Unwritten: The Brooklyn Pieper story (continued)

Disclaimer: all characters in this short story are fictional/creations of my own imagination. Sights and locations are based on real cities/towns/National Parks located in the Western United States.

Sorry for the delay posting. Work has been a bit crazy the last two weeks, and I wanted to make sure this part was worthy of posting.

Note: This section picks up at the start of a closing chapter in Declan O'Reilly's book. The remainder of the section will be posted in due time.

(Declan O’Reilly, continued): Never ask for more whiskey than you can handle

Jackson delivered a very thin case file, pizza and beer that very night. The pizza was finished in an hour. The six pack in three, the file was just as thin one week later.

Brooklyn was not back like she claimed she would be. Seven days passed and she was still undercover somewhere in the greater Boston area. I thought I would catch glimpses of her tall frame in windows or turning at a nearby corner. Every morning, she’d text a sun emoji to let me know she was ok, and a moon emoji to say goodnight. I didn’t know where she was, but at least I knew she was alive and safe. For the time being.

The longer Brooklyn was away, the more pressure I felt to make headway on her da’s case. Jackson was looking in Sam Pieper’s past. He too agreed the facts didn’t add up, but he was hesitant to accept Brooklyn’s theory. My job was to link McGinty to the murder, but the case itself was colder than Greenland in the summer. In seven days, I made no headway, though there wasn’t much free time for side investigations. I was plenty busy with work, with barely any time to sleep. When I did manage to catch a few winks, it was shallow, plagued by swirling black nightmares always featuring Brooklyn’s green eyes and a man who looked too much like me.

Each night, I stopped by Brooklyn’s apartment. The sadness still hung in the air when I opened the door. Her apartment was nothing more than vacant rooms waiting for Brooklyn to come home. Much like me.

It never happened.

***

Two weeks later.

“O’Reilly, my office.”

A groan gurgled from my throat. It was day five of overtime and day fourteen without Brooklyn. She was still undercover, and I was running on fumes. Thommy and I spent four days at the western border of Massachusetts chasing a fugitive fleeing to New York. Adrenaline powered us through the five day search, but once the fugitive was apprehended, we crashed. Fatigue showed on both our faces. Thommy’s cinnamon skin was peppered with white-grey stubble, while my five day shadow transformed into a fluffy auburn brown beard.

Thommy’s chair creaked in harmony with his sigh, “The world never sleeps.”

“Not you Thompason,” Randy Jones hollered from his glass office. The supervisor’s beady eyes found the back of my head as I groggily lifted it from my desk. “Just O’Reilly”

My face fell into my hands as I willed my body up. My quad burned, my hamstrings groaned, and my knees cracked as I stood from my chair. Thommy gave me a worried, withered look, the wrinkles in his eyes creasing more than usual as he leaned against the cubicle wall. He was bone tired, and worn out, the long nights and hours taking a toll on Thommy’s fifty-seven year old body.

“Go home brathair.” Thommy’s head tilted to the side, a protest already forming in his mind. “See your kids. Your wife. Sleep. I’ll finish the paperwork.”

A guilty smile played with the corners of Thommy’s lips. Gratitude shown through his eyes, strengthened by our sense of camaraderie. He would do the same for me, and he had, many times over.

“Hey,” he clamped a hand on my shoulder as I passed through the cubicle opening. “I got your back partner.”

There was no joke in the statement. No mischievous twinkle in Thommy’s eye. The seriousness in his eyes was firm and unyielding. Thommy wasn’t just my partner, he was my brother, and his statement confirmed a decision I made over the long weekend. I wanted him next to me when I married Brooklyn. When all this was over, I wanted Thommy Thompason to be my best man.

With a nod of acknowledgement, Thommy moved for his coat and hat, and I entered the lion’s den.

“Jesus O’Reilly,” Jones was sitting behind his desk, an exasperated look on his face. The air in the office was cold and a chill settled in my already exhausted body as I made my way toward the chair. “The hell you doing out there? Kissing babies?”

A response formed in my head, but Jones didn’t understand Irish humor. Instead, I sat in the faux leather chair on the other side of his desk, “Just finishing up paperwork with Thommy sir.”

“Subdued,” Jones noted. He removed a pair of reading glasses from the tip of his over pointed nose and rubbed his eyes. “Well, I’ll get straight to the point. I’m sending you Colorado.”

Jones was a good boss. He gave it to agents straight, whether they did well or succeeded. He didn’t do the standard American thing of beating around the bush. He said what he thought, bluntly and often accurately, but even this came as a surprise.

“Don’t worry, you’re not being reassigned.” Relief flashed through Jones’ eyes. “Even I’m not that stupid.”

“Thanks.” My voice was even, deadpanned as I tried to keep my confusion from showing. I risked a glance at the supervisors desk, but it was too cluttered with paper to make anything out. Jones operated in organized chaos. His office space itself was neat, everything in its proper place, but the desk was a disaster zone. “Why Colorado?”

Jones leaned back in his chair and pursed his lips, deep in thought. “How much do you know about Operation Trailblazer?”

My left eyebrow spiked, “Sounds like a case for the Park Rangers.”

“So not all the whiskey went to your head.” A rare grin crossed Jones’ lips, though it truly resembled a grimace. “Thirty years ago, the DEA, FBI and National Park Rangers joined forces for Operation Trailblazer. Mob bosses were using the National Parks to smuggle drugs and other contraband from one side of the country to another, and this special task force was built to stop it.”

