by A J Rivers
Some no longer living.
These criminals need to be stopped.
Together we identified key locations, gathered evidence, and prepared for the moment when it would all end, both for those who caused so much pain and those who lived in it.
It all led to this moment.
Heat prickles the back of my neck. Adrenaline surges inside me as I work my mind up and prepare my body for the intense burst of energy I’m going to need to blast through this. It’s not going to be simple. It’s not going to be pretty. But it’s going to be effective. And if we do it right, it doesn’t have to be deadly.
Looking at my watch again, I make a move as if I’m adjusting its position on my wrist. Instead, I’m activating a button that connects me with the ground crew outside, so I can mutter the few words they need to hear every so often to know everything is still going as planned.
They’re waiting to surround the building. If the perpetrators try to flee, no matter which direction they go, they’ll end up running right into our waiting arms. And the line of fire.
But we’re also taking precautions. As critical as it is to get these victims out of this situation as fast as possible, we can’t forget that we are in a restaurant that’s still open to the public. The place is fairly empty, but there are a few patrons around. Right outside, parked right next to the van containing other agents and law enforcement, are people who have absolutely nothing to do with this, who have no idea what’s going on. They shouldn’t be caught up in it if it is at all avoidable.
Patience is one of the greatest challenges of orchestrating an operation like this. Sometimes when out in the field, I get to rush into a situation and everything happens in a split second. I get to kick down doors and storm rooms within moments of actually getting to a place. But not always. A lot of times it ends up just like this: long stretches trying to not look suspicious while waiting for everything to fall into place.
And then it all suddenly happens.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the sliver of light appear and the movement I’ve been waiting for. I run my fingers back through my hair, and seconds later, three more agents walk through the front door. They move with smooth confidence to the nearest table of patrons, acting as if they know them.
They don’t want to bring any attention to themselves as they subtly let the people know they need to get out of the restaurant. I continue to watch the shadowy space, making sure I have my eyes on the doors as well as the figures moving back there.
It takes a few minutes for the agents to convince the customers at the nearest tables to leave. There’s only one table left, and when I look up, the two people sitting at it make eye contact with me. I don’t know if it’s because they’ve caught on to the fact that I’ve been sitting there for so long, or simply because I’m the only other human in this space other than the waiter, and they want to make sure I see what’s happening.
I shouldn’t give myself away. But it’s obvious they aren’t comfortable with being there. I give as subtle but convincing a nod as I can and tilt my head toward the door. It’s a compelling enough move and they get up, tossing money onto the table before leaving. The waiter tries to stop them, but the agents follow right after.
Then I’m the only one left. He starts toward me, and I don’t like the look in his eye. My watch makes a subtle sound that tells me everyone is in place around the building.
Let’s do this.
I give the final signal. Seconds later, a cacophony of shouts erupts from the back of the building. I get up to my feet, push away from the table, and reach for my gun. The waiter immediately heads for the door, but the other agents are waiting.
From there, everything happens in a blur. The adrenaline and sheer fury push me through. By the time I’m standing with my foot in the middle of the back of a handcuffed man, my gun pointed toward his head, I more than remember why I started doing this.
There have definitely been times that I’ve doubted my place in the FBI. I tend to buck tradition and err on the side of my feelings and intuitions, rather than always precisely following the rules and procedures. It used to get me in trouble fairly often. At the worst point, it landed me behind a desk and out of the field for six months.
Last year, I went through a difficult time and I didn’t know if I could stay in the Bureau. Clashing with my supervisor and struggling to be respected and properly recognized by others drove me to the edge. As much as being an agent had been everything I’d worked for since I was eighteen years old, I just didn’t feel the same satisfaction and fulfillment anymore.
It only took one case that threw me into the depths of human darkness to remind me of who I am. Challenges and clashes or not, I’m an FBI agent.
My career isn’t the same as it used to be. But I’m not the same as I used to be, either.
For a while I worked purely as a consultant, while also working with my fiancé, Sheriff Samuel Johnson, in the Sherwood, Virginia police department. Then I got involved in some private investigative work with my cousin Dean Steele. He’s a licensed private investigator and is constantly on my back, reminding me that I can’t refer to myself as a PI or say that I was doing any private investigating until I go through the training, get tested, and get my license just as he did.
But I’ve been telling him that, as the young folks are saying these days, I ain’t got time for that.
Nope, still can’t pull it off. If I have the compulsion to preface something with “as the young folks are”, and then add in some sort of action word, such as eating, drinking, doing, or saying, I just need to take a step back and tell myself “no.” No good is going to come of this.
Dean doesn’t know I’ve been working my way through the training. I’m actually just about to finish the course. I haven’t wanted to tell him and build it up too much. He wants me out of the Bureau and working with him full-time, but now I realize I can’t do that. At least not at this time.
