Chapter Two – In Too Deep
Blake
Two years, two months, and six days.
That’s how long I’ve been submerged in the Hernandez operation. My younger brother, who is also my handler, Luke, has been my only contact with the outside world in the past five months. Six long months since I’ve seen my parents. I’m in too deep now. We’re too close, and I can’t risk my family’s lives if I were to be discovered by the Hernandez clan.
For two long years, I’ve worked my way up from a regular mechanic for their front business, First Class Auto Repair. Two long years I’ve worked hard to prove myself as a part of their team, earning their trust. For two long years, I’ve wormed my way within the ranks of their organization, been given more responsibility as lead mechanic at the shop. But, most importantly, I’ve built enough trust that I’m also one of their prime heist men, preparing cars for sale with their overseas buyers.
I’m close. Damn close. The final step in this operation is to find out how they arrange for the buyers. It’s not enough for the bureau to just take down this organization in the U.S. We want to know their overseas contacts. We want to know who’s pulling the strings and arranging the buys. We want them all to go down.
Which is why I’m sitting on an immaculate white leather sofa in the large den in the home of Roman Hernandez. Jimmy Mo next to me is receiving orders and directives for his first solo heist: an Adventador LP 700-4 Pirelli Edition Lamborghini. This car is fucking sweet. With over seven hundred horsepower, this baby will go from zero to sixty-two miles per hour in two point nine seconds flat.
I did all the prep work for this job, gathering up location, prime heist timetable, exit routes, and security codes. It’s a simple job. The owner is out of the country, leaving a small security detail of three men on the fortified property. There’s an eight-minute window to get through the back gate, inside the garage, extract the high dollar car, drive out the rear entrance of the garage, and out the back gate. Eight minutes is a lifetime in this world.
“You understand all of the key elements to this job, right, Jimmy?” Roman asks from behind his massive desk. His right hand man, and brother, stands just off to the side behind him, throwing hard eyes directly at Jimmy Mo.
“Yeah, yeah, I got this one, boss. Simple grab,” he says. His cocky demeanor makes me want to punch him square in his scrawny little face.
“Just stick to the plan, Jimmy,” I add, locking eyes with the man behind the desk.
“Go get ready, Jimmy. You leave in one hour,” Roman says, dismissing the man at my side. Since he didn’t say my name, I stay seated and wait for my next order.
“Do you think he can do this?” Roman asks after the door shuts securely.
“He trained with Styx, and he’s the best. As long as he keeps a cool head, he’ll be fine.”
“And this car? The buyer is ready to take delivery?” Roman asks, directing his question over his shoulder at his brother.
“Yes. There’s a shipping container waiting at the airport. We have a small window to get the car on board. My man on the inside is being paid well to make sure we don’t run into any problems,” Mattias answers.
“Good, good. I don’t want any problems with this job. Jimmy Mo’s old man was a master heist man, but something about that boy rubs me the wrong way. Like he’s entitled to something just because of who his pop was,” Roman says with a thick Hispanic accent. Decades in the United States still haven’t lightened his accent much.
“Me, too, if I may say so myself. But Styx vouched for him and says he’s ready for a solo run. Let’s just hope he doesn’t fuck it up,” I say to the two men before me.
“And if he does, Mattias will take care of the problem,” Roman adds with a predatory smile. I nod my understanding and head towards the door.
Outside of the large den, I stand in the hallway in the mansion dwelling of the man I’m trying to take down. I’ve been inside this house more times than I can count, reporting back intel to Luke through the small agency-issued phone I carry in my front pocket. To the naked eye, it appears to be a regular phone, but this little device is something completely different. Every time I sit down and play Angry Birds, the device is activated, recording audio and video completely oblivious to the unsuspecting men around me.
In the last few months, I’ve gotten closer to taking this entire operation down. Closer than any other agent before me. I’ve learned their shipping patterns and methods, building a solid case against this entire organization. The final piece is to locate the scumbags overseas. The entire organization is like a huge Jenga game. Each piece I uncover makes the foundation that much more unstable. It’s teetering dangerously right now, on the verge of collapse. One sneeze in the wrong direction and the entire thing is fucking coming down. I just hope that when it falls, I’ve got enough.