“Ok, what does that have to do with me?”

“Patience grasshopper.” Jones shuffled papers on his table and formed them into a neat stack. “One of the agents involved is in the witness protection program. His partner was killed, and he was next, so we hid him. He’s a recluse now in Colorado. Only three people know his location, soon to be four.”

“So we’re relocating him?”

“Not necessarily.” Jones slid the stack of papers in my general direction. “I believe there’s a viable threat to his security. Your job is to spend a week with the agent and learn everything you can about Operation Trailblazer.”

The papers on the table were streaked with thick black lines, “With all due respect sir, why send me?”

Jones chuckled, “You may be a pain in the ass O’Reilly, but you’re a damn good agent. You’re also uniquely qualified for this particular assignment.”

“For any particular reason?”

“Your fiancee.” A chill ran through my body, and it wasn’t because of the ever present chill in Jones’ office. “She’s calling the shots now.”

“Pardon?”

“Brooklyn Pieper is now the Agent in Charge of Operation Trailblazer.”

***

Later that day.

Jones ordered me to go home and get some rest at the end of the meeting, much to my personal belief. The Marshal building was suffocating. My bones were being crushed from all sides, and everything felt hot. My body, my insides, my forehead were all radiating heat, and I truly felt like I would be sick right there in Jones’ office.

Brooklyn was heading Operation Trailblazer. According to Jones, it was now called Operation Whiskey Tailspin, but it’s objective was the same. Take Nathanial McGinty down from the inside. Cut him off at the circulation so he has no other option but to roll over. The main difference: the DEA and National Park Rangers weren’t involved. This was an FBI only case now, spearheaded by Hubert Boss and now run by Brooklyn Pieper, my fiancee.

A sheen of sweat formed on my forehead as my body propelled me toward my car. Agents muffled greetings crossed my ears, but no words penetrated my brain. Jones’ revelation was too overwhelming, too distracting as I rushed out of the building into the parking structure. A truck passed by me around the curve, the tires screeching to avoid impact. I heard nothing. I saw nothing. My mind and body were numb, immune to the outside word.

The world continued to spin around as I reached my car. Without realizing, I opened the hatchback and threw my forgotten jack in the back. My bulletproof vest followed suit, the ripped velcro only a muffled sound to my ears. Tunnel vision blurred. Grey clothed mixed with black and white until I saw nothing but swirling blurs of color.

Reality returned. My lungs burned as I inhaled two cold breaths, the sound accentuated in my mind. Sweat slid down my nose to the pavement, and a scratchy ache occupied my larynx. Heat was replaced by cold as the wind caught the damp spot on my neck, but it made me feel alive. Rejuvenated. I knew what I had to do.

The drive took two hours. One hour there, one back with proper precautions. The Boston cityscape gave way to the rolling countryside. Revolutionary War monuments, historic colonial homes and tourist trap towns passed by my car in a blur until I reached a tiny cottage on the outskirts of a town called Ayer. It was secluded, the red brick siding standing out against the brilliantly white snow, smoke rising from the chimney toward the blue sky.

The picturesque scene ended at the driveway. A black SUV greeted me at the base, an overt sign of reality. At that moment, six members of the U.S. Marshals and a team of highly skilled FBI agents were watching the cottage much more subtly than their SUV counterparts. It was a necessary precaution, one they took anytime someone paid a visit, whether it was friend or foe.

The men inside the vehicle acknowledged me with a nod before I continued my journey up the winding gravel road. Two additional agents waited for me as I pulled in behind the back door: Sharon Mathews from the FBI and Andrew Jakobry from the Marshals.

“Is he in there?” The wind was raw and real in the country, with no skyscrapers or trees to block its path. It whipped across my face, drowning my already ragged, tired voice.

Mathews nodded, “Perimeter is secure. We can’t guarantee he’ll talk.”

“He will,” I stuffed my hands in my pockets, subtly checking for the gun and other accoutrements. “Make sure no one comes in or out.”

“Understood.” Jakobry spoke this time, “Good to see you O’Reilly.”

I nodded, but my focus was already inside, the wind pushing me forward toward the door. The brass handle was cold against my ungloved hands, but it turned as my hand did as though it was freshly creased. A small push and the door opened freely, the wind pushing it open wide.

I took two steps in and shut the door behind me. The cottage was exactly how I left it three years earlier. Cute, demure, furnished by a local woman and her elderly husband. Homemade lace curtains hung by every window. Expensive china plates filled the cabinets. Tasteful trinkets filled the spare space on the countertops and railings, but none of that held my attention. That was focused on the only living object in the house: a forty year old hacker by the name of Boyd Galveston.

“Declan O’Reilly.” My name was venom on his lips, “Did you miss me? ”

Boyd Galveston was a hacker with the attitude of a cocky asshole and the heart of a coward. His personality was as slimy as his bleach destroyed hair. His specialty was to hack the United States where it hurt most, the government agency databases, and sell the information to the highest bidder. That used to be McGinty. Now, it was the FBI’s flavor of the week. Sometimes the CIA’s.

“You wish.” The tiny kitchen table separated us as I sat in the neighboring chair.

“How’s Agent Pieper?” Boyd sneered at the mention of her name. He had an odd fascination with Brooklyn ever since he learned she was hunting him. He taunted her daily, left her messages at the office and sent harrowing, disgusting emails about their first meeting. The BAU feared he was a sociopath and believed Brooklyn was at risk for kidnapping, but Boyd’s bark was far worse than his bite. He cowered when Brooklyn finally entered the interrogation room. “Or should I say Agent O’Reilly? I was sad to not be invited to the wedding.”