I’ve been easing back into the field more and more and I’m not ready to leave it. I can’t do as much as I used to. The notoriety that’s come from my recent jobs has made it much more likely for me to be recognized. I’ll probably never be able to go undercover again. But there’s still plenty of work to be done. Too many smaller elements of larger crime rings I busted were either never identified or have gotten out of jail. They’re not going to hit the straight-and-narrow and start living choir boy lives.
It isn’t likely, anyway. Not that I don’t believe in the concept of redemption and rehabilitation. Dean is the perfect example to prove that doing bad things doesn’t automatically imply a bad person. He made choices when he was younger that left his life in tatters. But he took those tatters and mended them back together, becoming a special forces veteran and warrior for what is right.
It would be naïve to think that will happen for everyone. Many more will go right back to the illegal activities and the people who got them in trouble. Instead of working harder to be better human beings, they work harder to be better criminals. And that includes burning undercovers. If there’s any way they can recognize an agent, they’ll make sure everyone knows about it.
Since my face has been splashed all over the news at a frankly uncomfortable frequency throughout the last few years, there’s enough risk that some of them could pinpoint me that I have to stay away from those roles.
This case was a risk, but I felt passionate about it. We did enough preliminary work for me to feel confident they didn’t have strong ties to any of the large drug or crime syndicates still being dismantled. Their twisted, disturbing crimes were all their own, which meant I got the distinct pleasure of being here to bring them down.
One day, maybe, I’ll decide it’s time to settle down and retire from the Bureau. My upcoming marriage and my little chosen family’s getting bigger, with the any-day-now birth of Bellamy’s baby girl, have given me a glimpse of another kind of life in my future. But it’s not set in stone. There’s no reason I can’t have bot
h lives for as long as I want. My marriage certificate isn’t going to double as debriefing papers. Having a new baby in my life just means renewed purpose and a stronger desire to make this world safer and more beautiful for her.
I’ll wear my wedding ring and carry Sam with me into battle, work alongside Dean and Xavier on cases that need us all to unravel, help keep down crime in Sherwood, and still be home to bake cinnamon rolls and have Game Night with Paul and Janet across the street. People have doubted me in the past. I’ve doubted myself in the past. But no more. If Barbie can do it, so can I. Bitches, beware.
Two
“You wanted to see me?” I ask, dipping my head into Creagan’s office.
“Griffin, yeah, come in. Sit down.” Creagan gestures to the chair across the desk from him and I close the door before taking the seat. “How are you feeling?”
Shit. It’s never good when he starts down this path. It’s the same one that got me stuck behind a desk years ago after an undercover job almost imploded. It’s the same one that ended with me stretched out on a therapist’s couch picking apart my life when I really didn’t want to. And it’s the same one that forced me into medical leave that nearly led to my losing my mind.
In the end, all of those situations worked out, but I’m not looking forward to what it’s going to lead to this time.
“Doing fine,” I say carefully. “I’ve got a couple bumps and bruises, but nothing serious.”
“Good,” he nods. “You did a great job out there. This whole job. That couple is going to go away for a long time, and their victims are going to have a chance now.”
I give a single nod. “That was the goal.”
“And you did it.”
“Thank you.” Well, this is awkward as hell. Creagan isn’t the best at being loving and supportive. For the most part, he’s a hard-ass who’d rather plow through anything having to do with emotion, good or bad. And I’m feeling on guard. So, I decide to plunge ahead into a conversation I’ve been meaning to have with him anyway. “I’m actually glad you asked, because I have something I want to talk to you about.”
“Oh?” Creagan asks. “What is it?”
“I want Greg’s files,” I say.
It’s blunt and to the point. I already have a feeling this is going to be a bit of a struggle, so I saved my breath and explanations for when he starts being difficult about it.
“Why do you want his files? You already have the information given to you during the investigation.”
“The investigation is still ongoing. We don’t know who killed him or why. And I do have pieces of the case files, but not everything. I want more of the crime scene photos and unredacted reports.”
“You know my feelings on your being involved in the investigation into his murder,” Creagan replies. “Considering your relationship and your inheritance of his estate…”
“Those things are exactly why I want access. And I want to be involved in his investigation. There’s no excuse for our not having solved this by now. Greg was one of our own. My relationship with him aside, he was an agent. A loyal and talented agent who was instrumental in solving several high-profile cases. Including uncovering the depths of Leviathan and ensuring Jonah Griffin never sees the light of day again. He deserves better than to be covered by the energy and effort equivalent of a side chick,” I say.
“A side chick?” he raises an eyebrow.
“A… on the back burner,” I attempt to clarify.
“Griffin, I fully understand the importance Greg had in this organization, and I appreciate your wanting to uncover the truth, but I think you’re way off in your characterization of the work being done to find out who’s responsible. It’s a challenging and complicated case.”
