>CHARLESTON, WV
>WV STATE POLICE STATION
>0900…///
>[NEXT DAY]

It was an odd feeling for Maryanne Roy at the station today. Getting another visit from a Federal Agent to talk about the Carlisle kidnapping that had happened some time ago in New York. There seemed to be quite the buzz about it, and she wondered if fate had placed her just so on the board. At a crossroads in her career, to retire and be done with it all, or to stay the course and see where the road ended with all of this. See if it really was all connected. If a murdered girl, a murdered ex-Warden, and the Carlisle kidnapping were all connected, and how.

She swallowed through a dry mouth, almost not able to taste her coffee as she endlessly stared at the walls of her office in the precinct. It seemed just yesterday she was busting low-level prostitution operations and small-time drug dealers the Feds didn’t have time to touch. Now the Feds were all over little old West Virginia, and they were all coming to her for some goddamn reason.

There came a knock at her door, and she swallowed again, staring and wondering how quietly she could slip out the window until another few knocks came. She cleared her throat, “Yeah, come in.”

Special Agent Garcia stepped into the office, he was a thin short man with dark hair slicked neatly and thick brows that were set in a permanent furrow. “Detective Roy, thank you for seeing me.”

He wore a dark gray suit and a navy tie, his FBI ID clipped to the breast  pocket. His accent was noticeably not from the area, a hint of Brooklyn colored his speech. “Agent Garcia, from the NYC field office, we spoke on the phone. May I?”

Garcia pulled the chair out and sat down, holding his file in his lap. “I’ll try not to take up too much of your time, Detective.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Roy nodded and gave a tight smile when Garcia helped himself to a seat. She had her hands around her mug, a device, at least something that wasn’t her desk to keep Garcia at bay, “I didn’t get much from you on our initial conversation. How can I help you, exactly?”

Agent Garcia returned the polite smile and opened the folder, “First off, you know I’m investigating a cold case disappearance of a high profile victim. And more importantly the two police officers killed responding to the 911 calls. There were also two dead bodyguards. It was a mess.”

He blinked, the hallway walls splashed with gore and blood came back, the stink of shit from torn guts and how the carpet had squished under his loafers. Garcia had the pictures in the folder but he did not need to look at them to remember. “Detective, I’ve combed through a lot of evidence and tips, one that led me here. I won’t bore you with all the details as I’m sure you have enough to do but I need to ask you about...”

Garcia cleared his throat, “A man that presented himself as Special Agent John Davidson.”

Roy seemed to freeze in place, as if she had been frozen in time. Her breathing had stopped until she drew in a loud breath through her nose and shook her head, “I… don’t understand.” She rubbed at her face, “What’s going on?”

Agent Garcia watched her with dark eyes, heavy bags adding years to his features. “This man, he’s not FBI. I don’t know what he is to be frank, but I do know I was given a tip that he was at the scene of the crime and I’ve followed up on it. I did a lot of weeding through Davidsons in the bureau but this John, he’s a blip. He’s not from any field office here. The employment records were scarce and I found nothing connecting him to this case which we don’t have anything on either. But the tip I had says you know why he was here, he might have been part of a professional hit team that disappeared this photographer who was tied to trafficking children and the murder two police officers. They didn’t just catch a stray bullet, they were shot with purpose.”

“So,” Roy looked away for a second and took a sip of her coffee before shaking her head even more, “Jesus Christ. So, this John Davidson is taking the case away from the real Feds to bury it?”

She sighed, “Holy shit. He was just here, a few days ago. He had another guy with him, had a lot of tattoos, but I didn’t ask questions.” She said, “He asked me about Jackson Mitterick’s old associates. We found Jackson after he OD’d in a fucking motel bathroom some time back. Clem was found a day ago with a table leg in his fucking head.”

“You think someone’s trying to keep the Federal Government out of this investigation?” Roy quirked a brow, “Why?”

Garcia took the pen out from his inner pocket and wrote the names down, then glanced up, “A table leg [i]in[/i] his head?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out, because I have a missing man and four bodies and no suspects until now. This Davidson and you said a tattooed man? Noticeably tattooed even wearing a suit? Got a name or any other descriptions,” Garcia asked, tapping his pen, the source had not mentioned another man but it made sense Davidson would not have been on his own. There had to be another or even a team considering the carnage at the mansion. “And Mitterick? Who was he?”

“I’m trying to remember his name. Both introduced themselves to me as special agents in the Bureau.” Roy drummed her fingers on the desk before looking back to Garcia, “Bradley Phillips. Both names are fake, obviously. John Davidson is a ginger, has a beard, about six foot. Scar on his face. Bradley’s a couple inches shorter, blonde, tattoos. Beard too.”

“Both of ‘em have shoulder length hair, slicked back.” Roy sucked her teeth, “Jay, Jackson Mitterick. He was the local head of the Charleston Appalachian Sons Club, you know the types.”

“Daughters of the Confederacy type bullshit, even have an Appalachian Youth Club. More like Hitler Youth. Boyscouts with a smattering of white pride.” Roy snorted, “Jackson’s friend, Gary Bruster took over the Charleston office after he… vacated the position. Gary’s a Wolves of Erik member, motorcycle gang recruits from military and recently separated veterans, Neo-Volkists. Odin and Thor and all that. Little boy thinks he’s gone legit.”

“Oh my fuckin’ god,” Roy stood suddenly, “We had a report that Jackson’s mama’s house exploded. People heard gunshots there beforehand, figured it was just local methhead bullshit. If this is as deep as you’re making me think it is…”

“Somebody’s busy plugging a lot of leaks.” Roy muttered. 

Garcia listened intently, making notes and rubbing his finger under his lower lip, a habit when he was thinking. “White power groups, not surprised there but as far as I knew Carlisle had nothing to do with that. He was a photographer, used it to ‘discover’ new talent and what we suspect was traffic the victims to organized mafia, Russians or Ukranians were the main suspects. They’re big in the area and they make a lot of money off the sex trade, mostly bringing in girls from Europe but I wouldn’t doubt they would dip into the local scene if it made them a profit. Any idea if those boys had Russian connections? It’s a long shot out here in the boondocks, uh, no offense, Detective.” 

