6. Dallas
CHAPTER 6
DALLAS
An ATF officer, tight-lipped and stern-faced, guides me into a room somewhere at the bowels of the building. The heavy cloud of tension pricks at my skin like invisible needles as I take in Cap's exhausted appearance when I enter inside. Sleep still clings to the corners of his eyes and he’s dressed in most un-business-like attire–a hoodie and rumpled sweatpants. I wonder at what ungodly hour he was roused from his bed to fly out here to fix this clusterfuck.
"Cap," I begin as soon as the door shuts behind me, my voice tight with frustration and urgency. "What the fuck is going on? Why was there an ATF ambush? How come we weren't aware?"
"Sit down, Bradley," he orders, rubbing his temple as if to ward off the beginnings of a headache.
I’m too restless to stay still after my convo with Reynolds and then my argument with Isaac. "I almost got killed in that crossfire!" I snap, not bothering to hide my anger. My hands fly up in a gesture of annoyance.
Jason sighs heavily, his gaze meeting mine. "I know, and I'm sorry. I honestly don't understand why we weren't informed that Reynolds has been investigating Solovey for over a year now."
My heart pounds against my rib cage, troubled. This ATF debacle has jeopardized everything I've hustled for on the line. It’s like standing at Ground Zero with nothing left but wreckage. How did we not see this coming? "It’s ridiculous. They had to notify us of their operation."
Jason nods curtly but offers no comment.
"Come on, man," I press. "What’s going on?" The sound of my voice expands in all corners. It’s like if I’m loud enough I’ll be able scare away the consequences of the situation we’re in and replace those consequences with my hope-packaged fantasy. "They should have at least given us a heads-up."
"You need to calm down, Bradley."
"Calm down?" My restlessness and my adrenaline only makes it worse. I turn on my heel and stare at the door for a second, then at the floor. My mind is full of conflicting emotions. When I swivel back to him, I say, "You’re not the one who was there. It was fucking bad, Cap."
"What’s done is done. From here on, it’s damage control."
The weight of it all presses down on me, and for a second, just for a second, I wonder if that’s what Isaac feels every day when he has to walk the edge of the blade. I won’t lie to myself. My concern for him is alarming. It shouldn’t matter what happens to the target, but thinking of him as such—while he’s in that hospital bed all banged up—is impossible. His fate now hangs in the balance, and I can't help but feel responsible.
I struggle to keep my voice steady as I ask, "What happens next?"
"Thoreau will most likely be charged with firearms trafficking," Cap informs me with a shrug, looking unhappy.
The words hit me like a punch to the gut.
I sure hope as shit he didn’t tell you sob stories from prison.
I had no protection. No friends. Nothing.
Your touch—you know what it does? It doesn't repulse me.
A full-body shudder runs through me and I have to loudly suck in a lungful of air through my teeth to somehow mask my true reaction from my captain. Isaac’s fate is decided, and I can't help but feel responsible.
"Firearms trafficking?" I finally echo. "How long will that put him away for?" The thought of Isaac locked up again twists something inside me. I remember the scars on his body. The scars he received while in prison.
"Maybe five years if he has a shitty attorney. But we both know the Thoreau only hire the best."
"Exactly," I latch on to this thought. "He’ll be out in six months and back to what he was doing before. Everything I did would be in vain. We’ll need to start over."
"What are you suggesting?"
"I want to go back in. With Isaac."
Cap stares at me, his expression a mixture of stressed-out and shocked. "Are you insane?"
"I’m not. Talk to Reynolds. He said none of the Hellhounds were around when Isaac got shot. Chances are no one but Thoreau knows about my real identity." My brain is working overtime. I’m grasping at straws here, but I can’t let Isaac go to prison. Not even for a day.
"What’s going on with you, Bradley?" Jason takes a step closer and examines my face, mining for clues. "Been in the trenches too long?" His hand lands on my shoulder with a patronizing thump as if he holds all the wisdom of the world. "What about some downtime, huh?"
