2. CHRIS ROMAN
CHRIS ROMAN
By six the next morning, Special Agent Chris Walker was dead.
Not literally.But close enough.His phone was gone.His watch was gone.His government credentials had been locked away.His real apartment would sit the way he left it.His normal truck had been moved.His name had been stripped out of everything that mattered for the duration of the operation.By eight-thirty, the man standing in front of a cracked bathroom mirror in a furnished rental on the outskirts of the city was no longer supposed to answer to Walker.He looked the same.Short blond hair.Blue-gray eyes.Lean muscle built from years of training.A scar near his left shoulder.Another lower along his ribs.But everything else had changed.The wallet on the counter belonged to Christopher Roman.The driver’s license inside it said so.The registration on the black pickup parked outside said so.The apartment lease said so.The employment history said so.The arrest record said so.The old photographs strategically planted across fake social accounts said so.Even the scarred leather wallet looked like it had been carried for years.Chris picked it up.Opened it.Looked at the driver’s license again.CHRISTOPHER JAMES ROMAN.Thirty-four.Born in El Paso.Former mechanic.Former private-security driver.Occasional freelance protection work.A few arrests.Nothing serious enough to make him unusable.Enough to make him believable.Chris slid the license back into place.
“Roman,” he muttered.The name still sounded wrong.That was the point.He turned away from the mirror and crossed the small rental apartment.The FBI had designed the place carefully.Nothing too clean.Nothing too empty.A worn couch.A cheap coffee table.A television that looked like it had been bought secondhand.Tools stacked in the corner.A half-empty bottle of bourbon in the cabinet.
Old automotive magazines.A duffel bag on the floor.A few photographs of people Chris had never actually met.Every piece told a story.Roman wasn’t rich.Roman wasn’t organized.
Roman didn’t have close family.Roman had been moving around for years.Roman didn’t stay anywhere long enough for people to ask too many questions.And Roman had skills.
Skills that would eventually make Mateo Vargas curious.Chris opened the refrigerator.
Eggs.Beer.Leftover takeout.Nothing that looked government-issued.Good.He grabbed a bottle of water and leaned against the counter.A black folder sat in front of him.
He already knew every word inside it.He had spent most of the night memorizing Roman’s life.Still, he opened it.Because in deep cover, knowing the broad strokes got you killed.It was the details that saved you.Chris Roman had supposedly started racing illegally when he was sixteen.By eighteen, he was running modified imports on desert roads outside El Paso.By twenty-one, he’d graduated from street racing into security driving for businessmen who preferred not to explain why they needed someone who could lose a tail.
By twenty-five, he’d moved into private protection.By thirty, he’d developed a reputation for taking jobs nobody else wanted.Driving.Security.Deliveries.Fixing cars.Moving people.Keeping quiet.Every part of the cover was built around abilities Chris really possessed.That was what made it work.The FBI didn’t have to teach him how to pretend to be good behind the wheel.He was already better than most people who thought they were.
Roman’s explanation was simply different.Illegal street racing.Back-road runs.Security work for criminals.The truth was years of advanced federal vehicle training, protective-driving courses, pursuit and evasive maneuvers, surveillance detection and operational experience.Roman supposedly knew weapons because he’d worked private security.
Chris knew weapons because the Bureau had put thousands of rounds through his hands over the years and trained him to function with one while exhausted, injured or terrified.Roman supposedly noticed threats because he’d spent years around dangerous men.Chris noticed threats because federal training had rewired the way he entered a room.
Doors.Windows.Hands.Exits.Blind corners.People watching too hard.People trying not to watch at all.He didn’t think about it anymore.He simply saw things.That was the dangerous part about living undercover too long.Eventually, the skills stopped feeling like training.
They became instinct.Chris closed the file.Then his eyes dropped to his side.His shirt was open.The lower scar was visible.Small.Pale.Round enough that anyone who knew what they were looking at would recognize it.A bullet entry wound.The exit scar was uglier.Higher along his back.The second gunshot scar sat near his left shoulder.That one had missed bone by less than an inch.Chris touched it once.Not because it hurt.It hadn’t hurt in years.But because he remembered exactly when it had.Four years earlier.Phoenix.
