Tyrique was supposed to take a break before college. Clear his head, travel around the world and figure out what he wanted to do with his life. Instead, he found the wrong crowd. Crack, cocaine, heroin... you name it, he’s done it. Rehab after rehab, promise after promise… every one of them shattered like glass. My parents? They’re barely holding on. My mom cries in the laundry room so Dad won’t hear, and my father pretends he doesn’t know. He just works longer hours and drinks more alcohol.
Law enforcement wasn’t part of the plan for my life. I didn’t grow up dreaming about badges or busts. But after watchingwhat drugs did to my family… what they did to my brother, I signed up for the fight. Somebody had to.
I’ve been on the job seven years now and it doesn’t get easier. You see the same faces, same overdoses, same parents begging for help that never comes until it’s too late. I’ve learned to carry it, but it still cuts deep.
What keeps me going are the small wins. A kid who gets clean, a dealer off the street, or a family that doesn’t have to bury their child. It’s not enough, not really. But it’s something. And some days, something is all I’ve got.
My brother’s thirty now, but the streets have stripped years off him. He’s a shell of who he used to be. Gaunt and jittery with shadows carved deep under his eyes. He comes into view on my screen, standing in front of the loading dock, tugging at his hoodie sleeves like he’s trying to keep from crawling out of his own skin. That twitch in his jaw isn’t nerves, it’s the hunger he never manages to beat. Opening the door, he steps in, and my screen switches to the interior feed.
Tyrique’s been useful. I won’t deny that. He’s given us names, stash houses, even helped put a dealer’s lieutenant behind bars. Cases that should’ve dragged for months, we’ve closed them in weeks because of him. He knows how the game works. Knows who’s moving what, where, and when. How he’s managed to stay alive is beyond me.
But no matter how many cases he helps close, he can’t close the door on his own addiction. It’s still there, gnawing at him, dragging him back every time he gets close to clean. Tonight, he’s inside an abandoned warehouse with coke and heroin, meeting men who wouldn’t blink before dumping his body in a ditch if something feels off.
It breaks my heart every time I send him into trap houses with nothing but a burner phone and an empty promise that we’re close by. I tell myself it’s for the greater good. Thatevery name he gives us, every bust we make, it’s worth it. But sometimes I wonder if I’m just trading one kind of damage for another.
At the end of the day, he’s my brother. He should be in rehab. Somewhere safe, getting the professional help he needs. Instead, he’s out here playing informant because I talked my Captain into using him to keep him out of the system. The thought of Tyrique behind bars sickens me, so I thought this could save him. It’s taken some time, but he uses less, and I can tell he’s really trying to kick his addiction.
On the flip side, every time I watch him walk into a meet, twitching and strung out, I ask myself the same damn question: Am I helping him or am I just using him until there’s nothing left?
“Eyes sharp, Detective. Black SUV approaching from the east. You’ll have visual in about two minutes,” Sergeant Lewis’s voice cracks over the comm.
Pressing the earpiece tighter, and steadying my voice, I respond.
“Copy that.”
Tony shifts beside me, resting his forearms on the steering wheel. His jaw ticks as he watches the glow of the streetlamp over the meet spot.
“You good, Londyn?” he asks.
I nod, but it’s a lie. My chest feels like it’s in a vise. “Just hoping Tyrique doesn’t screw this up.”
Tony smirks, but it doesn’t quit reach his eyes. “He’s got more lives than a stray cat. He’ll be fine.”
I turn toward him, voice sharper than I meant it to be.
“You don’t get it, Tony. You don’t know what it’s like to watch your big brother overdose in your parents’ living room. To find him blue-lipped and seizing while your mom’s screaming and your dad’s frozen like a statue. You don’t know what it’s like todrag him from the pits of hell, just to shove him back into it because the department needs a CI.”
He’s quiet for a beat.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.” I knew he didn’t, I’m just on edge about tonight.
“Tyrique should’ve been locked up. Should’ve been in a cell, detoxing, maybe getting clean for real. But instead, he’s out here playing bait as my informant. And tonight? He’s walking straight into the fire,” I say, shaking my head.
Tony exhales through his nose, eyes still forward.
“You think he’s gonna get clean after this?”
I take a second before answering, gathering my thoughts. I’ve held onto hope for years that one day my brother would get clean, and stay clean. But every time, he slips. Every damn time.
“Part of me wants to believe he has a chance, but honestly, I’m not sure, Tony.”
The SUV rolls to a stop a few feet from the warehouse entrance. No one gets out right away, and I’m ready to call the entire operation. After what seems like forever, the driver’s side door creaks open, and someone steps out. The angles bad, so I can’t get a clean look.
Shifting, I try to catch a glimpse, but before I can, the roar of engines grabs my attention from the opposite end of the lot. It’s been a few years, but you never forget the rumble of motorcycles. And when they come into view, I recognize the kuttes and those fucking patches.
Royal Bastards.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I grit through my teeth.