"No need, Cap. I’m fine," I insist.
"Let's not lose sight of our priority here, Dallas." With a resounding note of authority lurking in every syllable, Jason cautions, "We aren't chasing after second-raters when there's Solovey out there; that bastard is our Moby Dick. Thoreau can go screw himself for all I care. He's no longer a priority. It’s done and dusted; your undercover stint ended with his downfall."
My gut churns and it’s not because I haven’t eaten in God knows how long.
"Solovey will be spooked if Isaac is out of the game," I press, venturing into edgy territory. My pulse throbs urgently in my veins and in my ears under an onslaught of adrenaline and dread.
Isaac's life is on the line.
I have to figure out how to save him from this hell.
"Solovey won’t stop his operation if one player is out. He’ll simply find someone else," Jason supplies.
"And we’ll lose momentum."
"What momentum?"
"You have a chance to bring the entire Thoreau operation down. Not just Isaac but Maurice too and everyone else on his payroll. Just let me go back inside. They trust me."
"Don’t forget, Bradley, we have Carson in custody. He'll spill the beans eventually, and we won’t need to waste the Bureau’s resources on an undercover operation."
"Anyone else detained?" I ask, my mind rushing through various scenarios in my head.
"No, but having Carson and Thoreau Jr. in custody should be enough." Jason's eyes are cold.
"You won’t get any information out of either one of them, Cap."
"We will."
I fall silent for a moment, my thoughts racing like wildfire. Flynn won't talk; I'm sure of it. The Hellhounds are a tight-knit group, fiercely loyal to one another. They'd rather rot in prison than betray their brothers-in-arms.
"These guys, Cap, they'd sooner die than give up one of their own. I'm telling you this. You've got Murphey and he's not talking, is he? Let me go back in. Finish it while it’s hot."
"Everyone breaks, eventually," Cap counters ominously. But I can see a flicker of doubt in his eyes–he knows I'm right. The bond between Isaac and his crew is unique, an unbreakable chain that binds them together even in the darkest hours.
The heavy quiet stretches between us. The tension in the room is palpable, threatening to ignite and explode at any second.
"Listen, Reynolds said everyone but Isaac were pushed back into the tunnel when I identified myself. Only Isaac knows I'm a Federal Agent," I say, asserting my belief that I can make this happen. "I can turn him," I drive my point home. "I've seen the cracks in his armor. I know a way. Give me a chance, and I can make better charges stick." I don’t want any charges to stick. Period. But I need to spin this tale right now. I need to spin it in my favor.
Jason's eyes narrow, skepticism flashing across his face like a storm cloud. "And what if your cover's already blown, huh? What if one of Isaac's goons heard you?"
My jaw clenches, frustration boiling beneath my skin. I counter his doubts with the cold, hard facts. "Firearms trafficking is nothing, Cap. Solovey's still out there, and in a few years, Isaac will be back on the streets and everything goes back to the way it is now. Bad guys win again. We need to finish this while he's exposed. I’m telling you, I can turn him."
In my mind, there’s a half-assed plan forming. No ending. Just the beginning and a wobbly middle but if I can persuade Jason, that’ll give me some time to work on that finale.
"Even if you're right," Cap says, rubbing at his temples again, "it's a risky move, Bradley. You know the consequences if things go sideways."
"It’s part of the job," I reply resolutely. "I’ve gotten to know Isaac. I understand how he operates. I. Can. Turn. Him." I pause. Wait. Then add, "He’ll help us get Solovey."
Cap studies me for a few heartbeats, the gears behind his eyes turning, weighing the options and assessing the risks.
"Alright," he finally says, his tone cautious but not entirely dismissive. "I'll consider it. But first, we need to make sure your cover is still intact. I can’t send you back in if there’s at least the slightest chance you’ve been made."
"Thank you," I say, exhaling a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.
