Chapter 3
Ace
Thankfully, Mike is gone for a job.
Each day, for the last several weeks, has done nothing but drag by. There was a time when I wanted to get up in the morning and face the day and the challenges it may hold. I'd complain about slow days, wishing for a little action to get my heart pumping. Now, I lie in bed most mornings, questioning my entire life. Although I'd like to blame it on this new endeavor with Cerberus, it honestly started long before. My meeting with Kincaid all those months ago about this idea was actually a way for me to try and combat this restlessness and the burnout I've felt for a while now.
The tie feels like a noose around my neck, but a knock at the door distracts me from hating on the damn thing for too long.
"Twice in less than a month?" I say as I open the front door and see Kincaid standing on the front stoop. "It's not a good sign."
"Remember when I was here a few weeks ago?" he says, stepping past me and into the house.
"How could I forget?" I ask with a frown as I close the front door and follow him to the living room.
The man has never had a problem making himself at home, and he doesn't hesitate to take a seat on the couch.
"Do you want to be more specific?" I ask when he doesn't speak.
"You talked about being burned out."
I swear the man has a listening device in my head or something.
"I did," I confirm.
"How do you feel about coming back into the fold?"
I shake my head immediately but stop short of telling him no right off the bat. Could this be the change I need?
"Hemlock wouldn't like me coming in and stepping on his toes. A supervisor in that house and a president? I don't see a good outcome at all."
"Oh, you wouldn't be a supervisor."
I tilt my head, half-confused and half-offended by the offer.
"You want me to come back and take a demotion? Come on, Diego. Get real."
"I can't offer you a spot at the head of the table, but you'd be doing fieldwork. I wouldn't put you in the house as a supervisor to the other guys. A team lead down the road is possible though."
I can tell by the way he's laying it all out that he isn't trying to trick me, but the man has to realize that, at my age, there's a lot more to making decisions than just simply jumping at an opportunity that is laid at my feet.
"If you're not interested at all, I can see if one of the others at the house wants to take it," he says with no level of pressure attached to it.
I know I should tell him thanks but no thanks, but curiosity, one of my flaws, gets the best of me.
"What do you have?"
"Senator Robert Dyer reached out to me about a case. There's another senator's daughter who is missing."
"But that senator isn't looking for her?" I say, my suspicions already up.
"He died five years ago. The older sister is the one who initiated the call to Senator Dyer. "
"What do you think we're working with?" I ask and realize I phrased it as if I'm already agreeing to take the case when he smirks at me.
"I'm not sure. She has a history of causing problems, so it could be nothing. But an initial look at the case has some red flags and cause for concern. So I'll need an answer from you quickly."
I want to shoot him down right now. He could go to the house from here and have someone on the case within a couple of hours, but I see this as the offering that it is. It's an option when I thought I only had a choice between retirement and staying on the hamster wheel.
"Can you give me a few hours to think it over?"
"Of course," he says as he stands, shaking my hand before walking out the front door.
Curiosity eats away at me as I make my way outside and to my car, waving at him as he rides away in a dark SUV with his son-in-law Hound behind the wheel. I have no idea why the man stayed in the vehicle, but I imagine I didn't give a very good impression that last time they were in town, when all the shit went down with Hemlock and Zara.
The drive into the office takes forever, but as much as it should probably annoy me, I relish the delay. I picture myself driving right past the non-descript building, imagining that I'm on a motorcycle rather than in this eco-gas-friendly car that was issued to me by ICE years ago.
But I don't drive by. I can't. I've been called in for a meeting with my supervisor, and these always go one of two ways. I doubt he came all this way to pat me on the back for clearing the list that was discovered in some of the sex trafficker, Nathan Adair’s, things before he went underground.
I don't bother wasting any more time when I park. I climb out of the car, resisting the urge to tug at the tie around my neck. I've worn one often for the last thirty years, yet it's something I've still never gotten used to. I think the day I do will be the day I need to hang it all up. Maybe that nursing home Mike talked about a few weeks ago isn't such a bad idea.
I feel like the pre-requisite grouchy old man as I pull the door, only to find it locked despite the other government-issued cars parked out front.
I practice deep breaths and calm thoughts as I pull out my key and slide it into the lock.
"In here," my supervisor, Dale Fredricks, calls from deeper in the office.
I follow the sound of his voice, finding the man sitting behind my desk.
If I've learned anything while working for ICE, it's that supervisors don't like to be challenged. Doing so could make for a very long day for me.
"Morning," I tell him, dropping my satchel by the door, before taking a seat in one of the chairs in front of the desk.
"I'm going over this report," he says instead of greeting me back like a civilized person.
Hell, I'm a hundred percent certain Hemlock hates me and the man still shook my hand and treated me with respect when I was at the cabin the other day.
Dale can't even look up from the folder in his hands to acknowledge me.
"Which report?" I ask, because I have several irons in the fire.
"The Winslow case."
I do my best to hide my reaction, even though he isn't looking at me.
"I think Agent Crews took things too far. She should've—"
"She might be a better fit for that group in Gatlinburg," he says, looking up at me for the first time.
"She needs a vacation," I counter. "She's been working for eighteen months straight. "
"So Gatlinburg?"
"It isn't a dumping ground for agents who can't keep their shit together in the field," I say with as little emotion to my voice as I can manage.
"You don't think she's a good candidate?"
"I don't make team decisions for Cerberus," I remind him.
"But you can make a recommendation."
I pull in a deep breath, my irritation growing with every word coming out of his mouth.
"I would not recommend Megan Crews to join Cerberus."
He frowns, but I can tell by the gleam in his eyes that he fully expected my response. He should know better than to think that she'd be a good fit.
"Speaking of vacations. When was the last time you took a break?"
My jaw clenches, the muscles in my cheeks growing taut.
"If it's been too long to remember, then maybe it's time you took a break for a while as well."
There's no sense in arguing with the man. The last vacation I took was also a suggested vacation, and he has to know that because he was the one to facilitate it the last time.
"I'll take two weeks," I tell him as I stand.
"You'll take a month," he counters, his eyes challenging me to argue.
I know doing so could either land me in forced retirement or a reprimand in my folder for the way Agent Crews' last case was handled.
"I have a lot of things in the air right now," I argue.
"And we have agents that can easily step in and handle those."
I want to rip his head from his shoulders, but doing that to a supervisor is frowned upon, no matter what organization you work for .
"I appreciate that," I tell him. "I'll get the paperwork filled out and the request placed this week."
I turn to leave, but he clears his throat, an indication that he isn't done with me.
"I've gone ahead and worked on that request for you. All I need is your signature," he says, holding the top page up. "Here and here."
I'm spitting fucking nails by the time I make it back out to my car. I thought I'd at least have a few days to clear some shit before he shoved me out the door, but it looks like my forced month-long vacation starts today.
It leaves me no choice but to call Kincaid, but when I pull my phone out, I falter.
Maybe a true vacation, one with a beach and drinks delivered by hot waitresses, is just what I need, but then I remember that skin cancer is a real thing at my age, and I hate fucking sand.