“I have a job for you.” I grabbed a sheet of paper from my pocket and slid it across to Boyd, ignoring his taunt. “I need all the information you can find on this man.”

Boyd’s face fell as he picked up the paper, “No can do buddy. Sorry.”

“Why not?

“Not interested,” Boyd sighed and pulled his legs up so they were resting on the table. Even in jeans, they were skinny, his boney little ankles jutting out from under the cuffs. “Unless you have payment that is.”

I produced a sleeve of cookies from my pocket, the kind you get at any gas station along the way, and set it on the table. Cookies of any kind were Boyd’s kryptonite. His eyes grew wide at the site, saliva pooling at the corner of his mouth.

“There’s more where that came from.” I stated, “And potential shortening on your sentence. Put in good work for me, and I’ll put in a good word for you with the feds.”

“You are a fed.”

“I’m the fed who caught you, not the one who runs you.”

Boyd sighed, “Fine. Come back in a month with the cookies and contract, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Not a month,” I interrupted, my voice hard and unwavering. “Three days, mailed to the address on the card.”

Boyd filled over the paper and emphatically shook his head, “That’s impossible.”

I sighed and stood from the table, pocketing the cookies as I did, “And I thought you were the best.”

“I am,” Boyd’s eyes were glued to my pocket, his voice a horse, shallow whimper. Insult works wonders with hackers, and it seemed as though I struck two wounds with one stone.

“Then prove it.” I walked out the kitchen doorway and into the hallway. “Three days Boyd, or you can kiss your cookies and freedom goodbye.”

His answer was drowned out by the slamming door as I left the cottage.

***

Boyd came through.

Two days after my visit, Tristan Rocker received a package at his secure mailbox in downtown Boston. I picked it up on my way to the Boston airport the very next morning. The plan was to review the contents on the flight to Colorado and continue the analysis during my week long stay. Jones insisted I would have plenty of free time, as my primary job was to serve as bodyguard to the ex-FBI agent while he continued to investigate the supposed security threat.

That did not happen. Exhaustion beat stupid determination, and I was out the minute I sat down in that uncomfortable plane seat. It didn’t matter that my six foot two frame was smashed into the window seat. My body and mind stilled as I fell into a dreamless sleep, my first since Brooklyn’s undercover assignment.

The missed opportunity on the plane proved costly. The Colorado trip was far more cantankerous than I, or even Jones anticipated. It felt like a trip back in time rather than a trip across the country. A man dressed in an old tan trench coat and worn fedora greeted me at baggage claim, a worn briefcase in his hand. He greeted me with a smile and an old Irish saying, one about a cow invading my garden.

“He always tramples the roses,” I stifled a yawn, hiding the lingering sleepiness from my nap. The cloak and dagger wasn’t my cup of tea. It was too spooky for me, but the witness insisted, and it was my job to protect the witness and keep him happy.

“Welcome to Denver, Mr. O’Reilly.” The man’s voice was filled with warmth and general cheer. To anyone else, he was just another driver picking up a weary passenger, but I could see the outline of a beretta under his jacket and his subtle glances toward reflective services. He was watching the crowd, making sure no one paid us too much attention. “The car is waiting for us. You must check in with your boss before we leave.”

“I was going to wait until we arrived at the destination.” Two black SUVs were waiting outside baggage claim, the typical government issued vehicle. Trench coach man walked toward neither. Instead, he veered back and to the left towards a well loved Jeep Grand Cherokee.

“If you wait, you won’t be checking in at all.” Despite his small stature, the man picked up my carry on with no struggle and placed it in the back bay of the car. “There is no service on the mountain.”

My left eyebrow arched toward my hairline, “No service?”

“That is correct Agent O’Reilly. Morgan insists. No phones, WiFi, television, computers. No communication with the outside world. Just books and the mountains.”

The man settled into the driver's seat, and I did the same opposite the car, “How do you communicate with other members of your team?”

“With these.” The man reached deep in his pocket and pulled out a sleek yet durable device and placed it in my hand. “More dependable and durable than cell phones. Plus, no one can hack it.”

The device crackled in my hand, “Forty-niner, we are in position to follow.”

“Copy that.” Trench coat unclipped his own walkie talkie from inside his jacket. “Leprechaun and I are on the move.”

My eyes narrowed as I took in the site. The SUVs were still in front of us, unmoving and seemingly unoccupied, and there were at least twenty other cars in the queue. Any one of them could be the tail vehicle, but my trained eyes didn’t spot it for twenty minutes.

“You guys are good.” A flashy red Subaru passed us on the left, revealing a silver Toyota 4Runner in the distance. It left the airport a few meters ahead of us, then dropped behind in the flow of traffic, ebbing and flowing a safe distance behind the Jeep.

Trench coat gave an old fashioned, sly smile at the compliment, “You’re no rookie yourself.”

The conversation eased between polite and complimentary. Neither of us revealed in depth personal information. His nickname was Forty-niner because the San Francisco 49ers were his favorite football team. It did not mean he was from the Bay Area. I would only learn that, and his name, when I was ready.

As we drove, the city landscape faded into oblivion, replaced by the winter whiteness of fairy tale books. The landscape was covered in fresh, white snow, not yet tarnished by the soot and brown salt and mud flicked up by tires. It was pure and almost angelic in its nature as it draped every object. Evergreen branches strained under its weight, and the mountains stood tall, omnipresent in the distance, the snow covering every feasible inch of rock and cliff.

