16. Stranger

CHAPTER 16

STRANGER

The lounge is a study in muted elegance, whispers conspiring in the corners where the light dares not to intrude. Two men, both with graying hair, occupy a booth in an alcove, away from the prying eyes and foot traffic. They are seated in leather chairs that have witnessed deals darker than the rich mahogany of the surrounding walls. The slightly older man's fingers trace the rim of his whiskey glass with a deliberation that belies the urgency in his voice.

"Time's running out," he murmurs, the ice cubes clinking like distant warning bells when he lifts the glass. "We need to eliminate Solovey and Thoreau. Now."

Wagner sits across from him, a man caught in the crosshairs of consequence. Years on the job made him hard as steel, made his mind a tool rather than a collection of memories. His gaze never wavers when he looks at the man giving him orders. Yet inside, turmoil brews.

He was once a paragon of law and order, but life has since etched cracks into his existence.

"I understand," Jeffrey's reply comes, clipped and devoid of the emotion roiling beneath. There's nothing he can do.

Sudden flashes of the past tear their way through his consciousness—days when he stood unyielding against the crime, a shield of justice in an unjust world. But those days shattered like fragile glass the moment his child came into the world. That child—his sweet baby girl—is a priority. Even if that means he has to bend that same law he once protected so viciously.

Darkness clouds his vision, not from the dimly lit room, but from the bleak vista of his thoughts.

"Isaac," the older man's lips curl around the name. "He's a cancer, one we let slip through our fingers. He shouldn't have been released from the ATF's custody."

"We needed to act fast. Decisions were made on the spot," Jeffrey concedes. Yes, he sold out, but he can still protect his own. "Thoreau's aiding our efforts to catch Solovey."

"Isaac aids no one but himself." The older man's laugh is a dry rustle. "He has to go."

Leather creaks as Jeffrey shifts in his seat. He's uncomfortable in the man's presence although the man is a crowd favorite. The collective clink of ice against glasses inside the lounge only punctuates the silence that has fallen between the two.

"Do you grasp the gravity of what I'm saying?" the older man asks, his tone somewhat impatient, eyes fixed on the amber liquid that swirls in his glass.

Jeffrey's jaw tightens. His mind spins. Images of his daughter—her struggles—crash over him like a tidal wave. He knows that every second counts, each moment a precious currency in the economy of a life measured by medical interventions and silent prayers.

He draws in a breath, the air on his tongue tasting of old wood and secrets. "I'll handle it. Both Solovey and Thoreau."

"Make sure Thoreau is taken care of first," the older man dictates. "Back to prison or buried six feet under, I don't care which," he adds, voice flat, eyes cold as the grave.

Jeffrey is silent, feeling the task carve itself into his conscience. He senses something is off. In terms of priority, Solovey should be the main target, but Russo seems determined to take down Thoreau instead.

"Government insurance is crap, isn't it?" Russo's voice is smooth, almost casual, but it carries the weight of a tombstone.

Jeffrey's throat tightens more as he nods. The acknowledgment sears his pride. "Yes, it is indeed," he manages to say, even as dread coils in his stomach.

"Your daughter," Russo says, not a question but a statement, "deserves better than what they offer."

"Thank you," Jeffrey whispers, loathing the gratitude. He hates himself for the deal he is about to make with this man, yet love for his child eclipses all else. The room seems to shrink, the walls closing in, whispering conspiracies and betrayals.

"Wagner?" Russo probes, his tone now sharp as a scalpel. "Do you understand what I'm offering?"

"I do," Jeffrey replies. "My undercover agent is working Thoreau as we speak."

"Good." Russo's lips curve into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. He takes another sip of whiskey, the liquid making a slow dance of death in his glass.

"I'll be seeing you soon then, Director Wagner. And good luck," Russo says as he stands up.

As Russo disappears into the velvet embrace of the night, Jeffrey remains seated, a statue of regret.

Why does Russo want Thoreau eliminated so badly?

The question gnaws at him.

Jeffrey looks down at his own untouched drink, the ice melting into the remnants of it. Jacob's son wasn't even on the Bureau's radar until last year. But Russo made it clear he needed Thoreau investigated because of some anonymous tip and put back behind bars for good.

Jeffrey is a damn good agent and he can smell bullshit from a mile away and he smells a lot of it now coming from Russo. Yet, there is no room for empathy here. No need to dig any deeper. He needs for his daughter to live. He needs money for the surgery the government insurance refuses to pay for. So, he shoves his questions to the darkest corners of his consciousness and forgets that he once was a good guy. He's the guy who has a sick kid now. He's a guy who'll do anything to make his kid better.