“Same ol’, same ol’. Team selection for a new op got kicked off with a reminder to not break your cover for a girl.” His grin was smug as he punched my shoulder. “Thanks for that, by the way,” he tacked on as he strolled off.
I turned my attention back to the computer screen as the rest of the conference room emptied out. It was only ten in the morning, and I had already hit my quota for pleasantries.
I missed undercover work, especially when being an asshole was just part of the job.
I had spent twelve weeks on lockdown due to an internal affairs investigation that nearly drove me to my breaking point. Calling in the “Office of Professional Responsibility” to deal with me would have been laughable had it not been infuriating.
For three months, they wouldn’t tell me anything about Amelia. I had no access to technology. No way to contact her or Cole. I couldn’t even watch the fucking news. I was put on ice—completely restricted from contact with the outside world or with anyone in the bureau.Not that I wanted to talk to anyone in it anyway.
I had seen other FBI agents go through misconduct investigations. None of the investigations I had been privy to lasted as long as mine had or had as many restrictions on the agent.
No phone.
No computer.
No letters.
No TV.
Not even a fucking carrier pigeon.
I was to stay in the provided housing, with the exception of traveling to and from meetings, where I was asked the same questions over and over again for months. Other than that, all I could do was sit.
The only thing worse than being put in time-out was being cleared to come back only to be buried under endless menial tasks that were usually handled by our civilian administrators.
I was being punished.
The one thing that gave me a modicum of comfort throughout those twelve weeks was knowing that Amelia was a fucking genius who could take care of herself—and that Cole was still keeping an eye on her.
The moment I was cleared by the Office of Respectable Bullshit, my parents were the first people I called. After all, I hadn’t talked to them in a few months. They knew the basics of my job with the FBI and knew that me going dark for weeks on end wasn’t out of the ordinary. But they did watch the news, which meant I had a lot of explaining to do.
It’s not every day that your son is on America’s Most Wanted list.
Cole was the second person I called.
Where is she? Is she okay?
Those were the first words out of my mouth.
Not “hey, how’s it going?”
Not “thanks for saving my ass.”
I needed to know if she was alive. Second to that, I needed to figure out if she ever wanted to speak to me again.
That was the other thing I learned after rejoining society: my chain of command had miraculously decided to wrap up the years-long investigation into the Valentine organization that was supposed to have been six months max.
While I was on the run, they swept in, made arrests, and tied it up with a shiny fucking bow.
Funny how they couldn’t have done that before, no matter how many times I asked to be pulled out.
For a damn year, I had tried to convince them that we had enough evidence for the Department of Justice to have ironclad cases. I was meticulous with my reports. I went above and beyond to collect financial records and record incriminating phone calls and security footage. I gave them notice any time large-scale trafficking and drug operations were actionable for tactical teams to swoop in and make arrests.
I delivered countless people I was ordered to kill to the Federal Marshals so they could be put into witness protection and testify against Valentine instead of taking a long nap in a shallow grave.
Some of them turned up dead anyway.
No matter how much I pushed to end the operation, my higher-ups insisted they still needed a man on the inside.
