30. Brett
Brett
I was just trying to get laid. That’s all.
I had a ridiculous peppermint caramel cinnamon-laced Starbucks concoction in my hand—Claire’s favorite, even though I gave her endless shit about it—and I was headed toward her toy shop, hoping for some midday delight and a break from the constant tension swirling around Michael.
The last thing I expected was to spot Kate.
She was across the street, head down, bundled in a long wool coat, talking to a man I didn’t recognize. Blonde. Close-cropped hair. Clean shoes. Not local. Not casino. Definitely Fed.
“Fuck me,” I muttered, veering off course and slipping behind one of those oversized Christmas trees already lit in front of the marina. Too early for Christmas, but perfect for cover.
I watched. Waited. My pulse ticked up.
Kate didn’t see me.
The guy handed her something. Palmed it right into her hand like a scene out of a bad spy flick. They exchanged a few more words—tense, close—and then he walked off. She stood there for a second, looked around, then walked three blocks south.
I followed.
She entered a squat cedar-shacked medical building. Nothing fancy, no sign. But I clocked it. She dumped something in the trash out front before stepping inside.
I waited until she disappeared, then crossed the street and fished it out. A business card.
Mark Mulligan – FBI – New York Field Office
My stomach dropped.
“Motherfucker.”
I didn’t say anything to Michael. Not yet. Not until I was sure. But that night, I came back. Vito with me. We popped the door like it was nothing—pen lights, gloves, silence.
Inside? Jackpot.
Folders. Files. Binders. Maps. Ledgers. It was like stepping into the evidence room at the Bureau.
“She’s been working this angle a long time,” I muttered, snapping pictures of everything.
Vito whistled low. “You want to burn it now or wait?”
“Neither,” I said. “We take this to Michael. Quietly.”
So we did.
It was after midnight when we slipped into Kate’s condo. She was out cold upstairs, curled up with Amber. Michael met us in the kitchen.
I laid the photos out. Every file. Every paper.
He didn’t say a word at first. Just stared.
Then he sat in her chair.
And I watched my boss break.
His hands trembled. Jaw clenched. Eyes fixed on her name signed at the bottom of half the documents we found.
One tear.
Just one.
Vito and I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
Finally, after ten solid minutes, he stood.
“If either of you ever mention this,” he said low, dangerous, “I will skin you both alive.”
We nodded.
“What now?” Vito asked.
Michael didn’t answer.
Just walked up the stairs.
“I’ll deal with her.”