I exit the house and head straight to my 1969 Chevy Camaro Z28. If I could pick any car in the entire world, this is the one I’d pick. I saved up for months after starting my new job to be able to afford this baby. Of course, a few months of the side business is what really paid for this girl. Otherwise, if I was a regular mechanic, I’d probably still be driving my 1992 Chevy Silverado with rusted out wheel wells.
Sliding behind the wheel, I fire up the three-oh-two engine and let the horses purr. I quickly throw the manual transmission in gear, and pull out onto the road, heading towards my apartment.
Pulling into the small lot behind my run-down apartment, I leave my car and walk down the busy street towards the coffee shop on the corner. My head is down as I watch the sidewalk, yet the entire way I’m taking in everyone around me with precision and skill, without even so much as a glance up.
Inside, I order a large black coffee before finding an empty booth at the back of the coffee house. There are six people at tables throughout the small business and two more in line for coffee. Five women and three men. Ages range from early twenties to late fifties. I just start to glance over a newspaper left on the table when I sense his presence as he enters the coffee shop. Without looking up, I count how many steps it takes him to get to my table, all the while it looks like I’m giving my full attention to the newspaper.
“Afternoon,” he says without making eye contact.
“There’s a deal tonight.”
“I got the details. We’ll watch it and get all we need for the case, but we won’t engage him.”
“Good,” I answer while scanning the article about lower gas prices. After several moments of silence, I finally say, “I’m close, Luke.”
“I know. I read the report this morning. Special Agent in Charge is very happy with how this case is unfolding. You’re doing exactly what you need to do.”
“Yeah, well, I’m ready for this shit to be done,” I confess to my brother. No way can I tell him just how much I want this case to be over. The lines are blurred. I’m starting to not be able to tell where Blake Crisp begins and Blake Thomas ends. They’re becoming one, and frankly, that scares the shit out of me.
“I hear ya, man. I’d love to stay and shoot the shit with ya, but I better get out of here.”
“Yeah.” Our meetings are always few and far between anymore. The text messages are sporadic and his replies, non-existent. I’m feeding him intel, plain and simple. Fuck, what I wouldn’t give to sit down and enjoy a beer with my brother again. I have no idea what is going on in his life, nor the lives of our parents. Luke arranged an afternoon meeting with them six months back. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do: walk away at the end of that afternoon, knowing that it would be the last time I saw them until we closed this case.
“Be safe, brother,” he says moments before sliding out of the booth. I nod, keeping my eyes on the paper, all the while watching him exit the coffee shop from my peripheral vision.
I sit and drink my cup of coffee for another six minutes before tossing the newspaper down on the table and exiting out the front door, coffee cup in hand. I make my way back the two blocks to my apartment building, letting myself in to the small place I’ve called home for two long years.
I grab a Budweiser out of the fridge and plop down on the old, worn out couch. Settling on the first sporting event I find, I quickly scan the horizon out of the dingy window. Saying goodbye to my parents that day had definitely been difficult, but it doesn’t quite match the ache I felt inside the morning I walked out of Carly’s apartment.
I still picture her smiling face, those dark brown eyes, and the noises she made while I was buried deep inside of her. I’ve learned to scratch the itch over the past two years, but my body still craves her. Shit, I’m hard just thinking about her, which seems to happen each and every time she permeates my thoughts. My time with her was cut short. Cut short by my job, by my commitment to the bureau, by my need to take down a criminal.
Watching her sleep in the pre-morning light is the mental image I take with me every night to bed. When I find myself with another woman, I replace her face with an olive complexion and black hair. I don’t mean to be a douche bag, but I can’t help it. Whoever she is isn’t who I want in my bed. But she’ll do for the time being.
I never stay the night, nor does she get the chance to warm my bed. I want release, plain and simple, and I make sure she knows the score before we even get to the bedroom. I take what my body needs, and leave before she can even say goodbye. No emotions. No future.
As I watch the sunset through the dirty window, I wonder what Carly is up to. Is she married or in a relationship? Fuck knows I can’t blame her for moving on with her life, but that still doesn’t make the mental image any easier to take. I don’t know where she is or what she’s doing, but I hope she’s content. I hope that whatever life threw at her over these past two years, she’s enjoying it, living her life like she was meant to: free, joyful, and full of love.
For my own sanity, I just have to imagine that wherever she is that she’s happy.