“You might want to send that text now.”

“Pardon?”

“Your honey.” The driver never took his eyes off the road, but there was a new softness to his voice, a longing almost. “Send her that text. We’re approaching the line.”

There was no physical line crossed. My phone simply went from having full bars to none, communication with the outside world severed by some invisible guillotine. Communication with Brooklyn, specifically, cut short. A nervous pit settled in my stomach. Black outs and radio silence were commonplace in our relationship, and she knew I wouldn’t be reachable on this assignment. Yet the silence seemed desperate, hollow and empty. My guard was up, but it had nothing to do with the case at hand. It had everything to do with Brooklyn.

“Ocean, this is Forty-niner.” Trench coat spoke into his walkie as we crossed the invisible barrier. “Leprechaun and I have crossed the line. We are entering the property from the south side.”

A beep, “Copy that Forty-niner. South side is clear for your arrival.”

A second beep, “Air is clear. You are free to approach.”

"I thought only three people knew this location?" I asked as we passed rows of snow covered trees, the road barely visible in front of the vehicle.

"Correct," Forty-niner responded. "The property is large Mr. O'Reilly. I'm the only one who knows exactly where Morgan lives. My mean merely occupy and watch the edges."

A hunting cabin greeted us thirty seven minutes later. Modest in stature, the two story home was built atop a hill, surrounded by thick brush and evergreens, concealing it to the outside world. From afar, it looked abandoned, but as we pulled into a concealed garage one mile away, I knew it was anything but. It was more than flimsy pieces of wood stacked together. It was fortified with tunnels running too and from outcroppings, outhouses and vehicles hidden in the forest itself. Go bags and shelter areas lined the tunnel as Trench Coat led the way to the cabin, never once leaving a footprint in the pristine snow.

We emerged through a hidden wall in the mud room. An outdated but functional washer/dryer unit provided extra cover in case of attack, and I counted seven different security measures in the room.

“Arizona, this is Forty-niner.” Trench coat spoke in his walkie casually but his hand hovered ever so slightly above his hip. “Leprechaun and I have entered through the south entrance.”

“Well it’s about damn time!”

The voice boomed through the walls. Though slightly muffled, the words were still crisp and clear, the voice rough and scraggly. Instinctively, my hand went toward my gun as a door across the room swung open, an old

“Jesus sonny, put that gun down.” The voice echoed from the doorway, but it did not match the body it belonged to. The man standing in there was maybe hip height with a stark bald head and cauliflower ears to accessorize a boxers face. He wore the outfit of an American football coach. Khaki pants and a flannel zip up jacket over a polo.

“Morgan Murphy?” His beady, azure eyes, full of youthful spit and vinegar, found mine as I sheathed my gun.

“Yes.” He puffed out his chest and crossed his arms, “You were expecting a woman?”

“No.” The man cocked his round head and almost smiled. “I’m Declan O’Reilly, with the Marshals.”

The man scoffed and left the room, “I don’t need some young, whippersnapper Marshal babysitter.”

Murphy’s voice faded into the distance as he moved through the house, and I left the mud room to continue the introduction. The altitude was taking a toll though. My body felt off as I ascended a set of stairs, straining to keep with a seasoned, FBI veteran.

“I’ve been alone for nearly thirty years.” Murphy’s grumblings carried through the house, guiding me toward the kitchen. “Thirty stinking years, and they send some newbie fresh off the Moher.”

“The cliffs? Or the city?”

Murphy’s head popped up from behind the refrigerator, “Wisecrack.”

Better than smart ass, I thought. “I’m here for a threat assessment Agent Murphy.” The grunt echoed off the cabinets, “Haven’t been an agent in years. Call me Mack.” “Alright Mack,” I nodded as a sign of respect. “This threat is real.” “They’re all real.” Mack moved to the other side of the small kitchen. The room was furnished with a few simple cabinets, a small pantry and undersized appliances. The refrigerator and stove were at least ten years old and two sizes smaller than standard. “What makes this threat special enough to send a protective specialist?”

“There’s a mole in the FBI.” Mack deserved both my respect and honesty. He was a sharp shooter, wicked smart and a senior agent. He would know if I lied, but there was no point in doing so. “Your location may be compromised.”

He scoffed again, “There’s been thousands of FBI moles.” “It has to do with Operation Trailblazer.” The red drained from his face, but Mack’s eyes stayed steady, not giving anything away. “Now Operation Whiskey Tailspin.”

Mack gave no visceral reaction, other than his paling skin. I sensed years of practice prepared him for this moment. Mack Murphy knew this day would come. He knew, one day, he would leave his Colorado sanctuary.

“We don’t know if the threat is legitimate,” I admitted. “I’m here to keep an eye on things until we know more.” “Randy on that?” I nodded. “Good. Tell him he owes me a pint the next time you chat.” Then, he was gone. Mack Murphy was out of the kitchen and into a first floor bedroom before I could ask a follow up question.

***

With Mack barricaded in a bedroom, Forty-niner led me on a tour through the cabin. Usually, I preferred self guided tours, which allowed me to make my own assessment of the security situation. In my experience, security experts weren’t open to criticism or suggestions, even in protection scenarios. Forty-niner wasn’t like that. He simply led me through the rooms and stayed quiet, allowing me to make my own assessments in silence without the potential of hindered bias.