“The meth house exploded, pretty sure that investigation went deep,” he said dryly, “These men, Davidson was looking into them. You got guys shot, one ODed, one with a friggin’ table leg in his head, and I got a couple of Carlisle’s bodyguards torn apart like gore filled rag dolls.”

He handed the folder over to her, “See Davidson and whoever he’s working with are professionals. If it’s what I’m starting to suspect, they’re making it all look like things they’re not. Accidents, crimes of passion...a gorilla attack. What have you.”

Garcia’s accent grew thicker along with suspicion and anger at this mystery man. “A ginger you said,” he said finally, “You know, we have no footage of the incident at the mansion. A guy like Carlisle, in bed with dangerous mafia types and has hired bodyguards but mysteriously his security cameras all managed not to work at the time of the attack. Police body and car cams were stolen. Tying up loose ends alright.”

“So, what’s your next step? We can ask Bruster what he knows, I’m sure he’ll be elated to see a State Detective and a Federal Agent in his lobby.” Roy floated.

"Especially one that's a lighter shade of brown," Agent Garcia gestured with his wrist to show off the medium olive coloring of his hand. "I think we'll have to start there before we go digging into forensics, if there is much. Let's pay him a visit, I appreciate you coming along, Detective. I know how insular it can be."

Roy picked up her jacket from the back of her chair and slipped it on, “Alright, let’s get this show on the road and catch this snake fucking piece of shit.” She spat, the humor edging over to actual anger towards the end, “Can’t believe he actually made it this far with the department at his back. I’m sorry, Garcia. It’s a huge failure, and the only thing I can do is help you fix this fuck up.”

Agent Mark Garcia nodded, then tilted his head, “He’s had a lot of people fooled, no doubt he’s a professional, don’t take it too hard. Why would you suspect him to be anything else than what he claimed?”

He stood up and tucked the file folder under his arm, “We’ll get him, if he’s even whiffed the gunpowder off those dead officers we’ll nail him to the wall.” 

Roy looked away from Garcia and nodded. He was right, she knew that, but to think that girl they’d found in the woods wouldn’t get the justice she deserved, all because someone felt it would hurt their interests. Perhaps it was the same ones who’d put her there, and up until now she rested easy thinking the Feds were handling it on their end. She was a goddamned fool. She looked back at Garcia, “I hope he pulls a fucking gun.” She said, the implication of what she’d have to do if that happened hung in the air between them, “Let’s go. I’ll drive.”

…///

\\\…It wasn’t an eventful drive. The fact they were on the hunt for a team of professional killers, and a very dangerous one at that, hung heavy over their heads. They were stopped at a red light, Roy’s cheek resting on her hand, the other on the steering wheel of the Dodge Charger Interceptor. She sighed, “You know anything about the case I met him on?” She asked, “It might give you a context, help with your investigation.”

Garcia was looking out his window when she spoke and glanced over, “I know what I was working on. Building a trafficking case on Carlisle until it was scattered to the wind. We had been watching his mansion. I know about the Russians but I never knew the connection here. As for the case here, I had a colleague from Quantico ask about information on Carlisle but she was very cagey about any details why. I don’t know if she was working something down here or what, she never said. I’m technically working on the trafficking case and there’s other teams investigating the murders but I know this asshole better than any of them. He was in bed with Russians who had kept it pretty quiet, for Russians. The Tadjbegskye Bratva he was possibly selling girls to...well they’re slippery. To say the least. There’s also suspicion that they killed one of our own agents and his wife, over another murder investigation.” 

He turned to look at Roy, “We’re seriously looking to pound these guys and now we got this...Davidson fuck screwing us over, too.”

“Sounds…” Roy shook her head, placing her hands on the wheel and sitting up as the light turned green. She didn’t have many words about this situation, she’d never been pulled into investigating an international human trafficking syndicate, “Sounds shitty. I’m sorry about the agent you lost.”

Roy frowned, “We’ll get Davidson.” 

She pulled them into a spot on the street, getting out and pointing up the row of shops and other businesses, “It’ll be up there. Hopefully he’s happy to see us.” Roy rested her palm on the butt of her handgun, “Because I [i]sure will[/i] be happy to see him.”

The brisk walk to the front door of the ASC office almost seemed in vain. Roy reached over and pulled on the handle, expecting the door to swing outward like it was supposed to. But, it seemed locked during business hours. She pulled it again, brows furrowing, “What the fuck, Bruster…”

The receptionist appeared inside, rounding the corner with a large smile that would’ve lit up the room until she saw who it was. She stopped for a second, hesitated, but knew when the police came knocking she’d better answer. She produced the keys from her suit pants and unlocked the door, swinging it open, “Hello! How are you?”

“I’m fine. Here for Bruster.” Roy said, not flattered by the receptionist’s bubbly greeting. “Detective Roy, State Police.”

“Oh,” the receptionist’s smile faltered, stepping aside and waving them in, “Okay, he’s busy with a phone call, but he can definitely see you after. Please, have a seat.”

“Sure.” Roy said, not following her direction toward the seats as the receptionist once again disappeared down the hall towards Bruster’s office.

The waiting room itself looked high end, modern. White walls, dark hardwood floor. Glass shelves showed some meaningless trinkets probably gotten at a Pier 1. Just something to spice up the visuals in the room besides the ficus trees, and the large screen mounted on the wall playing a slideshow of happy, smiling white Anglo families. Roy sighed, “And they say ignorance doesn’t pay.”

Special Agent Garcia glanced at the slideshow and breathed heavily through his nose, a dismissal of her observation. “It hasn’t been ignorance since the ‘70s, they know. Desperate to keep their hold at the top, they just lost the hoods and put on a suit. It’s a lot easier to hate and blame than think critically and admit being wrong. Then there are just those jerks that like inflicting pain and indiginity on others.” 

