Ezra cast a tired eye around his apartment. It didn't have all that much in it to begin with, and now, with most of his belongings packed away, sparse didn't begin to describe it. He picked up the one glass he'd left available and the five-year-old scotch. If you're going to get hammered, it might as well be worth the effort.
The warm breeze on the balcony was calming, which was something he needed right now. This view, this kind of evening was his version of perfection. It was one of only a very small handful of things he was going to miss about this town.
"No," he thought to himself, "that's not entirely fair." No need to blame the city for the transgressions of a few idiotic federal bureaucrats who couldn't come up with an original thought if their worthless little lives depended on it. Much easier to resort to the tried and true and frightfully clichéd perception that had haunted Ezra from the moment he abandoned the family 'business' to enter law enforcement instead.
In retrospect, it had been an incredibly foolish choice, and he still couldn't say exactly what had motivated it. He'd be lying if he failed to accept that seeing the look of abject horror on his mother's face hadn't factored into the choice.
"Ezra, how could you even contemplate anything so ludicrous? In the first place, there is simply no money to be made in the field, and equally important is the shame you will bring on the family name."
He smiled now at the comment, although at the time he been far less amused.
"The family name, mother dear, has been tainted by thieves, liars, conmen, scalawags, and general reprobates since Noah led the animals onto the ark, and there was probably a Standish there trying to sell him travel insurance. The family name is far and away the largest hurdle I shall have to overcome if there is to be the remotest chance that I can make this effort viable."
With the blessings and support of not a living soul, Ezra had contacted the only man in law enforcement he felt he could talk to. Agent Williams had used him a few years earlier as part of a sting operation against a gambling ring that was cheating students at the university Ezra attended. Well, that he was registered at. Attending classes rarely seemed to fit into his schedule.
The experience had been an unexpected rush for Ezra. The challenge, the need to think on his feet. The somewhat surprising satisfaction of the job itself. And it didn't hurt that the case provided a secondary sense of justice for him. This organization was both vicious and pedestrian, and in his experience and opinion, if you couldn't put some flare and imagination into a profession as time honoured as gambling, you shouldn't be in the game.
Williams had told him at the time that he had the makings of a top undercover man, giving Ezra one of the longest laughs he had ever had. He finally managed to shake his head in total disbelief before walking away. Three years later, he was ready to reconsider. He never did ask how many favours were used, how many strings were pulled, to get him into the FBI. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. After slogging through the dreadfully boring routine of training and accreditation, not to mention multiple security interrogations, he'd found himself a federal law enforcement officer. He couldn't believe how much he enjoyed it. And it wasn't long until word of his natural chameleon-like tendencies spread throughout the agency, creating an ongoing demand for his services.
Granted, there were a few hiccups along the way. There were those who thought he had come too far, and had done so too fast. That opinion was especially prevalent in those who had been stars at the Bureau until he appeared. So, when a bust went bad and cash went missings the rumours started. Just a few whispers, nothing to worry about Williams had assured him. And Ezra wasn't worried. He done nothing wrong.
A few months later a suspect insinuated Ezra had tried to shake him down for a bribe. A little incentive to look the other way. Again, there was, of course, no proof. But the seeds of doubt previously planted now began to grow. The consensus: No wonder he fit in so well with the criminal element he was regularly infiltrating. He was one of them. Word leaked out on his family background, the less than savoury details becoming fodder for the gossip mills.
And what about the lifestyle he led? Fine wine, fancy cars, penthouse apartment. All on an FBI salary? No, things all made sense to the small minds of the FBI hierarchy. It wouldn't have been that hard for anyone to discover Ezra had amassed a tidy little nest egg in his gambling days. Properly invested, it now afforded him the luxuries he should so cherished. But why let an annoying detail like the facts get in the way of a good frame up.
Finally, the rumours and innuendos were too overwhelming to be ignored. His testimony was no longer wanted in court. His assignments dried up to the point most days were spent basically counting paperclips. And, when he did have a job, the scorn and contempt from his coworkers was palpable.
The last straw had come when backup failed to arrive in time to save him from a nasty beating at the hands of the targets of his investigation. He lay in a hospital bed for the three days with no visitors. Even Agent Williams stayed away. He did get to enjoy the company of the internal affairs investigator, who not only wouldn't place blame on the negligent agents involved, but strongly suggested the injuries were the result of nothing more than a falling out between thieves. Ezra had left the hospital and gone straight to the Bureau office to hand in his resignation.