“I know it is. So, let me put an extra set of eyes on it. From the very beginning, I’ve been the one who’s been able to provide the most information. I know you think I’m too emotionally involved, but maybe that’s what this needs. His death makes no sense. You know that yourself. He hated water. He had just started what could have turned into a relationship with the investigator Lydia Walsh. He’d just recovered from what Jonah did to him. Why would he have Lydia come meet him at the hospital only to break off from her and go to the beach?
“And what about the time in between? It took three days to find him, Creagan. Three. And he wasn’t dead for that whole time. The medical report proves that.”
“What do you mean the medical report proves that?” he frowns.
“He didn’t show the signs of being dead and exposed to water for that many hours.”
“I think you’re wrong about that,” Creagan says.
His insistence is a little strange, but I don’t push him on it. The truth is, I have suspicions. Strong, complicated suspicions that have been creeping and tangling in my mind like vines for the past few weeks.
“Then let me have full access to the case files so I can see that. Either way, there’s still the question of who killed him and how they managed to do it without anyone’s seeing them. He was supposedly shot in broad daylight. And there were no signs in the sand that he struggled or fought back in any way. According to the way his footprints were positioned and the way his body fell, it looks as if he didn’t even turn around. How could that possibly be?” I ask.
“I don’t know, Griffin. It’s something we’re all trying to figure out,” Creagan says.
“And I should be allowed to help more than I have been. You cut me off from official involvement in the case too soon,” I say.
“I removed you from the task force because you are too close to the situation.”
“I was too close to my mother’s death and I got the answers to that,” I point out. “I arrested my own uncle after he spent my entire life stalking me. That’s too close, Creagan. But I did it because it needed to be done. And so does this. Another year shouldn’t go by with Greg’s still not having justice.”
Creagan still looks as if he’s waffling on the request. Even if he won’t relent and give it to me today, I’ll keep asking. The partial files I have are a start, but they don’t give the full picture. There’s information missing. Pictures missing. I need to have all the crime scene photos, rather than just a few snaps Eric was able to get for me.
Something has been bothering me about the ones I have, but I can’t figure out exactly what it is. It’s sticking in the back of my mind and won’t let go. I might have made a connection, but it doesn’t make sense. Not yet. Those pictures aren’t enough to give me the full idea of what happened. They all seem to be lacking something. I don’t know what, but each one feels incomplete. I feel that I need to see other angles. I Ii think if I could look at these still images differently, I will see what I need to know.
“I’ll consider it,” he finally relents. It’s a start. I’ll keep bothering him about it until I get the answer I want. He probably already knows that. “But for right now, I asked you here because I need to talk to you about something.”
“What is it?” I ask, back to the hesitant feeling.
This doesn’t sound the same as when he started trying to poke around in my mind and figure out what made it click; when he decided I needed to stretch out and stare at a ceiling while a woman whose name I wouldn’t even say for several months cracked me open and explored around.
“Your work in Harlan,” he says.
That’s not what I was expecting. But maybe I should have. Creagan doesn’t like the way it looks when a case he all but dismissed explodes into something huge and complex. And then doesn’t have a resolution. That’s what happened in Harlan.
Looking back, it’s hard to identify how it actually started, because it all became intertwined so quickly. Dean had been investigating the disappearance of a man after a bizarre set of actions, including filling and emptying his bank account a couple of times and marrying a woman no one had ever met or heard of. At the same time, I was drawn into the case of a missing internet celebrity, Lakyn Monroe, who was last seen l
eaving an appearance and seemed to have simply vanished.
That’s what brought Xavier Renton into my path. Or, more accurately, brought me into his path. Xavier doesn’t come into people’s lives. He exists in his own sphere and some people are fortunate enough to get absorbed into it. Lakyn was almost there. Xavier was imprisoned for eight years, accused of the grisly murder of his best friend, and was only getting more isolated and unpredictable as time went on.
According to what she shared with the public, Lakyn was working toward illuminating Xavier’s plight and getting him released. We later found out she was delving deep into the case and angering people who didn’t handle being angered well. This is where the cases really started to spiral and twist onto each other until they were strangling the small town.
In the end, lives were brutally lost, and a horrific organization known as The Order of Prometheus was uncovered. They were the ones who killed Xavier’s friend and framed him for it; they were the ones who murdered Lakyn; they were the ones responsible for the mysterious disappearance in Dean’s case and a host of other murders besides. They manipulated and controlled practically every aspect of the town and carried out cult-like rituals. They even tried to sacrifice me.
I came out of it all with Xavier as a new part of my chosen family, and complete enmity and bitterness toward the members of The Order who ensured he spent so much time in captivity and tormented him throughout it.
Though we pieced together some of the truth, The Order members disappeared before they could be brought up on any charges. They left behind their cavernous meeting hall full of secrets and lingering questions. Especially when we accidentally uncovered a powerful connection to the Dragon, a drug lord I brought down years ago. And had thought to be dead.