The entire floor of the Major Crimes Unit was a bustling hive of activity. Detectives were clustered in various parts of the bullpen discussing the most up-to-date information. A tactical team was briefing in Gil's office as they geared up, attaching knee pads, elbow pads, and vests. In the conference room, Gil and Malcolm were combing over files and firing questions at J.T., the way a student might prep for an exam.
"Your last prison stint?" Gil quizzed.
"Twenty-three months in Sing Sing: drug trafficking and assault, been out for three months," J.T. responded.
"Cell mate's name?" Gil continued.
"Warren Campbell."
Malcolm jumped in, "Current head of the One-Nines?"
"Ezra Bennet."
"His number two?"
"Luca Morales."
Gil flipped a few pages in the file he was reading, "Club name and password?"
"Diablo. Password: Genghis,"
Malcolm grinned at the password. So humble, he chuckled inwardly.
"How long has Bennet owned the club?" the lieutenant asked.
"Four years."
Malcolm watched J.T. as he rattled off answer after correct answer. They'd been prepping his cover for over a week now. Drilling every single detail over and over. Dani had been under with the One-Nines for seventeen days, taking over as club manager at Diablo after the previous manager was "anonymously" turned in for having a vastly outdated work visa. Not the NYPD's fault, but they were more than happy to use the opportunity to get one of their own inside one of the biggest heroin distributions the city has ever seen.
The One-Nines, AKA the One-Niners or Niners, were one of the most violent gangs in the city. Their primary livelihood was a heroin empire built from the ground up by leader, Ezra Bennet. The Niners had their hands in a few other cookie jars as well, weapons and ammunition, human trafficking, anything that Ezra deemed profitable and lucrative at the time. While all of this was, indeed, abhorrent, it wasn't what pushed the brass into green-lighting their team's undercover op.
In the past month, three NYPD officers had been murdered in cold blood. Almost every precinct in the city had people working the case. They knew the One-Niners were responsible, but ever after four weeks of investigating, they couldn't find a way to connect them to the killings.
Malcolm continued to test J.T., "Bennet's wife's name?"
"Joslynn: arrested a month ago in a sting set up by Special Ops, currently awaiting trial in Lincoln Correctional, five months pregnant."
"Definitely the catalyst for the killing spree," Gil murmured. "Your last name?"
"Walker," J.T. answered.
Another detective rushed into the conference room with a worried look on her face. She handed Gil a piece of paper apologetically, and excused herself. Malcolm and J.T. watched their boss intently as his eyes zipped back and forth over the words.
He skimmed the document quickly, "Shit."
"What's up, boss?" Before J.T. could finish the question, Gil was handing him the paper. The detective read it over and then proceeded to throw it at the table in front of him. He placed his hands on the back of the chair in front of him, paused for a second, and then picked the chair up and slammed it down on the floor. "Damn it!"
"You're out J.T.. We can't send you in." Gil ran his hands through his hair.
Malcolm shifted his gaze between his boss and his partner, quizzically, "What did I miss?" He picked the document up off of the table and read it as Gil explained.
"Updated intel. Damian Mitchell is Bennet's newest addition to his personal security team. J.T. has arrested him twice. He's got a laundry list of offenses."
"Assault and domestic violence mostly," J.T. elaborated. "Sprinkle in some minor drug possessions here and there. Every time we thought we had him on something substantial, the victims would either drop the charges, because he threatened loved ones, or his high-priced lawyer would bargain his sentence down to months at best."
"None of that matters, though," Gil added, exasperated. "We have to scrap this." He rubbed his forehead with his hand, clearly flustered about what they should do now.
"Boss, we're not going to get another chance like this." J.T. advised. "We've got the ammo stock. We've put in so much groundwork. There's gotta be something we can do." Malcolm watched as Gil absent-mindedly paced the length of the conference room. Meanwhile J.T. was obviously, and understandably aggravated that all the effort he had put into preparing for this op had just gone down the drain. "Unbelievable," he huffed.