He turned and raised his eyebrows at her, but did not apologize. The FBI ran investigations against people like Bruster and Garcia was going to take notes. If he did have connections to a bratva human trafficking or gun running, then he would bring it back to the Bureau.

Garcia leaned a little towards Roy, “So, do you think he’s gonna prefer to talk to you because you’re white or me because I’m a man? The struggles.” 

“I guess whatever’s easier for the hamster wheel in his skull. Of course, you know how AB and those guys are.” Roy shrugged, “Happy to play nice with the Mexican cartels when it benefits them.”

Garcia gave a crooked smile at her remark, “Too bad I’m not Mexican.”

The sound of a door opening and closing, the tack-tack-tack of the receptionist’s high heels on the hardwood floor signaled her approach. Her smile was still plastered on with red lipstick and she graciously waved them down the hall, “Mister Bruster is ready to see you now.”

Roy returned her smile and went for the hall, a glance cast at the closed door of a meeting room, no doubt when the ASC had their annual I Hate Minorities and You Should Too seminars. She rapped her knuckles on the office door, not able to see through the hazy glass panel that was set in every door in this place. Bruster himself answered and smiled at Roy, “Hello, Detective, how are you?”

“Oh, I’m fine, knowing that ex-convicted felon Gary Bruster has gone legit.” Roy put her hand out for Gary to shake, “This is my new friend, Special Agent Mark Garcia.”

“Agent Garcia, pleased to meet you.” To his credit, Gary offered much the same smile he had for Roy, as well as his hand for a shake.

He followed her to the office, giving the secretary a good look over, more to see how she responded than any real interest. He had a Dominican wife that would knife him if he cheated and he would have deserved it. 

Garcia smoothed his jacket over his holster as the door opened and he reached to shake Bruster’s hand, imagining for a second slapping cuffs on it instead. One day, it would catch up to him. He would not stay clean, this racist charity organization was not legit in his eyes and Bruster would fuck up and hopefully on a federal level. 

He smiled, his dark eyes examining the man’s face for any signs past the bland pleasantness. “Thanks for seeing us, we know you must be very busy.” 

“[i]Very,[/i]” Bruster chuckled, “It’s always an uphill battle trying to get some [i]good[/i] Americans back into government. Maybe make your job a little easier, toughen up on crime.”

Bruster smiled at Roy and Garcia both, ironic, knowing what he’d been up to in the past. Roy was unconvinced that he’d ever really change past his wardrobe, biker attire to a button-up. But Roy could see it. Or thought she could, anyway. She pushed the thoughts of Davidson swindling the case out from under her to the back of her mind as they all took their seats in Bruster’s office. The same ficus trees and other decor, and a folded flag in a frame next to pictures of him in a uniform up on shelves behind his desk.

She wondered what his fellow Rangers in the Regiment would think about how he felt about some of them. “So, I know this must be a very sensitive question, Mister Bruster.” Roy began, folding her hands on her lap, “But, I need you to think back to before your friend and predecessor Jackson Mitterick… passed. We’re currently trying to investigate a little further into his death in light of recent events. Can you think of anyone he was on particularly bad terms with?”

“Recent events?” Bruster looked at Roy and then to Garcia, a little twinge of nerve in his eye, “His death is a federal case now?”

Garcia steepled his fingers, “His death and who might have had a hand in it. His associates.”

He smiled tightly at Bruster, his dark eyes gleaming at the nervousness. The man looked big and tough even in his suit, a former Army Ranger but even they had weaknesses. “Associates that may have had business that crossed the West Virginia borders, of course.” 

“I don’t know,” Bruster shrugged, looking between the two lawmen on the other side of his desk, “I honestly couldn’t tell you. You could check in with Clem-“

“Dead.” Roy cut him off, leaning back in her seat and pursing her lips, searching Bruster’s face for any hint of further nerve.

“Wh-what?” Bruster shuddered, as if the news had sapped the air from his lungs. He swallowed, coughing into his fist, “Jesus Christ, how?”

“Murder.” Roy raised her brows, “There’s a common connection between everyone we’ve found dead.”

Roy inclined her head towards Bruster, “Jay’s old friends.” Roy sighed, looking to Garcia, “You want to ask him about our mystery man? Cut to the chase?”

Garcia sat up, looking directly at Bruster, “Ever meet with a man named John Davidson, a ginger, maybe with a man called Phillips, noticeable tattoos?”

Bruster looked at Garcia for a moment, seeming to think about his next words carefully, “No. Those names don’t really ring a bell.” Bruster cleared his throat, leaning back and shrugging, “I’m sorry, no. I could always ask around the other members of the Club, if that helps?”

“Nobody matching that description at all?” Roy asked, her brows furrowing a tad, “Scar on the cheek?”

At that Bruster’s eyes seemed to be repelled by Roy’s aura for a good few seconds, not going anywhere near her. He shifted in his chair, “No, I’m sorry.” He said, a smile flashing across his lips, “You think this man and his friend are going around and killing people? Killed Jay and Clem?”

“Nothing at all?” Garcia asked, raising a brow. “Well, we’re investigating. There’s a lot of little threads we’re finding that seem to lead to the same braid. That's the thing in West Virginia, you all ended up connected. You think really hard now about Davidson. He’s presented himself as a professional, perhaps even an FBI agent. He’s a dangerous man and whatever he’s doing, it’ll come back to your doorstep, sooner or later. I’d bet money on it.” 

Bruster looked to Garcia and simply nodded, “Okay.” He said, “I will. Is there anything else I can help you two with?”

Garcia looked over at Roy, he was having no luck with the man. He seemed rattled when they first mentioned Davidson, now he had a chance to recover.  Maybe she could turn on the home town charm.

