then we stop it tonight. Before more old people end up like the Whitakers. Before more kids lose their fight. Before this city forgets how to say no.”

Brogan looked at his unlikely partners — the tiny mouse detective, the fallen show cat, and the weight of every ghost he carried.

“We hit the fundraiser. Dave gets inside through the vents and disables the kitchen systems. Marmalade causes a distraction in the dining room — you’re good at looking innocent when you want to. I’ll handle Crowe personally.”

Dave grinned around his straw. “Teamwork makes the dream work.”

Marmalade sighed. “If I have to purr for one more tuna-scented old lady, I’m billing you double.”

Brogan allowed himself the ghost of a smile.

“Tonight we cut the next link. Together.”

The three of them — the Ranger, the mouse, and the cat — stepped out into the Boston night, heading for the Harborview Hotel.

The pipeline had grown longer and darker.

But so had the people willing to burn it down.

 

Brogan: Pigs Go Flying Again

Brogan: Pigs Go Flying Again

James Brogan never expected his next case to involve flying pigs, but then again, nothing in this line of work ever stayed simple.

It started with a phone call from Tommy “The Hook” Callahan, the Southie meat wholesaler who still owed him for the Boston butchers mess.

“Brogan, I got a problem. One of my biggest clients — old man Kowalski over at Kowalski & Sons Packing — says the last three deliveries of pork shoulders came in wrong. Not spoiled. Not short. Just… wrong. The pigs were too calm when they were processed. Too docile. He says the meat tastes flat, like the animals didn’t have any fight left in them. He’s threatening to take his business elsewhere unless I figure out what the hell is going on. He offered me some prime steaks if I send someone to poke around. I’m sending you. Bring your weird little friends if you need them.”

Brogan sighed. “You’re paying triple for weird.”

“Done.”

So Brogan found himself standing outside Kowalski & Sons Meat Packing in the industrial district at 2 a.m., the air thick with the smell of blood, cold steel, and something faintly chemical.

Dave rode on his shoulder, tiny fedora tilted low. Marmalade stalked beside them like a grumpy orange shadow, tail flicking with irritation at the stench.

“Simple case,” Brogan muttered. “Just check the meat.”

Inside the plant, the night shift was running. Carcasses hung from rails, knives flashed, and the rhythmic thud of cleavers echoed off concrete walls. Old man Kowalski — a thick-necked Pole with forearms like hams — met them in the loading dock.

“The last batch came from a new supplier upstate,” Kowalski growled. “Supposed to be premium corn-fed. But these pigs… they walked into the stun pen like they were going to church. No fear. No struggle. The meat is tender, sure, but it’s missing something. Soul, maybe. I don’t like it.”

Dave’s whiskers twitched. “Super-corn,” he whispered.

Marmalade’s ears flattened. “The pesky corn strikes again.”

Brogan nodded. “Show me the holding pens.”

They moved deeper into the facility. In the live animal area, the next shipment of pigs stood unusually still in their pens. Their eyes were glassy. Their breathing slow and even. They looked… content. Almost drugged.

Dave slipped off Brogan’s shoulder and disappeared into the shadows. Marmalade melted into the rafters like liquid fire.

Brogan crouched by one of the pens and examined a feed trough. The corn inside had that faint, unnatural glow.

“Same strain,” he muttered.

That’s when the wrong animals showed up.

A side door burst open. Four men in dark coveralls — not plant workers — pushed in, carrying canisters marked “Industrial Gas – Flammable.” One of them had a familiar face: a mid-level enforcer who had worked for the same network that once moved super-corn through the Velvet Club.

They weren’t here to deliver meat.

They were here to destroy evidence.

The leader spotted Brogan and grinned. “Wrong place, wrong time, Ranger.”

He opened the valve on one canister. A sharp chemical smell filled the air — explosive gas, the kind used in industrial refrigeration but far more volatile when mixed with the right catalyst.

The plan was clear: flood the plant with gas, spark it, and blame it on a “tragic accident” that conveniently destroyed the tainted corn and any witnesses.

Dave moved first.

The tiny detective darted across the floor, climbed the nearest man’s leg like it was a tree, and sank his teeth into the soft spot behind the knee. The man screamed and dropped the canister. Gas hissed across the concrete.

Marmalade dropped from the rafters like an orange missile, landing on the second man’s face and clawing for all he was worth. The man staggered backward into a control panel, knocking over another canister.

Brogan drew his Glock and put two rounds into the third man’s shoulder before the fourth could raise his own weapon. The fourth man turned to run — straight into Big Mike Callahan, who had shown up unannounced after hearing about the “simple favor” from Tommy The Hook.

Mike’s fist ended the conversation.

The gas was spreading fast now. One spark and the whole plant would go up.

Dave shouted from atop a railing, “The main valve! Cut it off!”

Brogan sprinted for the emergency shutoff while Marmalade knocked over a fire extinguisher, rolling it toward the growing puddle of gas like a furry bowling ball.

The explosion never came.

Brogan slammed the valve shut just as the first spark from a fallen flashlight threatened to ignite everything. The hissing stopped.

Silence fell, broken only by the whimpering of the would-be saboteurs and the low grunting of the strangely calm pigs in their pens.

Kowalski stared at the scene — the tiny mouse detective, the grumpy orange cat, the lone Ranger, and the massive biker — and shook his head.

“I asked for someone to poke around,” he muttered. “Not a goddamn circus.”