Now, a week later, he stood looking out over the city, finishing off his third drink of the evening and still trying to decide where he'd go from here. The prospect of hearing his mother's inevitable "I told you so" was definitely not appealing.
He frowned, turning his head to look into the room at the sound of a knock at the door. What was the point of living in a secure building if unexpected guests could simply appear at the door? He reluctantly headed over, looking up to the small monitor that showed him who was disturbing his evening.
He didn't recognize the face, but he had no doubt the man was a cop of some description. He carried himself as such. Cool, assertive, with a good measure of intimidation that simply came naturally. The wardrobe was unimaginative – basic black head to toe, but it did manage to make a statement. Ezra debated for about a second whether or not he should just ignore him, but quickly concluded this was a man unlikely to just disappear. So, he opened the door.
"You're Ezra Standish." It was not a question.
"Yes. Thank you, but I had already made that determination. Would you care to try to guess my age or weight? I'm sure I can find some sort of prize if you are successful."
"They warned me you were a smart-ass."
Ezra raised the glass and saluted. "They were correct."
The man didn't make a move. "You gonna invite me in?"
"I wasn't aware I had a choice. Or are you one of those night creatures that cannot enter without permission? I've seen most of the cinematic interpretations of the Dracula legend, and your attire certainly fits the criteria." Ezra waved him in with a small bow. "By all means, enter."
His uninvited guest walked deliberately, sizing up the environs as he entered the living space. "So, you're planning on leaving Atlanta. Got a new location in mind?"
"I cannot ascertain where that is your concern. Perhaps it would help if I knew who the hell you are." That got a small smile from the stranger.
"Name is Chris Larabee."
Ezra raised an eyebrow in response. This was an unforeseen complication. He knew Larabee, at least by reputation. There were few on the honest side of a badge who didn't know about the ATF agent. Larabee, and his team, were in the top 1% of law enforcement. They had an arrest and conviction rate that doubled the rest of the agency. The rest of any agency.
Ezra ran through his mental Rolodex. Buck Wilmington was the second in command. Hell of a lot smarter than anyone gave him credit for, which made him a tremendous asset. Vin Tanner was one of the best sharpshooters not currently wearing a military uniform. Josiah Sanchez was their profiler. The FBI had tried to lure him away more than once, he was just that good. Nathan Jackson had the street smarts to know his way around. And, if memory served, was a top-notch field medic as well. Ezra struggled for a second to remember the sixth man. Youngest one on the team. Dunne. First name escaped him at the moment, but he did know that if there was anything this fellow could not do with the computer, then no one had figured it out.
Ezra looked up to see Larabee staring at him, not blinking.
"So, you're familiar with me?"
"No need for false modesty Mr. Larabee. Excuse me, Agent Larabee. Your reputation, and that of your team, is quite well-known. What I am at a loss to ascertain is what you are doing in Atlanta, and more specifically, at my home."
He could imagine nothing he had done to run afoul of the ATF. Of course, he had done nothing to run afoul of the FBI either, yet he was up the proverbial creek with them. No reason to expect this was any different. He couldn't help but wonder when the DEA, ICE, and Lord knows what other alphabet soup group would be knocking at his door. He felt a fleeting moment of hysteria creep up on him, and quickly swallowed the remain scotch he still held tightly in his hand.
"Was hoping to have a little chat with you."
"I had not planned on entertaining this evening Mr. – Agent Larabee."
"Chris will do just fine."
"No, it won't. As I was saying, I am not set for company. Don't even have another glass available for you." Ezra tipped most of what was left of his bottle into the glass he held.
"Looks like a glass isn't the only thing not available. Don't worry about it, this won't take long. And do me a favour? Don't drink anymore of that until after we talk. I'd like you to be relatively sober."
"As long as it is only a relatively, I can comply. Which of my perceived transgressions would you like to discuss?"
Chris was caught off guard by the question. "Transgressions? I'm not here about anything you did wrong Standish."
"Well it certainly can't be about something I did right. There have been far too few such occurrences recently." Ezra decided he might not be quite as sober as he thought he was. Perhaps sitting down would be a good idea. He headed back towards his chair.