Roy fixed Bruster with a stare, not mean, not accusatory, just a stare. To see if he’d squirm a little more. Some people were nervous just at the sight of a badge, no real reason to it. Others, those were the ones with very real reasons buried just behind the eyes. Roy nodded, “Listen, I know what you must be thinking. I know what you’ve done in the past, everyone in the fucking precinct does, that’s what records are for.” Roy shrugged, shaking her head, “But seeing as we’ve got a very dangerous person crossing state lines and murdering people who are otherwise innocent in my eyes? That’s a goddamn felony. A felony a lot worse than anything you, or Jay, or Clem has ever done that I know about.”

Roy stood, placing her hands on Bruster’s desk and fixing him with that stare, seeing if he’d squirm. Squirm, even just a little. “So, have you seen a man with a scar on his cheek accompanied by another with tattoos?”

Gary Bruster just sat in his chair, staring back at Roy. They held their little contest for a few seconds before Bruster shook his head, “No.”

“Okay.” Roy pushed off from his desk and turned for the door, nodding to Garcia for him to follow. She smoothed her suit jacket down and said over her shoulder, “If you do see him, please tell me. Appalachian Sons Club office manager helps stop hitman, or serial killer, or whatever the fuck this guy we’re after is.”

Roy opened the door, pulling it aside so Garcia could step through before her, “Take care, Mister Bruster.” Roy smiled tightly, gesturing around the office, “And good luck with this… whatever you say it is.”

Garcia stood and smoothed his jacket, watching Bruster as Roy spoke to him. He would be a tough one, if he did indeed have contact. If he had not, then he was overdue with the pattern this Davidson was setting. He gave Bruster a polite nod and turned, heading out the door the detective held. He walked quickly through the reception area, not bothering with another look at the woman up front. 

Outside, he took a deep breath and wished he had not stopped smoking. When Roy emerged he looked at her as he reached for the passenger side door. “Tough cookie, that one.” 

Roy opened the driver door and slipped in before Garcia, starting the car and taking a deep breath, her face scrunched up like a snarling dog. She shook her head and blew out the breath, “Not as tough as he thinks.” Roy said, “He’s seen them.”

Roy’s phone began to ring, the annoying tone emanating from her pants pocket before she grabbed it and held it to her ear, “West Virginia State Police, Detective Maryanne Roy… Really?” Roy’s brows furrowed, “I’m on my way.”

Roy slipped her phone back into her pocket and gripped the steering wheel with both hands, her knuckles white and fists clenched around the leather so hard the steering wheel creaked, “We’re out of known associates for that motherfucker Mitterick.” Roy said, “Park Police just fucking found Hubert O’Grady’s body deep in the sticks off of a highway into Blackriver.”

She looked to Garcia, “You want to bet me Davidson and his fucking friend are in Blackriver?”

Agent Garcia  shook his head, swinging the door open to get inside. “They don’t waste time. Let’s go take a look and hopefully the park police didn’t walk all over our crime scene.” 

As they drove, Garcia reached into his pocket for the peppermint gum that had taken the place of cigarettes a decade before. He took a piece and offered one to Roy then chewed his furiously as he thought over the brief interview with Bruster. His jaw worked as he recalled the fluster at Roy’s mention of Davidson, that had to be it. He did know but he was not some street thug or some soft civilian that would crumble easy. Despite his wishes, Garcia knew Bruster was going to be hard to break. Maybe they could get him after this, when he saw another one of his buddies dead. 

>…///

“That was Roy,” Donnelley said, still looking out the big panel window of the tiny sandwich shop, just across the street from the ASC office, “Sure as shit.”

“Roy?” Renko asked around a mouthful of a Cuban sandwich, wiping his mouth and bulging cheeks with a napkin.

“State Detective.” Donnelley answered, sipping off his bottle of beer, the bitter Red Hook making him grimace at one corner of his mouth. “And some other suit. Got a feelin’ we ain’t goin’ to be friends.”

He slapped two twenties on the table and stood, downing the rest of his beer. Renko watched him, still chewing on a bit he’d taken out of his sandwich, “Leaving?”

“Yeah.”

“I am not finished.”

“Take it with you then.” Donnelley turned for the door and walked some distance down the street to the beat-up brown 1980 Honda Civic wagon they’d gotten from Alexei. No one asked where he’d brought it back from, and Donnelley didn’t really care. He hopped into the passenger seat next to Queen. Alexei was menacing McCune in the back.

“Anythin’ on the scanner?” Donnelley asked.

Queen sat behind the wheel, still a little sore he never got to drive the SHO before they had to ditch it. A cigarette burned, dangling between his fingers as he rested his arm on the door frame, windows rolled down. He spotted Donnelley and Renko returning and he knew why, he had seen the same car and the same blonde with a badge and some G-man. He knew a Fed when he saw one. 

He took a drag as they got into the car, blowing the smoke out the window. He eyed Renko in the rearview mirror as the tang of mustard and pickles made his mouth water. “Gonna give me a bite?” 

Queen grinned at him then turned his attention to Donnelley, “Yep, don’t think I’ll ever get that coffee date. Locals found Hubert, I’m sure they’ll be zipping over there to take over the scene. Good thing neither one of us did the shooting.” 

“Fuck you.” McCune grumbled from the back.

“No,” Donnelley adjusted the rearview so he could see the bald, squared-jaw asshole state cop, “[i]Fuck you.[/i]”

McCune scowled and looked away out the window. Donnelley turned back to Queen, “The Russkies have McCune. You and me can go fuck with Gary.” Donnelley had his wolf grin, smelling prey on the wind, “He’s gonna be desperate. We’re gonna go convince him he needs VISCO more than VISCO needs him. We have him by the throat, he can’t say no to shit.”
 
Queen nodded at that, putting out his cigarette and looked at Donnelley for his ziploc bag. “Let’s do it, let them have fun with McCune. I really wanna watch that shithead Hubert squirm. He thinks he can get out of all this without it following him. He’s a piece of shit and that never changed.” 

He reached up and smoothed his hair back, then rubbed his face as if it would rid him of the fatigued circles under his eyes. Sleep had been evasive unless he passed out, unrestful but there were always chemicals to prop himself up. “So we're gonna hop over and see what they wanted with our client?”  