Despite its size and appearance, the cabin was fairly formidable. While the furnishings and appliances were out of date, the security was top shelf. All of it was monitored in a state of the art security room hidden behind a false door in the basement. At that point in the tour, Forty-niner offered some insight. Devices were replaced every six months. Passwords and codes were changed every three days, never at the same time, and there were two different sets of everything. One for Forty-niner and his team, and the other for Mack. He, not Forty-niner, possessed the override code and could destroy any and all information stored in the cabin with a single word.

The cabin was dark when I emerged from the security room. I knew hours passed, and yet, I was taken aback by the blackness of the scene. Artificial light wasn’t burning from all corners of the house. The only light streamed in from the windows, soft and heather blue in color, not harsh white or crisp yellow. It was unnerving coupled with the lonely silence of wind whistling past bulletproof windows.

Forty-niner offered to do the outside perimeter and tunnel check since the mountain was still new terrain. The monuments weren’t foreign to me. Brooklyn claimed she couldn’t date a man who never saw a mountain, so she drove us out there for a long, well deserved vacation. It was then, lying on the packed dirt ground, I realized she wasn’t just another fling. I more than liked Brooklyn Pieper. I loved her, and I was going to marry her.

A single light was on in the cabin when I returned to the main level, otherwise it was dark and uninhabited. Dishes weren’t loitering in the sink, waiting to be cleaned. Pots and pans weren’t abandoned on the stove. Shoes weren’t strewn about the hallway. The rooms were bare and blank, devoid of any and all personal artifacts, including pictures or picture frames. The cabin was abandoned save the occupant, who seemed more like fiction than reality.

“Forty-niner this is Leprechaun.” Forty-niner andI I argued about my nickname in the security room, but the only other option was apparently City Slicker. “Main house is clear.”

“Check that Leprechaun.” Forty-niner’s smooth voice echoed through the empty hall. “Tunnels are clear. Sky is doing a perimeter check.”

“Forty-niner this is Ocean.” A new voice joined in the conversation, one I recognized from earlier. “Other than a few wandering elk, perimeter is clear.” With the land and cabin secure, I set up shop in the kitchen, the very center of the house. Most of my coworkers, Thommy included, preferred to sleep on a couch in a main room while the witness slept further inside the house. I took a different approach. Being in the center of the home provided the perfect advantage. I could see and hear almost anything, making it virtually impossible for a perp to sneak up on me. Additionally, it provided cover and time if there was a break in or breach.

I wasn’t worried about anything that night. With work no longer distracting, my mind wandered to Brooklyn, as it usually did.

“What’s her name?”

My temporary distraction caused me to lose focus. That moment of vulnerability was all anyone needed to break in and kill Mack and anyone else in the house, so instincts took over. I slammed my phone on the table and spun in the seat, my hand on my gun in a defense, strong position. I was relieved to see that wasn’t necessary. Mack stood in the doorway to the kitchen, a knowing look on his usually stoic face.

“How do you know it’s a woman?” For the second time that day, I shoved my gun back in its holster, embarrassed at my jumpiness.

“Only a girl could distract someone like you,” Mack set a mug down on the counter before putting his arms up in surrender. “Or a very special man. I don’t judge.” I nodded and offered Mack the other chair at the table. To my surprise, he picked up his mug and took it, an eager look on his face. It was the first conversation we had since the earlier confrontation, and Mack seemed different somehow. His guard wasn’t up. He wasn’t defending his honor. To me, he looked like a lonely man in need of conversation.

“Her name is Brooklyn.” Randy Jones trusted Mack. Logic told me I could too, at least with minimal information.

“Brooklyn.” He spoke the name slowly, as though he was trying it on for size. “Unusual name for anyone.”

“She said it was the trail her parents went on for their first date.” Brooklyn couldn’t stand when people assumed she was named after the city in New York, but she never told them the real story. It was a badge of honor when Brooklyn told me the story of her name. She truly trusted me. “The Brooklyn Pass or something like that.” “Something like that.” Mack repeated the phrase but he was lost in a different time. A different conversation. A memory. “What does she do?”

“She’s an FBI agent.”

“A real breadwinner,” Mack responded gruffly, but there was no bite behind the words. Instead they felt sad, forlorn and worried. “You got a picture?”

Several, but Mack only needed to see one. I flipped my phone and Brooklyn’s goofy grin illuminated the screen. Mid-laugh, her eyes were squinty slits and her blonde hair flew in every direction. A wide smile showed off imperfect yet straight teeth, providing a light so real and genuine, Brooklyn herself seemed to glow.

“She’s beautiful.” Again, Mack disappeared inside his memory, and a single tear rolled down his face. He cleared his throat, regaining his composure before handing me the phone. “Reminds me of a woman I once loved?” “Once?” This wasn’t the Morgan Murphy I met in the mud room. He was a shadow of himself, smaller in stature than even his tiny frame. He looked every bit of his sixty-one years, his youthful exuberance now faded and gone.

“Her name was Mary. Was gonna marry her good and proper, til they sent me under.” The bitterness returned to his tone, fueling the bite I heard earlier in the day.

“Well it’s not too late, you know.” The Irishman in me went for a joke, trying to defuse the tension that seemed to settle in the room. “Young lad like yourself, we’ll have you back and sweeping her off her feet in no time.”

“She thinks I’m dead.” There was no joke, no lilt, no bitterness in Mack’s voice as he spoke. If anything, there was resignation as he stood from the chair, old mug firmly grasped in his hand. “Well, I’m off to bed. Get some sleep sonny. We have an early morning tomorrow.”