Brogan wiped blood from his knuckles and looked at the captured men.

“Tell your bosses the next delivery better be clean. Or the pigs won’t be the only things going flying.”

Later, back at the Rusty Nail, Brogan nursed a beer while Dave scribbled notes and Marmalade groomed corn dust from his fur.

“Simple case,” Brogan said dryly.

Dave grinned around his straw cigar. “They always say that.”

Marmalade flicked an ear. “At least the steaks were good.”

Brogan allowed himself a rare, tired laugh.

Another link in the chain broken.

Another night where the wrong animals caused the right kind of chaos.

And somewhere out there, the super-corn pipeline was feeling the pressure again.

Because when pigs started going flying, it usually meant James Brogan and his strange little crew were close behind.

 

Major John Rush: Bad Things Happen to Bad People

Major John Rush: Bad Things Happen to Bad People

The back room of a private club in Georgetown smelled of aged whiskey, Cuban cigars, and the particular kind of arrogance that only comes from people who believe the rules don’t apply to them.

Major John Rush sat in the corner, nursing a single cup of black coffee, watching the room without seeming to watch anything at all. He wore a plain dark suit that cost more than most people’s cars but looked like it had been slept in. His face was calm, almost bored. That was deliberate.

Three men sat at the main table. All of them were important. None of them were good.

Senator Harlan Crowe — the same Crowe who had once been a junior JAG officer in Bosnia and later helped bury the Ghost Platoon file — was laughing too loudly at his own joke. Beside him was a senior lobbyist for Aether Dynamics, the company pushing the super-corn behavioral modifiers. The third man was a mid-level DEA official who had been taking quiet payments to look the other way while certain shipments moved through East Coast ports.

They were celebrating.

The new “Harvest Point” facility was fully funded. The latest batch of human-grade super-corn had passed internal testing. Compliant donors meant compliant legislation. Compliant legislation meant more grants, more protection, more money. The pipeline that began with looted Bosnian artifacts in 1998 was finally paying dividends in the corridors of power.

Rush waited until the laughter died down and the whiskey had loosened their tongues enough.

Then he stood up and walked over to the table.

The three men looked up, surprised. They didn’t recognize him. Almost no one ever did.

“Gentlemen,” Rush said quietly. “I have a message from someone who doesn’t like loose ends.”

Crowe’s smile faltered. “Who the hell are you?”

Rush didn’t answer with words. He placed a single photograph on the table — an old image from the 1998 Ghost Platoon ambush. The missing manifest pages were clearly visible in the background. Then he placed a second photo beside it: the same manifest, newly recovered, with fresh bank routing numbers linking directly to Aether Dynamics and the senator’s re-election fund.

The lobbyist went pale.

The DEA man started to reach for his phone.

Rush’s hand moved faster. He pressed a small, matte-black suppressor against the man’s wrist under the table.

“Bad things happen to bad people,” Rush said, voice low and even, “for all the right reasons.”

The back room deal had been simple on paper: Crowe would push the legislation, the lobbyist would deliver the campaign money, and the DEA official would ensure the shipments stayed invisible. In return, they would all get richer and more powerful while the super-corn quietly made certain populations easier to manage.

Rush had other plans.

He made them an offer they couldn’t refuse.

“Walk away tonight. Kill the Harvest Point funding. Burn the current batches. Or I make sure every name, every account, and every corpse tied to the 1998 artifacts sees the light of day.”

Crowe tried to bluster. “You have no proof.”

Rush slid a third item across the table — a small USB drive.

“Everything is on there. Including the recordings from this room tonight. You really should check your security more often.”

The DEA man started sweating. The lobbyist looked like he might be sick.

Crowe leaned forward, eyes hard. “You’re just one man.”

Rush allowed himself the smallest, coldest smile he ever permitted.

“No. I’m the man who cleans up after people like you. And I’ve been doing it for a very long time.”

He stood up slowly.

“You have forty-eight hours. After that, bad things will happen. For all the right reasons.”

He left the room without looking back.

Two nights later, Senator Harlan Crowe was found dead in his Georgetown townhouse. Official cause: heart attack. The toxicology report was clean. No one looked too closely.

The lobbyist resigned the next morning, citing “health reasons,” and quietly moved to a villa in Portugal.

The DEA official was found floating in the Potomac three days later. Suicide, the note said. His family received a generous anonymous donation to cover funeral costs.

The Harvest Point funding was quietly killed in committee. The current super-corn batches were recalled under “quality control issues.” The pipeline didn’t die — pipelines like that never truly die — but it was slowed, disrupted, and forced to find new routes.

Major John Rush was back in Colorado by the end of the week, sitting on the porch of his timber lodge with a fresh cup of black coffee.

He opened his private ledger and made two short entries.

One for Senator Crowe.

One for the others.

He didn’t write much. Just dates and outcomes.

Then he closed the book, set it on the shelf beside his .45, and watched the mountains turn gold in the evening light.

Some politicians never understood that corruption kills until they got dead themselves.

Rush had spent his life making sure that lesson was delivered — quietly, efficiently, and for all the right reasons.

He lit a cigarette, exhaled toward the peaks, and spoke to the empty porch the way he sometimes did when the weight pressed hardest.

“Bad things happen to bad people.”

The mountains didn’t answer.

They never did.

But somewhere down the chain, the next link was already starting to feel the pressure.

And Major John Rush was ready when it finally snapped.