"Okay. I'm going to start over here. I came to Atlanta from Denver when word got to us that you had left the FBI."
"I see good news travels quickly in our community."
"I'm here to offer you a job." Ezra had reached the chair, but turned so quickly at Larabee's comment that he dropped to the floor. The ATF agent was at his side instantly.
"Well shit. Didn't see that coming. You okay?"
Ezra stared. "Tell me Mr. Larabee, is there a history of insanity in your family, or is this a personal aberration?"
The man actually smiled again. "Neither one Standish. I want you on my team."
"In the name of all the saints, why?"
"Would have figured that was obvious. We are the best at what we do, but we have a gap in the team. You would be the perfect fit."
"Are you in need of an albatross? An encumbrance? A scourge on the face of Lady Justice?"
It was Chris's turn to stare in disbelief. "That's what the FBI idiots are saying? God. I knew they were dumber than dirt, but I had no idea it was this bad."
Ezra settled onto the edge of his seat. He still held onto the glass, which thanks to his years of experience had not lost a single drop when he fell. He looked into it, unwilling to meet Larabee's eyes.
"Standish, we want you because you are the best at what you do. Far as I can figure, you're likely the most natural undercover man ever to carry a badge. We are a team in need of that skill set."
"I ask again: are you in need of an agent who cannot be trusted? Who cannot appear in court without having his credibility challenged? Who cannot possibly provide you with any admissible evidence?"
"So, you did what you were accused of? Stole, took bribes, put lives in danger? You're as crooked as they say?"
Ezra stood a little too quickly, but managed to keep his balance. "Fuck you." He would've taken a swing at him if he had the focus to do so.
Chris smirked. "Yeah, that's what I figured. Since you haven't done it before, I don't expect you will now." Larabee pulled a business card from his pocket and placed it on the end table. "Name, number, address of the office in Denver. Need an answer by Monday." He turned and left, not waiting for Ezra to respond.
Ezra wove his way towards the door, the shock and alcohol playing equal parts in his discombobulation. He watched the hallway monitor as the elevator door closed. Was that real? Was any of that conversation real?
The card he picked up showed it wasn't a dream or some bizarre hallucination. He'd been offered a job. A job in - he looked at the card - Denver. Denver? Really? He glanced out the window, remembering the warm breeze he'd been enjoying earlier. "Well that won't be happening there," he reminded himself. "That's one mark in the no column."
He sat again, placing the last untouched drink on the table. Surely there were more reasons than inclement weather to reject this ridiculous proposal.
Well, first and far and away foremost were the reasons he had presented to this Larabee fellow. Ezra had no desire to try to do his job haunted by accusations. He had already learned of the perils of operating when surrounded by men who neither trusted nor respected him. He shifted in the seat, aware of the discomfort of broken ribs still on the mend. And why would these men, this team, trust him? They had to be aware of the accusations. Clearly Larabee was. Protests aside, the man could not dismiss all the speculation out of hand.
But the job had been offered. He'd come all the way to Atlanta to do so. There was no logical reason behind that action that ever Ezra could see.
He had no idea how long he sat in the chair, mulling over the options, outcomes, considerations and possibilities. No matter how he looked at it, no matter what criteria he used to review it, it simply made no sense. It was a ridiculous suggestion.
It was, at best, a fool's errand. Not just a detour on the road to a better future, but a detour that could be, at the very least, a life altering and quite possibly life-threatening.
When he slowly came to the awareness that is a significant time had passed, he stood and stretched carefully. The glass on the table beside him was glistening with condensation from the melting of the ice. It would leave a ring on the table. Well, it was all rented furniture, and once he left on Sunday, it really wouldn't matter. He picked up the glass, considered for a moment whether or not to drink the warm and watered-down beverage and decided against the action.
He was a little surprised to realize he'd made up his mind. He picked up the phone, punching in the number on the card. As expected, his call went to voicemail. ""Mr. Larabee, you are either extraordinarily clever, astonishingly naïve or certifiably insane to endeavour to conscript me into your esteemed and decidedly skilled ensemble. I cannot help but contemplate how much time shall pass before one of us laments what I am about to say. I accept your offer." As he hung up the phone, he paused to wonder if there was anywhere in Atlanta he would be able to purchase a warmer jacket.
M7-M7-M7-M7-M7-M7-M7
TBC