***

The next five days included early mornings. Mack rose by four every morning and was out the door not thirty minutes later. My lack of proper clothes slowed him the first day. Something was wrong with my coat, hat and boots, not to mention my lack of layers. It took Mack thirty minutes to find gear in my size and another ten for me to put everything on while he berated my process.

“Damn Irishmen,” he mumbled frequently and loud enough for me to hear. “Should’ve gave him whiskey and sent him to bed.” Mornings were spent gathering wood and checking traps, all in frigid, barely above zero temperatures. Mack taught me the essentials of living off the land. Food was always his top priority, and he moved with the grace and elegance of a former dancer as he walked through the forest, careful not to linger or overstay his welcome. He was a master hunter gatherer, and watching him work felt like a trip back in time.

The mornings with Mack became cathartic, an escape, almost, from the business and chaos of life. It was so easy to get lost in the high speed chase of city life. In Boston, and New York before that, I was always one of many rushing from one moment of life to the next. Days sped into years as I moved from one job to the next, rarely taking the time to enjoy life and its moments. Life was either too busy or too inconvenient to enjoy.

The mountains changed that. For the first time in my life, I truly felt small as I stood among the rocks, cliffs and valleys. To nature, my life was inconsequential. It was just another part of the circle of life. I was nothing more than a tiny human leaving temporary footprints in the snow. Both would be forgotten long after I perished, but the mountains would always be there, standing tall. It’s why Brooklyn said she kept coming back, only I never understood. Not until I stood in their majestic shadows and felt the purple orange hues of the winter sunrise on my face.

We were supposed to rest on the sixth day. Mack insisted I sleep in a bedroom, enjoy at least one night in a lousy bed. The lousy bed felt more like a lumpy potato, but it was comparable to the Marshal office couch, where I caught many a wink in my time.

A small thump woke me up from a deep dream. It was barely audible, just a subtle click and thunk of a door or window closing, but it was sneaky. Suspicion settled in my stomach, my body and mind now fully awake and processing information. Someone was doing their best to get either in or out of the house undetected, which was never a settling thought.

My socked feet were greeted by a cold, unyielding wood floor as I got out of bed to survey the situation. It was a shocking sensation, dispatching any lingering grogginess or fatigue. My senses, particularly sound, were on high alert as I listened for additional noises. Nothing was out of place. The air was filled with ambient, natural sound, indicating someone left and didn’t want to be followed.

Once clothed in thick sweater, jeans, my bullet proof vest and a worn pair of Mack’s boots, I trudged out of the cabin earlier than intended. It was not nearly as early as the other mornings during the week. The sky was a cool dove grey, with the first hints of a sunrise in the air. It was chilly, but not cold, and hopeful, as though changes were coming. Maybe not spring, but warmth would eventually invade the mountains by force.

Winter was not going away without a fight. A fresh coating of snow covered the ground, only marred by a single set of footprints leading into the forest. I followed them, carefully wedging my foot in every footpath so as not to make a second set of tracks. My feet and treads fit perfectly in each imprint, confirming my suspicions. Mack was out for an early morning stroll without me and most certainly didn’t want to be followed.

My eyes darted around the forest as I followed Mack’s path. No other living creature, human or otherwise, was out that morning. Partially filled paw prints jutted off in another direction, but that was the only other sign of life. It was me, the trees and a faint, rustling wind. The sun slowly peaked over the horizon at my back, tickling my shoulders and bare neck. It felt like I was walking through two climates as I felt my backside sweat while my nose dripped.

My ears listened for any signs of movement, but they were only filled with the occasional crunch of snow under my boots. The wind all but dissipated as I rounded the corner into a wall of trees. Every available space was filled by the green-gray, snow covered needles of evergreens or their large twisting trunks. It was a wall, nature’s way of keeping humans in their place.

I followed the footprints into the wall, careful to avoid roots, trunks and arrant branches as I moved. All the time, I watched my shadow in the rising daylight. It was swallowed by the trees as I disappeared among them, the sun and its warmth blocked by their height. It was like walking among the skyscrapers in New York, only these existed well before those were built.

The woods began to thin. Elderly trunks gave way to youthful stems and the thick branches all but disappeared. I was coming to a clearing, and I quickly diverted from the footpath. It took longer, but I reached the very edge of the tree line, careful to avoid branches and nettles, anything to avoid alerting Mack.

The man was none the wiser. He stood maybe three feet away, but he looked nothing like the man I worked with throughout the week. Mack looked frail and small standing amongst the evergreens, his face reddened from the trek.

“Hey Sammy,” he started, his voice echoing off the mountain wall. “Sorry, it’s been awhile. Have some young buck from the Marshals following me around. Good kid, that one. Still managed to give him the slip.”

I slowed and quieted my breathing. Sam was the name of Brooklyn’s da. Unspoken questions pricked at my head, the same ones that formed the day Randy Jones told me about Operation Trailblazer.

“You’d be so proud of her Sammy.” Mack’s voice cracked with emotion. He didn’t have to say her name, yet I knew it was Brooklyn. “She’s all grown up now. Looks like the spitting image of her mother. The blonde hair, green eyes. I get why you were always worried.

“She’s engaged. You’d like him. Tough as nails, good heart. He’s Irish though. That’s the only mark against him.”