“Damn straight.” Donnelley grinned the wider, opening his door again and heading straight for Bruster’s office. With Queen in tow, Donnelley threw open the office door, smoothing back his hair and grinning something mischievous as Sally the receptionist squeaked in startlement at their raucous arrival.

“Gary in?”

“Wha… uh, yes.” Sally smiled nervously. Obviously the State Police, a Fed, and now two supposedly Private Spies marching in and out of Gary Bruster’s ASC office was about as much excitement Sally could handle.

“Thanks.” Donnelley said simply, sauntering over to the back where Gary’s office was and throwing the door open in much the same fashion. What greeted Donnelley and Queen’s eyes couldn’t have been better unless they’d found him sucking Bratva cock in the back of a limo.

“Holy shit-“ Gary was frozen with eyes the size of saucers with a couple lines of white the length of Donnelley’s fingers.

Donnelley pointed and chuckled like the neighbor kid who’d caught Gary doing something he shouldn’t. In a way, he kind of was, “[i]Oh-hoooo,[/i]” Donnelley fished his phone out and snapped a quick picture of Gary hurriedly trying to put away the incriminating nose candy, “What’s the matter, Bruster, something got you nervous?”
 
Queen slid between Donnelley and the door, the impish smile returning to his face when he saw Bruster’s guilty expression. The flash from Donnelley’s phone made him blink and he dragged his gaze from the lines back to Bruster. He tisked, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “Naughty, naughty.”

He circled around to his side, snatching the mirror, the fine powder scattering over it. Queen took a taste, rubbing it on his gums and stepped back, still gripping the mirror. “Mediocre at best, is that what you’re getting in these parts? What a bummer to get busted for shitty coke.” 

“What the fuck is this?” Bruster flipped from shock to anger, like a little boy who got caught with his hands too far in the jar.

“You,” he pointed at Donnelley and then jabbed the finger into his own chest, “work for [i]me.[/i] I paid you-“

“No.” Donnelley had lost his smile then, shaking his head in a slow motion from left to right, a sharpness in his eyes, “No, Gary Bruster. I work for [i]me.[/i]”

Donnelley sat himself down in the chair in front of Gary’s desk, reaching his legs up to rest on the rich mahogany or whatever the fuck wood this desk was made of. He pulled the pistol from his holster hidden under his coat and rested it in his lap, “Matter fact, [i]you[/i] work for [i]me[/i] too now. I know just how deep you are with the Russians, I know how and why your stupid Nazi shitfuck friend Clem was killed.” Donnelley stared flat eyes boring into Gary’s own, “I saved your buddy Hubert from this whole Eastern Promises Bratva-Propavsheye turf war love triangle y’all got goin’ on in this bullshit mountain state.”

Bruster’s lip twitched with fury, “I suggest you walk on out of here before I call-“

“The police? You mean McCune?” Donnelley asked, “McCune, right? The dirty cop you got turnin’ tricks for the AB and now the Russians too? The dirty cop I got in the back of my car right now that I could frame for the murder of Hubert O’Grady whenever [i]the fuck I want?[/i]”

Donnelley got back to standing and hunched over Bruster’s desk, resting on the knuckles of his one hand and the other still placed on the handgun as it came to rest on Bruster’s desk, barrel yawning menacingly in Bruster’s direction, “Because, when Jay stopped bein’ useful for me, my friend and I threw him away like a fuckin’ napkin.”

“So, in a way, [i]we made you, Gary.[/i] You’re not makin’ waves here, you’re just one of our ripples. You didn’t climb into this throne, you [i]tripped.[/i]” Donnelley narrowed his eyes, “And if you don’t want to [i]trip[/i] into your grave like Hubert, Clem, and Jay you’ll shut the [i]fuck[/i] up and do what I tell you to do.”

“And what is that?” Bruster swallowed.

“You’re goin’ to make another twenty-thousand dollar payment to the account I gave you, and another two-thousand every month.” Donnelley smirked at the storm brewing behind Bruster’s eyes.

“As for what you get out of all this? I don’t leak the pictures I took to the media and expose your role in Russian drug traffickin’.” Donnelley shrugged, “You get to keep playin’ bigshot in your men’s wearhouse outfit and smoke cigars with old, white fucks on weekend golf trips, knowin’ you’re safe from me as long as you keep marchin’ to my drum.”

“Am I understood?” Bruster nodded at Donnelley’s question, “Then where’s your fuckin’ checkbook and why am I not seein’ you write in it?”

“Who the fuck are you two?”

“We’re the worst of the worst, Gary. The biggest criminals and extortionists that would make you and every delusional tweaker conspiracy theorist in every meth house and internet forum blush with the shit we’ve gotten away with.” Donnelley frowned, “We’re the [i]government.[/i]”

>…///

Donnelley fell into the passenger seat of the Honda Civic, making the suspension rock and shut his door. He sighed, “Had to happen sometime.” Donnelley said, shaking his head. Aliases were meant to be used up and burned away, but he usually decided when and how it happened. From Gary’s mouth, Roy and Garcia didn’t have many leads, but he didn’t want to wait around to see if they’d find some. “My only question is how the fuck the FBI caught wind of the Carlisle kidnapping and connected it to us? Or John Davidson and Bradley Phillips anyhow.”

Queen lit a cigarette then started the car, he had resisted confiscating the coke, shitty or not, it was free cocaine. Instead, he had left poor Bruster to reconcile his new place in life with the subpar powder. At Donnelley’s question, he shrugged slightly, turning the wheel as he backed out of the parking spot. He glanced at him, the Kools clamped in his teeth as he pulled into the street. He reached up, blowing the smoke out the open window, “You don’t know, do you, how the FBI might have connected us with Carlisle. None at all?” 

Queen shifted his gaze and cleared his throat, “I ain’t gonna say it.” 

