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.

Three years later…

Brooklyn Pieper stood at the base of the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s New York Field Office, its long shadow granting a moment of anonymity. Sterile on the inside, the granite outer wall provided cool relief to the relentless summer sun as Brooklyn leaned her body against the wall. A summer breeze lightly lifted the stray tendrils of hair, though most of it was contained in a thick fishtail braid.

It was an anniversary for the young woman. Three years to the day passed since she discovered the cabin library in Nevada, which meant it was nearly three years to the day since McGinty’s death. The Brooklyn standing in the alley, watching the New York scene, was a different person almost, forever changed by her victory over the notorious Boston mobster.

Some strangers noticed the tall beautiful woman standing in the shadows, but they walked on after a quick, New York minute threat assessment. Brooklyn Pieper with her long blonde hair and striking green eyes wasn’t a risk to them. She was just another woman, probably a wanna be actress or model or one of those types.

And that’s exactly how Brooklyn wanted it.

She surveyed the scene, taking in the sights. People milled about, most annoyed and in a rush. She picked up sprinklings of conversation, the tail end of business deals gone run and Wall Street risks gone horribly wrong. There were disgruntled businessmen and women, awestruck tourists and even a pair of starstruck lovers walking through narrow crowds.

Brooklyn smiled from her hiding place. What she would give to be young and naive again. To be an eighteen-year-old whose toughest decision was where to go for college. Who knows nothing of mobsters and the monsters that wait at every turn, hiding in plain sight to abduct their next victim.

“Brooklyn? Brooklyn Pieper?”

Brooklyn turned her head and lifted her tall body off the building. In her moment of reflection, the scene in front of her changed. A new throng of people milled about the sidewalk, marching on with their lives as though Brooklyn didn’t exist. But someone did notice her. Someone Brooklyn noticed a long time ago, when no one else acknowledged her existence.

“Susannah?” Disbelief coated every syllable of Brooklyn’s response, though she wasn’t all that surprised by her old classmate’s sudden appearance. Brooklyn was standing at that corner for a reason, and it had nothing to do with the towering government building. It had everything to do with the quaint little gallery across the street.

“Brooklyn!” Susannah rushed over to Brooklyn’s side of the sidewalk before coming to an awkward halt. “Oh my God, it really is you.”

Shock and awe registered in Susannah’s face, and Brooklyn understood the feeling. Somehow, Susannah was smaller than Brooklyn remembered, her petite frame no bigger than a life sized toothpick. Everything else about her physical description was nearly the same, though. Susannah still styled her hair in a pixie cut, though this time, it gave her the vibe of an edgy fairy rather than an angsty teenager, and she still wore the leather jacket, now weathered and worn from years of love.

“Susannah. It’s. Wow,” Brooklyn stammered through her answer, though it wasn’t as much for show as she expected. This entire meeting was manufactured. Brooklyn wanted to see her old classmate again, run into her randomly, check in and see how she was doing, but her composure evaporated with Susannah’s sudden appearance.

“What are you doing here?” Susannah shouted the words over the throng of the city, her voice reaching shrill levels of pitch. It was a sound Brooklyn wasn’t all that familiar with. She remembered Susannah’s voice as light and whispery, much like a light breeze.

“I’m here for work.” Brooklyn explained. Immediately Susannah’s eyes fluttered to the building behind Brooklyn’s head, and she leapt at the chance to move the conversation forward. “What are you doing here?”

Susannah beamed up at Brooklyn, pride etched in every feature on her face. “I actually own the gallery across the street. I’m an artist. Mostly paintings and drawings. Stuff like that.”

Brooklyn knew. She read Susannah’s story. She knew about the art gallery and the little cafe Susannah owned. She knew about Susannah’s early success and the drawing that made her famous. Brooklyn knew all that, and yet, to see Susannah’s joy on her face, to see the happiness she finally possessed, was infectious. It was one thing to know someone was happy, but to see it was an entirely different, uplifting experience. Susannah was finally living life as her true authentic self, a far cry from the Colorado teenager of Brooklyn’s memory.

“Babe, there you are.” Before Brooklyn could comment, a new woman spontaneously stepped into the conversation, her voice carried on the same breeze that ruffled Brooklyn’s hair earlier. It was honey and dark chocolate, smooth and soothing, with a slight hint of sweetness underneath, and her body was a physical representation of that. Dark, ebony brown hair cascaded well past the woman’s shoulders. Piercing ice blue eyes hid behind fashionable cat-eye glasses, and an athletically toned body was perfectly accentuated by a cherry red pencil skirt and cream white blouse. “We gotta go. Hans is gonna be at the gallery in twenty minutes.”

Susannah cleared her throat, silencing the woman who was, until that moment, oblivious to Brooklyn’s presence.

“Brooklyn, this is my partner, Ray.” The woman’s blue eyes sliced over to Brooklyn, appraising her appearance. “Ray, this is Brooklyn Pieper, an old friend from high school.”

Recognition and a hint of mischief lit in Ray’s playful eyes as she held her hand in Brooklyn’s direction, “So you’re the famous Brooklyn Pieper. Susannah’s told me so much about you.”

“Pleasure,” Brooklyn extended her hand, her eyebrow arched high into her forehead. “Hopefully the things were mostly good.”

“Oh yes,” Ray gave Brooklyn’s hand a firm shake before dropping it with a flourish. “Surely you must know you’re basically a celebrity in our house, after everything.”