Mack went on for a while, and guilt’s cold grip tugged at my heart. This was a private moment. The words and emotions were meant for Sam Pieper, and Sam alone, yet I was rooted in my spot. Unable to walk away.

“I failed you Sammy.” Mack’s tears were audible as they carefully plopped against the snow. “I promised you. I promised to be there if anything happened to you. Now you're dead, and she’s with him.”

Him. McGinty.

Mack broke. He fell to the ground and cried, the emotions too much for him to carry, but I couldn’t breath. The air was sucked out of me, not by the mountain air, but by my revelation.

I slipped out of the grove and sprinted back to the cabin, not caring about tracks or noise. Sam Pieper’s hidden file was the only thing in my mind. It never moved from my bag, concealed among other case files. Until then, I forgot about it, my mind too focused on Mack or exhausted from the long day.

I regretted never opening it.

The back door banged open as I plowed through shoulder first, not bothering with the handle. There wasn’t enough time. It felt like a ticking time bomb. My time with Mack was numbered, and he was the only person who could save Brooklyn.

I reached the room and reverently plucked the file out of my bag. It held the answers I desperately sought. My butt fell to the bed as I opened the manilla flap.

My mind absorbed the words, processed the information, put the pieces together as though my body didn’t exist. The two entities functioned separately. I felt the rough, wrinkled papers under my hands, heard my anxious, rapid breathing in my ears, and it didn’t feel real. I didn’t feel alive. My body, my heart essentially, was shocked into submission, and my mind took over.

Then I heard the door click. My legs kicked in gear, raising my body from the bed. Moving me toward the kitchen. Two sets of feet plodded down the hall. One set shuffled, the other prowled. There was the sound of a metallic zipper, the ruffling of a coat, the knocking of empty boots meeting wood. I processed this, yet the facts, the words from the folder ran through my mind like a computer code as I rounded the corner.

“Hey Leprechaun,” Mack smiled wide, oblivious to my earlier intrusion. His voice was overly cheery, and he was trying to overcompensate for his earlier break down. “Caught the sunrise without ya this morning. Can’t sleep. Getting old sucks.”

I didn’t say anything. I just stood there, watching the old man unravel the scarf from his neck. A part of me felt betrayed that he could stay hidden away all this time, knowing what McGinty was capable of.

“We need to talk,” my voice was threateningly low, but it did the trick. Mack looked up and swallowed, attempting to maintain his demeanor.

“About what?” Mack hung his jacket and turned his back to me, headed for the kitchen. “If it’s about the move, I already told you, I ain’t going nowhere.”

I let him walk away, “It’s about Sam Pieper and Nathaniel McGinty.”

Mack stilled, his arm midway toward the kitchen cabinet. His shoulders rose and fell before his head dropped in resignation. My heart rate spiked for a moment when I saw his face turn red, and I jumped slightly when he slammed his ceramic red mug on the countertop.

“I don’t have to tell you anything Marshal.” His spit flew across the room, landing squarely on my chest. “I don’t owe you or the FBI or the Marshals or whoever anything. I worked that case for thirty years and what do they do? They kill me off and ship me off to rot.”

“Operation Trailblazer?”

“You don’t know anything eejit.” Mack looked at me with the hardened glare of a long term prisoner. The hint of an accent played on his lips, more Bostonian than anything, as he turned to leave the kitchen. “And you don’t want to.”

“She’s under with him right now.” Guilt gripped my chest, and it manifested as desperation in my voice. The last thing I wanted was to bring Brooklyn into the conversation, but the card was dealt. I played my hand, and Mack responded. He froze in place, listening, but not reacting. “She’s not smuggling drugs across the Rockies either. She’s in his circle.”

“That was her choice,” Mack’s voice was rough, the words breaking out through gritted teeth.

“She’s in trouble Mack.” The words were from my gut, nowhere else. I woke up nearly every morning with a sense of dread directly related to Brooklyn. Nightmares plagued my sleep, and I knew something was wrong. She wasn’t in trouble yet, but she would be. “I need to know what happened.”

“I wasn’t there, that’s what happened.” Twenty plus years of emotions erupted in Mack as he stood in that hallway. “I was supposed to be at the grocery store. We set up a meet, but I was late. I was too late.”

Tears streaked down Mack’s face, leaving behind a bright sheen on dampness. Thirteen years had passed since Sam Pieper’s murder, but Mack never spoke these words. He never admitted his guilt. He let it encase and harden him.

“It’s not too late for Brooklyn,” I cooed, softening my voice. “You can save her, Mack.”

He looked up at me, hope and sadness mixed in his eyes. He couldn’t save his best friend, but maybe he could save his daughter. That’s what I was hoping for.

“Sam was my best friend.” The story flowed out of Mack’s mouth as though it was just sitting there, waiting for a listener. “Met in Arizona thirty years ago. We were a duo. Hot shot FBI agent fresh out of the academy and the Park Ranger.”

The tale was honest and riveting, the details piercingly clear in Mack’s mind. His voice transported me back to a different time, a different place. A hot Arizona summer where Sam found the first abandoned hikers pack filled with an assortment of drugs. The winter evening in Montana when Sam and Mack met Kenna, Sam’s future wife. The afternoon Brooklyn was born, the day Kenna died. The weekend Sam was relocated to Yellowstone, then again to Rocky Mountain National. Every major milestone for the Pieper’s I lived through Mack’s eyes, as each one seemed deeply intertwined with Operation Trailblazer.