“Well, you’d better say it later,” Donnelley growled, looked sidelong at Queen, not exactly wanting to have this conversation with the present company, “We’ll figure this shit out.”

Queen nodded slowly, not wanting to have the conversation at all. “Sure thing, boss.” 

He glanced at the rear view mirror, looking at Renko beside McCune, “He behaving himself back there?”

Alexei slapped a hand down on McCune’s shoulder, squeezing so tight McCune’s face scrunched up. He let out a grunt through gritted teeth, “[i]Yes.[/i]”

“That’s good.” Donnelley said, looking out the window, “We’ve got unfinished business we need to hash out with you, McCune.”

“That so?”

Donnelley looked in the rearview towards McCune, “You, me, and my good friend in the driver’s seat here are gonna have a nice little visit to what I know you can’t live without.”

“No…” McCune‘a eyes widened, “You motherfucker, you said as long as I was useful to you…”

“We’ll have to see, friendo.” Donnelley turned the rearview away from his eyes back to Queen’s. He could hear McCune’s panic in his breaths behind him.

[h3]The Things We Leave Behind…[/h3]
[i]The Hour’s Getting Late…[/i]

>HILLSDALE, WV
>OUTSIDE CHARLESTON
>MCCUNE HOUSEHOLD
>1200…///

It was just the three of them inside the car, situated on the quiet and empty suburb streets of Hillsdale. Donnelley had elected to drive while McCune sat in the passenger seat, urged not to try anything funny by the barrel of the ASP poking the back of his head. It was an unspoken arrangement that the windshield would be painted with McCune’s last thoughts if he didn’t listen to Donnelley. The sky outside was blue, spattered with errant clouds of white, temperature was mild. Just right. Seemed a shame to be holding a man hostage today with the threat of death.

“Which one’s yours?” Donnelley asked.

McCune pointed out a white house with green trim, a single-story quaint cottage. A blonde woman in her forties was watering the lawn in a modest dress with a floral pattern made of warm colors. Her belly looked to be protruding, swelling with a baby as her hand rested on it. Donnelley felt that pang of regret, guilt striking at his heart, but he’d had lots of practice pretending he didn’t even feel it. “What’s her name?” Donnelley asked, fingering the Steyr handgun in his lap.

“Why?”

“Because, you got a gun to your head and I could roll past your house and dump your faceless corpse on the front lawn if you don’t tell me.” Donnelley spoke matter-of-factly, looking at McCune for a long moment before returning his gaze to his wife in the yard, shrugging, “Or somethin’ like that.”

“Mary.” McCune answered, satisfied with the reason. “She’s showin’ now. Got another one on the way.”

“I can see that.” Donnelley nodded, “You think that’ll make it hard enough for me not to come back here and burn down your house while she’s sleepin’ if you fuck with me?”

Donnelley looked back at Queen, “What do you think?”

“I think we’re giving this fuck too much time to think about it,” Queen said, his voice still light but there was an edge to it, an impatience. “It wouldn’t be the first time we wiped a man’s line from this earth.” 

He poked the barrel against the back of McCune’s head, brushing the tender spot where the brainstem would be obliterated. McCune flinched, leaning his head forward in vain in an effort to get away from the gun.

Donnelley produced a phone from the center console. He flipped it open, dialing a number he wouldn’t explain how he got. Across the way, Mary McCune looked around until she found her phone, answering it. McCune could hear her on the other end, “Hello? Hello?”

McCune looked to Donnelley, who pushed the phone towards McCune. He took it, and pressed it to his ear. Whatever Mary was saying on the other end, they couldn’t hear. “Baby, it’s me. It’s Matt… yeah… No, my phone’s dead, I had to borrow one from one of the guys… yeah… oh-uh-oh, you got that? Yeah… well, I’ll see you in a bit. We can talk all about it… bye, baby. Love you, tell Jenny too.”

Donnelley took the phone from McCune and broke it in half, removing the battery and dropping it in a Tupperware of water in the backseat. “[i]Jenny.[/i]”

“Here’s the deal,” Donnelley said, still watching McCune’s wife, “Everythin’ I said until now still stands. You even give me a suspicion that you’re about to fuck me, I’ll give the right people all the evidence I need to frame you for the murder of Hubert O’Grady.”

“I’ll link you to the Bratva and you’ll be rottin’ away in a Federal Pen.” Donnelley frowned, “And your wife and daughter’ll be all alone out here with the wolves. Wolves like us.”

“If you keep bein’ a good boy,” Donnelley perked up just a tad, “Your daughter gets ten thousand dollars lump-sum, and another two stacks monthly. College fund, so that she doesn’t have to be like [i]you.[/i]”

“So she doesn’t end up like Maria. Snatched from her parents and tricked out to whoever had cash.” Donnelley stared daggers into McCune’s face, “Think they’ll charge more for her, or no? Nobody deserves that. Right, McCune?”

“Yeah.” McCune muttered, looking longingly at his wife, “How do I know if I do whatever you’re asking, the Russians aren’t just going to do to me what you’re saying you will?”

“Just a risk you’ll have to take. You’ll be servin’ your country, McCune. Makin’ sure you got at least a little bit of an argument when Saint Peter tries to turn you away from the pearly gates.” Donnelley nudged McCune, who did nothing. There was a time when he was top dog, big man on the block stomping down the sidewalks because he was untouchable. Until Donnelley and Queen showed him how vulnerable he really was when he fucked with people who routinely did away with the law and the constitution in the name of national security against the terror of what lay in waiting [i]beyond[/i], “All you have to do is remember you got a leash. And we’re on the other end of it.”

“Can you do that?” Donnelley asked. McCune nodded.

“You wanna break the news of who’s nice enough to pay for McCune’s daughter’s college?” Donnelley spoke to Queen.

Queen leaned in, “Why none other than your old buddy, Bruster. Putting his millions to good use, I’d say. I think we deserve some gratitude, your daughter got lucky and will benefit despite the fact her father turned his head when girls like her were being trafficked right under his nose, right in his jurisdiction.”