"You’re going to have to stay put until we figure out what's going on in Vegas."
"What about Carson?" I ask, trying not to let my concern for the man seep into my question. In the eyes of the law, he’s a criminal, but he doesn't deserve to be caught in the crossfire between the Bureau and the ATF assholes.
"He'll be charged. You know as well as I do that he’s nowhere near the top of the food chain. We work Thoreau only."
I wince. Cap is right. But I'm hating the truth of it all the same. My priority has to be Isaac–getting him off the hook first. And then… Well, then we’ll see…
"Alright," I agree reluctantly, swallowing the lump in my throat.
As Cap heads for the door with the grim finality of his decision in each step, he pauses and rests his hand on the worn metal handle. "And Bradley, you do understand that none of this works without the director’s approval? Before we even try to find out if your cover isn't blown."
I nod, seeing no other option right now.
"The Bureau won't risk another operation like this without something substantial to show for it. And if Wagner doesn’t think going back will be worth it, then there’s not much I’ll be able to do."
"Sit tight and wait for word from Vegas," Jason instructs. "I'll get someone to put you up in a hotel around here."
The door closes behind him with a dull thud, leaving me alone in the room. My chest feels tight.
I force myself to breathe, trying to quiet the doubts and fears that claw at the fringes of my mind.
What the fuck are you doing, Dallas? a tiny voice asks somewhere from the back of my head. It belongs to Agent Bradley. The man I was before Isaac Thoreau.
But the man I am now responds with a "go back to hell" and shuts all the second-guessing down.
Cap's tired frown still burns bright in my mind when I arrive to my hotel room. This shit ATF has put us all through is ridiculous. I curse internally as I remove my jacket and shirt and fall on the bed, still in pants and shoes.
I’m so exhausted I don’t even have it in me get up and turn on the AC. My bones are weary and my head feels heavy. The bedcover feels too warm, too dirty and, too uninviting, but I’ve been to worse places before Cody "Hawk" Smith.
Arms splayed, I'm staring at the ceiling that doesn't look back. It's just plaster and paint, it doesn't know the weight of a gaze that can't find respite. Not when Isaac's face, hard and unreadable, haunts me. His chocolate brown eyes follow me even here, where he cannot reach.
I trusted you, let you into my life, my goddamn heart. And for what? You used me, played me like a cheap pawn in your twisted game.
Exhaustion pulls me under, and for a brief moment, I'm adrift in darkness, until a shrill ring slices through the silence. My hand fumbles for the phone issued by the Bureau for temporary use.
"Bradley." My voice is gravel. Sleep is an afterthought now.
"Talk to Isaac today." Jason’s tone is clipped, brooking no argument.
"Today?" I rub at my eyes.
"We need him to contact Jeremy, check on Vegas."
"I thought you had this handled on your end."
"We're blind out there. No idea what's happening with the Hellhounds. Everyone’s on high alert. Any movement on our part will put us all at risk. You said you could turn Thoreau. Then do it."
"Cap, I—" Doubt creeps in. I didn’t expect for things to move this fast. "I don't know if I can turn him in one day."
"Well, you have to, if you still want to go back in." Jason's insistence is a blade pressed against my throat. Is he onto me? Did he figure out that my real reason for offering what I did was to get Isaac out of that hospital room and away from the authorities?
"Bradley?"
My pulse throbs in my temples, a rhythm of rising panic. Persuading Isaac to betray his own is like convincing the sun to fall from the sky—it goes against the very fabric of who he is. One conversation will not be enough.
"Understood," I manage, the word tasting bitter.
"Keep me posted." The line goes dead, leaving me with the echo of necessity.
I sit up, elbows digging into my thighs, head in my hands. Sleep is gone. Wiped away completely. The breaths come hard, each one a battle won against the tightness in my chest. I picture Isaac, cuffed and confined, the way his jaw sets when cornered.