Gil tried to placate his detective. "I get it J.T.. No one is more disappointed about this than I am. But our hands are tied here. You can't walk straight into Mitchell."
"But I can," Malcolm replied without hesitation.
The two men stared at Malcolm. J.T.'s face was a mask of pure shock, while Gil simply eyed Malcolm skeptically, neither of them responding to his offer. The silence lasted so long that Malcolm started to think they actually hadn't heard him. He was about to offer a second time when Gil finally acknowledged him with an unyielding, "No."
Malcolm crossed the room and leaned over, bracing himself on the table opposite his mentor, "Why not? I know the cover from top to bottom." He gestured to the stacks of files they'd been quizzing J.T. over for days.
"Well, for starters, you're not an NYPD officer," Gil retorted.
"But I am a consultant," Malcolm held up his index finger as though this fact would immediately sway Gil. The lieutenant merely furrowed his eyebrows, not buying the pitch.
"You know, he has a point," J.T. noted. Malcolm's eyes widened in surprise at the assist from the detective. J.T. turned to him, "I know. I'm just as shocked as you are." He returned his focus back to Gil. "I mean, let's be honest, Bright probably knows the cover better than I do."
Malcolm smiled appreciatively and opened his hands up as though J.T.'s endorsement had settled it.
"No." While Gil's response was the same, the force behind its delivery had weakened. Malcolm took the opportunity to continue his angle.
"I can do this, Gil. You know I can. Hell, getting into the killers' heads and manipulating them is literally my job description." He straightened up and awaited Gil's response. When he gave none, Malcolm resumed, "How long until the next officer is murdered? They all have families, children. Let me help you catch these guys."
"Even if I wanted to, Bright, which I don't, I can't send a civilian on an NYPD op. End of story."
"Then restructure. Don't call me a U.C., call me an informant," Malcolm countered, crossing his arms, quite proud of his work around.
J.T. grinned. The profiler had him there; they used civilian informants to aid with narcotics deals and sting ops all the time. Gil glared at him and he quickly dropped the smirk.
Malcolm anxiously awaited Gil's next attempt to shut his idea down, counter-arguments teed up, ready to launch. Instead, their boss silently turned and walked out of the conference room. Malcolm looked at J.T., who shrugged, just as confused as he was. They watched as Gil walked to the coffee station, made himself a new cup, returned to the room, and leaned against the wall.
"I don't like this. At all." He sighed as he took a sip from his mug. "But you're right J.T., we aren't going to get another opportunity like this. And too many cops have already died. So…"
Malcolm's face lit up, "Thank you, Gil."
"Oh don't thank me, Bright. You officially have forty-five minutes to get yourself prepared."
"Alright," J.T. said snatching the file out of Malcolm's hand, prepping his first question, "let's go."
A half an hour later, J.T. and Malcolm had run through an astounding number of details, and the profiler hadn't missed a single question. But Malcolm knowing the cover wasn't ever something Gil was concerned about. It was the improvising that scared him. UCs had to adapt quickly to the scenario they were presented. Whenever Malcolm improvised, he got reckless, and that was something they couldn't afford with this op.
J.T. decided to spend the last few minutes drilling their spiel to Ezra, "Ok, when you're face to face with Bennet he's going to try to size you up, see if you're easily intimidated. They will likely threaten you, try to catch you off guard. You can't react." Malcolm nodded his head. "If they point a weapon at you, assess the situation quickly. Is it an imminent threat or are they testing you? Obviously protect yourself if you think it's legit, but don't bust the op over a simple power thrust."
"Got it," Malcolm replied.
"They aren't expecting you, so you're going to have to smooth talk them. Charm your way in. Make sure they understand the value of what you're bringing to the table, and they should take you to Morales at the very least, Bennet if we're lucky." Malcolm continued to nod as he absorbed everything J.T. was saying. "Remember we aren't wiring you for this first meet; they'll scan you for sure since you're new. Your watch has a distress button that only transmits a signal if you push it. The TAC team will be ninety seconds out, if you do. Good deal?"
"Good deal," Malcolm affirmed.
"What type of ammo are we offering?"