He smiled, more of a baring of teeth and looked into the rearview mirror to meet McCune’s gaze, “Girls just like her, only they didn’t get to go to college. They got drugged and raped and sold to men, some murdered and mutilated before their sweet sixteen. Ain’t it just that [i]lucky[/i], deputy?”

Queen sank back but kept the gun trained on the back of his head. He hated McCune more than the rest, the man was a cop and he let those things happen to line his pockets. His finger flexed slightly on the trigger and he had to take a deep breath and wished for a Xanax. For a pile of coke or anything to drown out the sight of the hanging skin in that cabin like a goddamn bathrobe set out to dry. 

“You just remember that I’ve killed men for less than everythin’ you’ve done and I sleep like a baby.” Donnelley lied, but McCune didn’t have to know that, “Better and [i]worse[/i] men. Which one you think you are? How heavy you think makin’ your family dress in black and your buddies at the station givin’ you the twenty-one gun gonna make me?”

McCune already knew the answer, just stared at his wife more like a distraction from the rabid dogs around him than any sort of loving gaze. A hard, dry swallow was his answer, and it was enough for Donnelley, “Now go. Kiss your wife’s belly, hug her. Tuck your daughter into bed tonight, read her a story.”

McCune nodded stiffly, reaching to the car door and opening it, closing it behind him as he walked that thousand miles across the street to his front lawn. He jogged over to his wife and crashed into her with a crushing embrace, kissing her more deeply now that he had a damn good reason to live life better than he ever had the past few years. It almost made Donnelley shed a tear. If he had any left.

McCune turned to watch the Honda Civic make a U-turn in the suburb street and speed away. He was quiet. More quiet than Mary had ever seen him as he stared and watched the car go. “Baby, what’s the matter?” Mary asked, laying a hand on his chest and leaning to peer into his eyes.

McCune’s lips twitched, and he drew in a quivering breath. “Baby?” Mary whispered, placing a hand on McCune’s cheek as he screwed his eyes shut, “Oh, baby…”

“I love you, Mary, I’m so sorry.”

>…///

“You think we convinced him?” Donnelley asked after Queen had clambered back into the passenger seat as they drove down the Charleston streets. No good humor left to spare.

Queen tucked the ASP in his waistband, pulling the shirt over it before buckling in. “I think if he’s that fucking dense, I’ll need a bigger caliber to put one through his head. Yeah, I’m sure he got it. Not that he fucking deserves it, but he got it.” 

He sighed and glanced at Donnelley briefly, Renko quiet in the back. “You think he’ll be of any real use or did you just feel sorry for Deputy Dad?” 

Queen looked out at the suburban neighborhood and was struck by a sudden memory of another blonde woman in her front yard. Only this one was bringing in groceries and only mother to a cat, a pretty young woman who wore the badge of the US Border Patrol and was dutiful. She did her job while McCune looked away and she paid while he profited. Agent...her name slipped his mind and he fought to grasp it. 

She had pried around a case taken from her by the Program and made the mistake of speaking to a reporter, she had done what she thought was the right thing but it had been wrong. Queen felt the weight of guilt in his chest, the press of it so heavy he had to force a deep breath. He had staked out her house and learned who she was and her routine, her face was clear yet her name danced from the fog of suppression. He had set it up and unleashed Ghost on her and McCune hugged his wife.

He reached into his pocket, not caring about the Russian. He fumbled around, grabbing whatever came to his finger tips. A bar of Xanax. He should have taken Bruster’s shitty coke, fuck why didn’t he? Queen tossed the pill in his mouth and tried to dry swallow it, finding it stuck and he coughed. 

“Renko, got any soda left in that cup?” he asked, tasting the bitterness of the dissolving pill.

“If he wasn’t any use to us I would’ve left him with Hubert on the side of that road.” Donnelley said as Renko reached around and shook the ice cubes in the fast food cup for Queen to take it, “He don’t deserve pity. But he’s the head of Natalya’s security while she’s stateside, his information’s worth it.”

Donnelley shook his head, muttering, “Ain’t the first deal I made with crooked fucks.”

Queen took the cup, opening the lid to drain the melted ice water and force down the tab. He sucked in a few cubes and crunched them, glancing at the rearview mirror at Renko, “Thanks, bud.” 

He settled back against his seat, Queen grunted, “That’s right. Useful. Gotta stay useful to stay alive.” 

Reaching for a cigarette, he felt the pack and it was empty. Had it been that long since he stopped on the ride from Florida to Kentucky. Queen crumpled the green box and tossed it at his feet. 

[i]Weber[/i]

The agent's name came back to him as he dropped the trash. Agent Kristen Weber, US Border Patrol. A modest house in the outskirts of Phoenix and a fat gray cat in the window.

Queen glanced at Donnelley, “Can I bum a cigarette?” 

Donnelley took his own pack from his pocket and tossed it in Queen’s lap, “Go crazy, man.” Donnelley forced a smirk to try to add some levity to the car ride after threatening to kill a man and his whole family if he didn’t submit to blackmail. He noticed the troubled look on Queen’s brow, and he sometimes forgot just how this life could affect his friend when Queen always acted like nothing touched him. He should’ve known better, “You look… [i]pensive[/i], brother.”

Queen lit the cigarette and took a drag, muffling a cough and he hissed at the strong flavor without the familiar menthol. “Oh, you know,” he said, “Just remembering.”

He looked out the window, conscious of Renko in the backseat. Aware of Donnelley’s attention on him, Queen kept his gaze ahead. The closeness they had shared for years had fractured, he still hurt from the rejection, even if he knew it was likely inevitable, after five years it had felt like something he could always count on and now it was gone. “Thinking about THUNDER things.” 

“We can talk about it later.” Donnelley said quietly, knowing full well that his own time in THUNDER was no vacation.

“What is THUNDER?” Renko asked from the backseat.