Another name.Another organization.Another motel room.Another group of men who had believed he was someone he wasn’t.The operation had lasted eleven months.
It had ended with Chris on the floor of a warehouse, blood soaking through his shirt while an agent screamed into a radio for medical support.He remembered staring at the ceiling.Remembered thinking the strangest thing.Not I’m going to die.Not this hurts.He had thought:They better not blow the damn case because of me.Mercer had called him an idiot afterward.Chris hadn’t disagreed.He pulled his shirt closed.Roman would have stories for the scars.Car deal gone bad.Security job.Wrong place.Wrong people.Enough truth wrapped around enough fiction to keep questions moving.The trick was never making a lie too complicated.Complicated lies were hard to remember.Simple lies survived.His burner phone buzzed.Chris looked at the screen.One message.Garage. 10:00. Ask for Luis.
No greeting.No name.No explanation.He deleted it immediately.Then checked the time.
8:47.Plenty.He took his coffee black and left at nine fifteen.The black pickup waiting outside was older than what Chris normally drove.That was intentional.Slightly faded paint.
Aftermarket wheels.Modified suspension.Nothing flashy enough to draw attention.
Enough mechanical work underneath to tell anyone who knew cars that the owner cared more about performance than appearance.Chris slid behind the wheel.He adjusted the mirror.Then stopped.A habit.His eyes moved automatically.Parking lot.Blue sedan across the street.Woman walking a dog.Delivery van.Second-floor window.No one suspicious.
He started the engine.Low growl.Good.He pulled out.For the next thirty minutes, Chris Roman drove through the city like a man with nowhere particularly important to be.
Chris Walker mapped every vehicle behind him.The white Camry stayed for two turns.
Gone.Silver SUV three blocks.Turned west.Motorcycle.No pattern.Clean.Probably.He took one unnecessary detour anyway.Old habits.Or good ones.Depends who you asked.At 9:58, he pulled into the Vargas-connected garage.The place wasn’t impressive.That was probably why it mattered.A large corrugated-metal building sat behind a chain-link fence.Four service bays.Several vehicles outside.Two men working beneath the hood of an SUV.
Another smoking near the entrance.No obvious cartel markings.No men standing around with rifles.No giant neon sign saying DRUG ORGANIZATION THIS WAY.
Criminal enterprises rarely looked like movies.Most looked painfully ordinary.
That was why they worked.Chris parked.Killed the engine.Sat for three seconds.
Counted cameras.One above the main bay.One near the office.Another mounted high on the fence line.Possible fourth on the rear corner.He opened the door.The mechanic by the SUV looked over.Thirty-ish.Heavy beard.Dark work shirt.Tattooed forearms.Chris walked toward him.
“Luis?”The man looked Chris up and down. “Who’s asking?”
“Roman.”Something changed in Luis’s eyes.Not recognition exactly.Confirmation.
“Inside.”Chris followed him.The garage smelled like oil, hot metal and old rubber.
Music played from a radio somewhere.Two men glanced at Chris.One kept staring.
Chris ignored him.Luis led him toward a cramped office behind the main service floor.
The door closed.A man was already sitting behind the desk.Not Mateo.Chris recognized him from the briefing.Rafael Ortega.Low-level Vargas associate.Runs logistics for legitimate automotive businesses.Suspected of facilitating vehicle swaps and cash movement.No usable charges.Yet.Rafael didn’t offer his hand.
“You Roman?”Chris leaned against the wall.
“Depends who’s asking.”Rafael’s expression didn’t move.Luis gave Chris a warning look.Chris ignored that too.Rafael leaned back.
“You always answer questions with questions?”“Only dumb ones.”Silence.Good.Chris could feel Luis watching him.Rafael studied Chris for another moment.Then something like amusement touched his face.
“Luis says you know cars.”
“I do.”
“Luis says you can drive.”
“I can.”
“Everybody can drive.”
“Most people can move a car.”Rafael raised an eyebrow.Chris continued.“That’s not the same thing.”That got him.A slight smile.“Street racing?”