“Everything?”

“You mean, you don’t know?” Brooklyn feigned confusion with a noncommittal nod, opting to stay silent as Ray looked at her stunned girlfriend. “She doesn’t know?” “Doesn’t know what?”

“Anyway,” Susannah injected herself back in the conversation, quick to curtail it from tailspinning. “Brooklyn, we gotta go but I’m having a show tomorrow night. I would love for you to come. Maybe we could get lunch beforehand?”

“That would be great,” Brooklyn tried not to sound overly enthusiastic, but she failed miserably by her own standards. “I mean, if that works in your schedule that is. I don’t want to take away from prep.”

“Wow,” Ray cut in before Susannah, a look of approval on her face. “Beautiful and considerate. I wish you’d introduced us sooner.”

“See you tomorrow Brooklyn.” Susannah latched onto her much taller partner’s arm and steered in in the opposite direction. “Just stop by the gallery whenever you have time for lunch.”

Brooklyn smiled and waved in response, content to watch the happy couple as they disappeared, arm and arm, into the building across the street. Until that moment, Brooklyn had never seen a happily ever after in person. She read about them. Watched them on tv and in movies, but never witnessed one herself. Not like that. Sure, she saved people on a regular basis, rescued kidnapped loved ones and reunited them, but this was different. There was struggle and turmoil in Susannah’s backstory, but it wasn’t manufactured by any criminal. There weren’t irreparable scars caused by pain one could never forget. It was just pure, true happiness, something Susannah deserved and fought for her entire life.

Yet, there wasn’t time to watch and linger. Brooklyn had bigger fish to fry, so she followed Susannah and Ray before ducking into the neighboring coffee shop, joining the long line of patrons waiting for mid-morning coffee. It was an artists cafe owned by none other than Susannah, her way of giving back to the community that nurtured her post high school.

A buzz emitted from Brooklyn’s jacket pocket, prompting her to pull out her phone. Brooklyn barely went anywhere without a jacket or long sleeves to cover the scars from her encounter with McGinty. It wasn’t that she was ashamed. They just prompted too many questions from bystanders.

A text from Jackson lit up Brooklyn’s phone screen. While Brooklyn turned down the job with the BAU and left the FBI, Jackson accepted and moved to D.C. looking for a fresh start of his own. He started with the unit’s crimes against children team before eventually moving to work with serial crimes. Brooklyn, in turn, joined the private sector but occasionally consulted on a select few BAU cases.

This was one of those cases. “Yellow Rose struck again,” Jackson wrote, option for the English version of the assassin’s nickname rather than the French term coined by Interpol. “Vermont. Guy was part of the sex trafficking operation she seems to be targeting.”

“I can help whoever is next.” Brooklyn pocketed the phone again and approached the counter with purpose. She tried to go back to the FBI after McGinty, but the work felt disjointed. The image of the FBI was muddied in her mind. She knew how they operated, and after Boss’ plea bargain was made official, Brooklyn struggled to go back to work, even with therapy. She was too angry, too hurt, too broken to continue.

“I’ll have a medium hot chocolate please,” Brooklyn’s Midwest accent stood out against the harshness of New York. “With milk and dark chocolate if available.”

“Coming right up.” The little barista bounded back behind the counter and started working on Brooklyn’s drink. Steam hissed through the air and Brooklyn noticed the acoustic guitar playing over the speakers. It was the quintessential artisan cafe, from the painting and drawing on the wall to the accompanying sounds of conversation and light music, perfect for a sunny summer day.

“Here’s your hot chocolate miss.” Brooklyn took the tall white mug in her hand and let the warmth wash over her body. It was moment of much needed reprieve after the day of travel, and she broke it only to reach in another pocket for money.

“Oh, someone already paid for you.” The young barista fought her exhaustion to give Brooklyn a genuine smile. Deep maroon circles rimmed her eyes, and Brooklyn wondered if it was from lack of sleep or some other type of plague. “The gentleman at the corner table.”

With a shocked expression, Brooklyn glanced over her shoulder, but a pillar obstructed her view of the corner table. She thanked the barista and moved to see her secret benefactor, determined to thank him in person.

A wide smile spread across Brooklyn’s lips when her green eyes locked on the man in the corner table. Though not dark, he was certainly tall and handsome. His thick, dark brown hair was fashionably tousled, unruly yet attractive to every woman in the shop. The first hints of a salt and pepper beard dotted his sharp jawline. He even left a flower on the table, a single white rose, its pure petals glittering in the sun. It was his eyes, though, that caught Brooklyn’s attention. They beckoned her like a siren, daring her to sit in the chair opposite him.

Brooklyn took the dare, approaching the table with a sly smile and confident stride. She knew the man waiting for her. He was two ahead of her in line and ordered a medium earl grey tea with no room for additives, but Brooklyn knew him long before the chance meeting at the cafe.

His name was Declan O’Reilly. Well, that was his name. These days, he went by Declan O’Shaughnessy.

“Mo anam Cara,” The lilt of an Irish accent greeted Brooklyn’s ears as she reached the table, spreading a fire through her body. “What took you so long?”

Brooklyn rolled her eyes and reached into her jacket pocket. As she sat, she gave the lonely white rose its companion, a brilliantly yellow rose, more radiant than the smile Declan brought to her face or the engagement ring wrapped around her left ring finger.

“So, who’s next on our list?”

El Fin