“It’s that loud thing after lightning, don’t worry about it.” Donnelley brushed Renko off, who didn’t seem to take it too personally as he shrugged and looked out the window, loudly slurping down more of the coke in the empty soda cup. “I’m sorry if… you felt like I left you back there, with THUNDER.”

Queen shrugged, “You got promoted, you deserved it. You needed your own team.”

He put the window down a bit to flick the ashes and took another drag. Queen felt the clenching in his chest that he got when he thought about how he lost Tex when he left the team and now as a lover. Nothing stays the same, he reminded himself. “Well, there’s hardly a THUNDER left, we’ll see how it goes.” 

Queen glanced back at Renko, recalling their conversation and the sudden loneliness clawed at him. The thought about starting over with a brand new team, even further from Donnelley and their past felt daunting but maybe it would end up being the best. There was only Ghost and Poker, but they were devils he knew and that knew him. 

He smiled slyly, then added, “But if I did, I hope I get lucky enough to get a team full of hot ass like you did.” 

“Yeah,” Donnelley returned the little smirk, “I did luck out with that didn’t I?”

He smiled as they drove back to the storage facility he and Queen had left their bikes at. As they grew closer, so too did Donnelley’s sadness start to set back in. He couldn’t help but to remember everything they’d done the past few days. They’d left a tangled web here, one of murder and blackmail to prop up a rogue and highly illegal operation to somehow pit a few people against an international conspiracy and come out on top. Donnelley was a risk-taker, and at one point he really did have a deathwish that fueled his career with the Program, and had earned himself a reputation as a crazy cowboy… but even he had his doubts about this plan of his.

Once they’d made it past the gate and ambled up to the storage garage their bikes were in, he cut the engine and just sat in the driver seat. He took in a breath and let it out slow, shaking his head, “I’ll never know why the fuck you trust me enough to do this shit with me, Queen,” Donnelley snorted ruefully, “But, damn, am I glad you do.”

He got out of the car and lifted the door of the garage open after unlocking it, their two beauties of bikes still intact and waiting for them behind the garage door. Renko was still in the car, and as Queen sided up with Donnelley at the garage, he put his hands on his hips. “Obviously, we can’t be seen around here for a good while. Or with each other.” Donnelley worked his jaw, wanting to say what was just at the tip of his tongue, but what felt so painful to choke back every time, “What… So, what’re you plannin’ on doin’ with that bigshot money we squeezed from Bruster?”

Queen looked at Donnelley for a long moment, his sea colored eyes searching his face. “You don’t know?” he asked, the Xanax now evening him out but the pain was there, muted and dulled but there. “I trust you because...”

He swallowed hard and put his hand in his pocket, the words that he should have said long ago remained caught in his throat. It was too late now and he fished out his baggie, finding another bar of the benzidine. “Ah, you know me. I’ll give some to my mom and blow the rest on coke and hookers. What else would I do?” 

Queen popped the tab and looked down at the bag, the coke was gone but he still had the pills from Alaska. “What about you?”

Donnelley frowned, shrugged, “I got a couple ideas.” The memories of the lonely highways covered in red dirt in West Texas came to him on a breeze, and he had a small smile then, “Probably go down south and visit the only person in Texas thought I was a good kid.”

“Tell your ma I said hi. And I miss her pancakes.” Donnelley chuckled softly as he looked over at Queen standing on his left. His eyes held on Queen for a good while, his smile faltering every second until he was just staring at him. He swallowed, and wrung his hands over each other, “Queen, Billy…”

Donnelley’s mouth tried to form around the words though the sound was nowhere, until he sighed, “I…” He looked down at his boots, then stared off to the side of Queen, “I’m gonna miss you. I hope… just stay safe, Billy. Or as safe as you ever fuckin’ stay.”

Queen drew in a breath, trying to keep himself composed even with the help of Xanax. It hurt with each word Donnelley spoke and he felt a bubble of anger trying to rise. He glanced at him, then shook his head, “You know I’m gonna miss you but this is your choice, I ain’t got much of a say. I know what I am to you. What I was and I can’t compete.”

He took out his keys and grabbed the helmet hanging off the handle bars, his chest tight and he hated the trembling in his hands as he gripped the handle bars to back the bike out. Queen grit his teeth then sighed, “Whatever happens, just know that...I love you. I’ll be here for you, just...like you said, we gotta be apart.”

Queen put his helmet on, hiding his eyes that welled up. He pulled the bike out the door and climbed on, starting it up. 

While Queen’s engine roared to life, Renko stepped up next to Donnelley, his hand clapping down on his shoulder and pulling him away from the moment he and Queen had shared, bittersweet as it was. “My friend. I will be here with Alexei, we will keep the pieces on the board, yes?” Renko clapped Donnelley again, this time on his back and gave a smile of brotherly camaraderie, “We will give justice where it is deserved.”

“She’s still out there.” Donnelley looked at Renko, “[i]Levy.[/i]”

“We will find her. We will kill her.” Renko said with as much seriousness as Donnelley had ever seen come over the Russian.

Renko waved to the both of them as he went back to the Civic, shifting into drive and going off on his way wherever he hid when waiting for someone from UMBRA to show up in West Virginia. Now, Donnelley was alone in the parking lot of the storage complex, so quiet now. None of Queen’s laughing, none of Renko’s broken, accented English. Just Donnelley. He walked to his bike and sat down, straddling the machine, slipping his flask out of his vest pocket and taking a few long pulls. He looked back out in the direction where Queen had sped off and searched the wind for the sound of his bike. No luck. He sighed, taking hold of his bike’s handlebars and frowned.

“I love you too.”

He raised his boot and kicked it down forcefully, the faithful Indian Chief roaring to life and anger, giving Donnelley some measure of its sympathy as it sat growling in hunger for the road, and the miles to chew away at until he was far enough away from here he could pretend he didn’t remember it at all. [url= https://open.spotify.com/track/68NJhOPlRuePfIV0SZX1km?si=IX6_FW6EQyyKF4zb64QqgQ&dl_branch=1]He cranked the throttle after shifting into gear and set himself towards the highway.[/url]