Until there was no more life to see. When the drugs shifted from Yellowstone to Rocky Mountain National, Sam followed, but Mack stayed put under FBI orders. He was fully undercover in McGinty’s Yellowstone operations and there was plenty investigating to do on that end. According to the story, Sam was given a new handler but never trusted him. He kept in touch with Mack, using a secret language to share information about life and the case.

“He called me one day, said we needed to meet.” Two hours after the start, Mack’s voice was hoarse and overworked. He coughed lightly before continuing. “Said he knew who McGinty’s mole was.”

“That was the day before he was killed.” Mack nodded and sniffed, a fresh set of tears in his eyes. “I left at eight in the morning. Plenty of time to make the meet, but there was an accident at the front end of town. Some stupid asshole hit an elk with his truck.”

I nodded. Mack’s story matched with the police reports Boyd compiled. The newspaper dubbed it the strangest day in Estes Park history. A man hit an elk with his truck, which wasn’t unusual, except the herd was on the other side of the mountain. A block in town lost power for no apparent reason shortly after, and Sam Pieper was murdered within the hour.

“I think about it every day. If I left five minutes earlier, if I took another way into town, maybe Sam would be alive.”

“Did you ever find out what he wanted to tell you?”

Mack shook his head solemnly, “The police were already there by the time I got to the scene. I couldn’t risk flashing my badge and being seen, not if the mole was there. Two days later, FBI fakes my death and put me in hiding. Got away though, and been living here ever since.”

My eyes rolled in their sockets, but I smiled. Mack claimed Randy Jones was his case worker when he was first placed in witness protection. Since he had ties in Boston and most of the western United States, they relocated him to Texas, where his brashness and paranoia made him very few friends. After two years, Mack gave the Marshals the slip, sent Randy a postcard with a series of numbers, and moved into the cabin. Forty-niner and Randy found him there fifteen years later, and the former never left.

“So no one knows who the mole is?”

“I’ll tell you this sonny,” Mack leaned forward, his azure eyes meeting my own. “This isn’t a new threat. This guy is as old as McGinty. Been with him a long time. He’s in those pages in your folder. I guarantee it. You just gotta find him.”

And I tried.

Randy radioed in and reported no current threat on Mack’s life. Forty-niner would continue to monitor the area, and if any issues arose, I would be sent to Colorado immediately. Mack joked my death was near. I knew too much, and I’d spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder, wondering if it was that day.

But I didn’t care. I had a new purpose, a new mission. During the flight from Denver to Boston, I scoured every page, every note and every word in Sam Pieper’s dossier, looking for McGinty’s mole, but I never found him. Not until we landed, and the clouds parted. The facts became clear, and I understood what Mack was trying to teach me in the woods. Even the obvious can go overlooked if it only operates in the background.

A constant buzz thudded against my leg as I returned to Boston and civilization. When I turned my phone on at the Denver airport, I was instantly greeted by over seventy unread text messages, twenty of which were from Brooklyn, one hundred unread emails and a handful of missed calls. My absence did not go unnoticed as I expected, and I chill went through my spine when I noticed several of the calls were from the Boston FBI field office.

I reached my waiting car when it buzzed again, an unknown number popping up on the screen.

“Hello?” My heartrate spiked, but I worked to steady my voice.

“Declan?” An out of breath, deep voice filled my ear. “It’s Jackson. We need to talk.” My beating heart rate didn’t subside. It doubled as bile pushed its way up my throat. Then, the puzzle pieces clicked. The clouds parted. Jackson’s voice dislodged the final clue nudging at my subconscious.

I knew who the mole was.

“I’m on my way to Brooklyn’s.” I announced, rerouting my car as fast as possible. The plan was to go to the office and debrief with Jones, but Brooklyn’s safety was more important. “Meet me at Nanny’s in an hour. Back booth.” Jackson agreed and signed off while I sped for the apartment. My adrenaline spiked and my breathing was shallow as I drove. If I had the government issued SUV, I would have turned on the siren and lights with no shame. If my hypothesis was correct, Brooklyn was in danger, and no one knew how much.

I pulled into a spot outside Brooklyn’s building and sprinted up the stairs two at a time. It was the middle of a Sunday afternoon. Cheers erupted from nearby apartments as I ran past, the occupants celebrating a Patriots touchdown, but Brooklyn’s hallway was empty. It was quiet, too quiet, as I moved down the hallway, gun drawn but carefully shielded by my side. Good people, families mostly, lived on Brooklyn’s floor, and I did not want to spook anyone if they vacated their apartments.

No one did. Ambient noise filled my ears as I reached Brooklyn’s apartment. The door was slightly ajar as a sliver of light danced across my boot. My chest rose as I sucked in a deep breath, steadying my emotions. I internally admonished myself. It was foolish to reveal my real destination to Jackson, and now it was too late.

I raised my gun to my face and nudged the door with my foot. Slowly I entered the apartment, careful to avoid the dead spot in her floor. The darkness was stark. Every light in the apartment was off and every window covered. The rooms were filled with an eerie, unnatural darkness. A pit settled in my stomach as a loud click reverberated off the walls.

I pivoted and pointed my gun toward the sound. A single lamp in the living room glowed a soft orange light, illuminating the face of a man I recognized. Until that moment, I only ever saw it in photos and mugshots. The crop of thick brown hair similar to mine had greyed slightly, and there was a darkness in his eyes that a camera couldn’t capture, but he was real. He was there, sitting in my favorite chair, a smug smile tugging at his face.

Nathaniel McGinty.

“Hello son.”