“Long time ago.”
“How long?”
“Long enough that I stopped doing it for free.”
“Security?”
“Some.”
“For who?”Chris shrugged.“People.”Rafael stared at him.“What people?”
“The kind who pay enough that I don’t ask why they need security.”Luis shifted.
Chris noticed.Rafael did too.Good.The silence stretched.This wasn’t an interview.
It was a test.Chris knew the type.They weren’t looking for the perfect answer.
They were looking for nervousness.Too much explanation.Trying too hard.
A man with Roman’s history wouldn’t be desperate.He’d be cautious.Rafael stood.
“Come on.”Chris pushed off the wall.They walked into the service bay.Rafael stopped beside a black Mercedes SUV.The hood was open.“Runs rough at idle.”Chris glanced under the hood.“That’s descriptive.”Luis smirked.Rafael didn’t.“Fix it.”Chris looked at him.“You hiring me?”
“If you fix it.”
“And if I don’t?”Rafael shrugged.“You leave.”Chris rolled his shoulders once.“All right.”
For the next forty minutes, Chris barely spoke.That helped.People underestimated mechanics because they thought working with your hands required less attention than working with your head.Chris listened to everything.A vehicle came in.Two men stepped out.No license plate.One carried a duffel bag into the rear office.Nobody reacted.Interesting.
Another man arrived.Talked quietly with Rafael.Left after six minutes.Chris couldn’t hear enough to matter.He didn’t look.Also important.The easiest way to get caught gathering information was looking like you were gathering information.So Chris kept his attention on the engine.Vacuum leak.Minor.He found it.Then another issue.Fuel trim.
Nothing dramatic.He repaired both.Started the engine.Smooth.Rafael appeared behind him.“That it?”Chris closed the hood.“You want me to break something else so this takes longer?”Luis laughed.Rafael finally smiled.“How much?”Chris wiped his hands on a rag.
“You tell me.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“It is if you’re deciding whether I’m worth keeping.
”Rafael stared at him.Chris stared back.Then Rafael pulled several bills from his pocket.Handed them over.
“Come back tomorrow.”Chris looked at the money.Then at him.
“To fix cars?”Rafael’s expression changed slightly.
“For now.”There it was.Chris pocketed the cash. “Ten?”
“Nine.”Chris nodded.Then walked toward the exit.No eagerness.No questions.No attempt to impress anyone.Roman didn’t need this job.At least that’s what they needed to believe.
He reached his truck.“Roman.”Chris looked back.Luis was standing outside.“Yeah?”
Luis nodded toward the pickup.“You do the work yourself?”
“Most of it.”
“What’s under the hood?”Chris smiled faintly.“Enough.”Luis laughed.
“All right.”Chris climbed inside.He didn’t immediately look at the garage.
He started the engine.Adjusted the radio.Pulled away.One block.Two.Three.
Only then did his eyes flick toward the mirror.No one following.He kept driving.
The first stage had worked.He was in.Barely.That was always how these things started.
Not with guns.Not with dramatic meetings.Not with cartel kings extending hands across expensive tables.A garage.An engine.A few questions.A man deciding Roman might be useful.Chris drove another mile before turning into an industrial area.He parked near a closed warehouse.Waited.Two minutes later, a white utility van rolled past.Nothing about it looked federal.It kept going.Chris picked up his burner.Typed three words.I’m in.
Tomorrow.Sent.Deleted.Then he put the phone down.For several moments he sat there listening to the engine idle.Chris Walker understood exactly how little today meant.
He wasn’t close to Mateo.He wasn’t close to the drugs.He hadn’t seen anything that could dismantle the Vargas organization.He had simply been allowed through the first door.
And if he wanted the rest to open, Chris Roman had to become valuable.Reliable.Useful.
Eventually trusted.That was the dangerous part.Because trust worked both ways if you weren’t careful.Chris looked at himself in the rearview mirror.Same face.Different man.
“Roman,” he said quietly.This time the name sounded slightly less wrong.He put the truck in gear.Chris Walker disappeared back into traffic.And Chris Roman went to work.