He'll resist, fight tooth and nail against the snare we're setting. And somewhere deep down, where the roots of this twisted affection have taken hold, I dread the fracture that will come when he realizes the depth of my deception.
But it's not about us—not really. It's about the pieces on the board, the moves yet to be made, and the lives suspended in the vacuum between life and death. It's about ending the violence that follows men like Solovey.
It has to be done.
And the clock ticks on, ignorant of the chaos it brings with each passing moment.
The hospital's clinical scent claws at my senses, a silent alarm that sends my pulse into overdrive. Fluorescent lights hum above, their blinding glow dropping ghostly shadows across the linoleum floors. I stride down the corridor, dodging the antiseptic dance of nurses and doctors who orbit each other with practiced indifference. Their faces blur, indistinguishable masks of concentration that remind me of another time, another place—where the smell of blood was just as pervasive, but the stakes were higher.
I can feel the pull of that ugly scar on my abdomen, a reminder etched into my flesh. It throbs in time with my heartbeats, a cruel echo of the blast that left me sprawled on foreign soil, gasping for air amidst the havoc of war. The memory is a shackle, dragging behind me with each step toward Isaac's room.
The guard outside is a statue, his expression stone. Our eyes meet, and there's a brief flicker of recognition before his gaze hardens again. "Bradley," he grunts with a curt nod allowing me passage.
"Thanks," I mutter, slipping past him with a tension that coils around my spine.
The room is filled with cold silence, except for the steady beeping of a heart monitor. Isaac lies there, a pale figure against white sheets. He doesn't look up as I enter, but I can sense his awareness of my presence, a current of electricity that crackles in the space between us. Even now.
His cuffed wrist is a strange sight against the backdrop of the soft bedding, a visual metaphor for the man himself—bound by circumstance. His chest rises and falls with the shallow tide of sleeplessness, and I wonder how much rest one can find when freedom is just out of reach.
I move without sound but he stirs anyway, finally glaring up at me with eyes that shoot daggers sharp enough to hurt me without any physical contact.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" Isaac's voice is as harsh and unwelcoming as the Arizona desert. "I'm not talking to you without speaking to my attorney first." His words are sharp, meant to push me back.
Pulling a chair up to his bed, I sit. We’re close enough to touch, yet we’re worlds apart.
"Listen to me very carefully, Isaac," I say sternly. "There are only two ways out of this hospital bed." His breath catches, hitching in his chest as if my words are hands closing around his throat. "One: to prison."
I let the threat hang between us like a noose waiting to tighten.
"Two: back to Vegas." The words fall like a gambler’s last chip onto the table, a final bet. I see no point in sugarcoating it or call it something that it’s not. "But you gotta play ball with the Bureau. Help us take down Solovey."
His reaction is the crack of thunder after lightning has struck too close—a flinch, a snarl, a spark of rebellion in those chocolate eyes. Each word I utter lays another brick in the wall he's built around himself, but I've come with a sledgehammer, ready to strike.
"You want me to rat on my own?" Isaac's face twists with disgust and I can't tell if he's disgusted with me or with the offer I'm presenting.
I lean in, close enough to count the lashes framing his dark, turbulent eyes. "I'm here to pull you out of the quicksand," I whisper, "not push you under."
"Quicksand?" He scoffs, but there's a tremor of fear beneath the defiance. "You know all the right words, Agent Bradley? Good thing I’ve learned how to read between the lines of bullshit a long time ago."
"Solovey's dangerous," I press on, relentless. "Eventually, he'll consume everything you've built—turn your empire to ash."
"Empire?" Anger burns hotter in Isaac's eyes, a wildfire threatening to escape control completely. "Don't talk to me about empires, asshole. You're just here to save your own ass."
"Trust me, I’m not. I’m here to save your ass. You’re the one handcuffed to the hospital bed." I pause to let that sink in. "I’m sure you understand that if both—the ATF and the Bureau—are gunning for Solovey, it'll be difficult to conduct business. Your crew will be under the microscope. One wrong move and they’ll be behind bars. Is that what you want, Isaac?"