"5.7 mil 40 grain steel core," Malcolm recited, "'cop killers."
"Okay." J.T. closed the file he was holding and looked to Gil for what was next.
Gil silently assessed Malcolm for a moment. "So we're sticking with the suit then?" he questioned.
"What's wrong with my suit?" Malcolm inspected the front of his jacket for flaws.
Gil chuckled, "I'm not sure many ammo dealers wear Tom Ford."
J.T. interjected, "Maybe not. But it definitely sends the right message."
"Which is?" Gil asked. Malcolm was also intrigued.
"I've got a shit ton of money. I sell a lot of ammunition. You want to do business with me." Malcolm raised his eyebrows and grinned. "It might not be conventional, but I think unconventional is what's going to work for Bright."
"Fair enough," Gil agreed. He watched Malcolm as he adjusted his cuffs nervously and fidgeted his fingers. "You good?" he asked him.
"Yeah. I'm good. I just hate standing around waiting."
"We know," Gil mused. "Are you comfortable with the cartridges? Loading the magazine? You have to look like you do that often."
Malcolm looked up at his mentor, then J.T., and smirked, "You guys do remember I was in the FBI right?" Gil acted as though he was going to say something, but Malcolm continued, "Had all my certifications: PFT, firearms, hand to hand, the whole business. Got a 98% on my firearms, if anyone's curious."
"98? What happened?" J.T. razzed.
"I sneezed," Malcolm replied honestly.
J.T. tried his best to hold the laugh in, but it escaped anyway. "Seriously?" he giggled.
"Seriously. You only get so many seconds, so..."
Even Gil had to chuckle at that. If he was being completely honest, he'd have to admit it was easy to forget that Malcolm used to work in the field for the bureau. Most days he still saw that scared, confused eleven-year-old little boy when he looked at Malcolm. "You're right. Sorry."
"It's ok. I just meant that I'm ready."
"Yeah. I think you are," Gil patted Malcolm once on the back before turning to J.T. "Let's get TAC out and into position. Tell them Bright leaves the precinct in twenty."
"Okay." On the way out of the conference room J.T. passed Malcolm and smacked him on the arm, "You got this."
Malcolm smiled at him, "Thanks, J.T."
Gil took another sip of his coffee, "Anything else you need?"
"I don't think so," Malcolm murmured, not really focused on the question.
"I'll give you a minute then. They're pulling your car around to the front."
"Okay. Thank you, Gil." Malcolm watched as the lieutenant headed for the conference room door. Before he exited he turned.
"Good luck, Bright."
Malcolm half grinned continued running his pitch over in his head.
It had been a while since Malcolm had actually driven a car. The black BMW they gave him for the cover was quite luxurious, but it still took him a minute to get re acclimated to being behind the wheel. By the time he made his way through the city traffic, it was over a half an hour to get to the club. When he arrived it was only 6:30. That was the point, to get there before it opened. As he parked the car, Malcolm's hands were slightly shaky. He took a moment to breathe a few times and calm his nerves before exiting the vehicle and walking up to the door.
Be confident, he coached himself as he rang the buzzer by the door.
"Delivery entrance is around the back," an irritated phantom voice informed.
"I'm not a delivery guy," Malcolm replied.
"Club doesn't open for another two hours."
"I'm aware. I'd like to speak with Mr. Bennet. I've got something he's going to want to see." Confidence, a little intrigue.
After a few seconds of silence the voice returned, "Come to the delivery entrance. Through the alley, and around the back."
That doesn't seem sketchy at all.
Malcolm made his way down the alley, and turned the corner. The delivery door was at the top of a small cement ramp. He walked up it and knocked; no one answered. He resisted the urge to keep looking behind him. If they were watching him, he needed to appear nonchalant. A minute passed and he knocked a second time. The door swung open toward Malcolm so quickly that he had to jump backward to keep from getting hit. When he looked up, a startlingly large man was standing in the doorway with his arm extended. The gun in his hand was about six inches away from Malcolm's forehead.
"Who the hell are you?"