The final plea deals were all executed and approved by the judge just two days ago. The day after the deals were finalized, I gave my notice to the ATF that I was quitting. While my actions were vile and inhumane much of the time I was undercover, I know deep in my heart I’ve ultimately saved lives by completing my mission and, for that, I’m proud.
But despite that, I really need to leave it all behind. The scars run too deep, the memories are nothing but bitter, and I don’t have a passion for justice anymore.
As soon as I exit the car, the front door of the stilted beach cottage that belongs to Andrea and her husband Wyatt flies open. They live right on the sandy dunes of the Outer Banks in North Carolina, and it’s hot as hell even though we’re breaching the end of September.
Andrea trots gingerly down the steps, one hand on the rail and the other holding her swollen belly, but her eyes are pinned right on me.
“Jesus Christ, slow down, Andrea,” I hear from the top of the stairs, and I look up to see Wyatt coming down behind her. I’ve only been around him twice, but he’s a decent dude. Works for the local police department while Andrea practices law. Ironically, they met while on an undercover assignment when Andrea was working for the FBI prior to her moving here.
I don’t bother to look at Wyatt again though, because I only have eyes for my sister. So like me with the same blond hair and blue eyes, and even our predisposition to work in law enforcement. But we’re different in that she’s always had the sunny, bubbly personality and I’ve always been more circumspect about things. Over the past few years, while Andrea has been settling into married life and setting her eyes on raising a family, I’d been running drugs, guns, and selling women into slavery. Her sunny disposition has only gotten brighter, while my glass runs less than half full and mainly has a thick layer of sludge on the bottom.
“Even though I’m seeing you with my own eyes,” she says softly as her flip-flops hit the gravel and she walks into my arms, “I’m just having a hard time believing you’re really alive.”
I engulf her, pull her as tight as that pregnant belly will let me, and lay my cheek on the top of her head. My voice is gruff with emotion when I tell her, “Believe it, sis.”
We stay like that for several long moments until I feel Wyatt’s hand on my shoulder. I lift my head and turn to find him looking at me with respect and appreciation. I’ve talked to him a few times on the phone as well these last several weeks, and we’ve talked about the sacrifices that had to be made while working undercover.
Andrea is the first to pull away, and her eyes are shining with happy tears that she unabashedly ignores as she smiles at me. “I hope you packed a lot of clothes so you can stay for a really long visit.”
“Got nowhere else I need to be,” I tell her.
And that’s the sad truth.
?
“All those years,” Andrea murmurs as we sit on her back deck the next morning, watching the waves roll in. It’s just dawn and the sun is peeking over the horizon. She found me out here about twenty minutes ago, and we shared our coffee together as we watched the sun rise, turning the sky pink, orange, purple, and then blue. “And I never knew you were undercover.”
“Isn’t that the point?” I say, my tone matter of fact.
“Well, of course,” she admits freely. “But I was FBI. I should have known. I’m trained to know those things.”
I reach over and pat Andrea’s knee to commiserate. I had told her last night the long and involved story about how I became an ATF agent, and what led me to go undercover. She knows that I joined the ATF with the sole purpose of infiltrating Mayhem’s Mission, so she was purposely kept oblivious to it all.
“Did you love her?” Andrea asks, and the question should feel awkward because we’ve not been close in years. I absolutely could not let us be close because I never wanted Zeke or anyone in that club thinking they could use Andrea against me if things went south.
But her asking me if I loved her isn’t awkward, and I answer her with brutal honesty.
“No,” I tell her softly. “But I cared for her a great deal.”
The “her” is Jacqueline Martin, a woman I’d dated for several months while I was working the oil fields in eastern Wyoming. It was good money and I was able to work on my criminal justice degree at night. I was close friends with Jackie’s brother, Darren, who was a local deputy sheriff. It sort of naturally happened that I started dating her and, because she and her brother were close, we all hung out a lot. While I wasn’t in love with her, I cared about her deeply.