"Screw you," Isaac snarls, but in the cold environment of the hospital room, it sounds empty and insincere.
"Think, Isaac. Every step they take will be over your guys' backs."
His chest rises and falls with rapid, jagged breaths. "If you seriously believe I’ll be your snitch," he says through gritted teeth, "you’re even dumber than I thought, Agent Bradley. You haven’t learned a single thing about the Thoreau while you were sniffing around for your fucking intel."
"Not a snitch," I counter, "a survivor."
He shuts his eyes for a moment and clenches his jaw.
The room remains still for what seems like forever until Isaac finally looks at me again. And this time there’s hurt in his haze. "People who rat don’t survive in my line of work," he whispers.
"Listen, Isaac." My voice is the calm in a hurricane's eye, but inside, I'm a storm of nerves. "I'm all in on this. Your life, my life—we're tangled up now. I'll stand with you through the fire. I’ll protect you."
Isaac chuckles and jerks his cuffed wrist. The metal clinks, a mocking applause for my vow. "This? This is your protection?"
"Your call," I say, ignoring the sting of his glare. "It's coming. But first, I need that 'yes.' The Bureau needs it."
"Fuck the Bureau!" His words are a slashed painting, raw edges and ruined beauty. "And fuck you for thinking I'd bend to their will."
"Isaac," I lean forward, my scent mingling with his, "this isn't about bending. It's about not breaking. We're playing a long game here. Chess, not checkers."
"Chess?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it, just shards of glass. "You've already sacrificed your queen. Don't pretend you're not scrambling."
"Maybe," I concede, feeling the weight of his truth. But I push further because that's what we do—we push until something gives. "But kings have fallen for less, and Solovey's no God. He's flesh and blood, and he bleeds like the rest of us."
"Blood," Isaac whispers, "is all they'll see. Mine. Yours. Not his. Fucking rivers of it."
"Then let's redirect the flood," I urge, my heart hammering Morse code against my ribs. "Help me help you."
"Help? You think turning into a rat—that's help?"
"Isaac, if you don't take this deal, you'll end up in prison. Right now, it's your best option. They caught you with four rigs full of illegal firearms. They know you're supplying to the cartel."
"I’m entitled to a phone call. I shouldn’t be speaking to you without my attorney."
"I don’t think you understand what’s going on here."
"And I don’t think you understand what you’re asking me to do."
Heavy silence falls between us again.
"You’ll get your phone call," I finally say, leaning back in my chair. "But I need an answer. This cycle of violence—it needs to end. You know it and I know it. Solovey is involved in more than just firearms. We still don't know who ordered the hit on you and who was backing Tucci. You can be the one to help us figure it out." I wait a second, my heart drumming against my ribs faster and faster. "Things that happened to Jessica will keep on happening unless we do something, and I’m giving you a chance to do that something." Urgency is sharpening my words to fine points. I feel dirty like I’m betraying him all over again.
"At what price?" he asks.
"Nothing is free in this life. You know better than anyone."
He looks at me then, really looks, and I see the vortex of fear and resolve in his eyes. "Fine," he whispers, surrender etched in the curve of his lips. "I'll do it."
"Thank you," I breathe out, relief a living thing within me.
"You’re a fucking rat," he hisses. "And you made me into one too."
I don’t have it in me to respond to his accusation. I don’t know how. He’s not wrong but he’s lived on the other side of the law all his life. Asking him to look at things from my point of view is useless.
"I wish I never laid eyes on you," Isaac adds quietly as I rise up from the chair.
"I don't," I reply as I reach the door. Because regret is a luxury I can't afford. "Whatever you think, our time meant something to me."
I leave him there, a man handcuffed to a bed and now to a decision that could kill him. As I step into the corridor, the hospital lights flicker above me, like a tornado warning on the horizon.