"Hey Smith! I thought you said they were gonna get this damn air conditioning fixed!" Sean's gravel spiked baritone carried across the crowded office, though his eyes never left his desk. He reached over his shoulder and pulled his sweat soaked T-shirt away from his damp flesh. Sean shook his head and grabbed for a bottle of Dasani from his bag. He snapped the top off and downed the spring water in four quick pulls.
His eyes focused on the rap sheet laid out before him. The buzz of the agents around the cluttered squad room reminded him of a bee hive. "Yo. Yo Sean!" De's voice pierced through his thoughts as his partner called over from his perch by a large window. The glass was free of blinds and the sun that beamed in through it were bright and sweltering hot.
Sean let out a low grunt as he rifled through reports and wanted photos. He could swear that the pile was getting larger by the minute. "Damn it, De!" Sean shouted as several pens and erasers pelted him and one bounced off the back of his head. He heard the distinct sound of Demetrius snickering behind him.
Sean raised his head sharply as his partner switched ammunition from pens to paper clips, and sent them over in a hail from across the crowded workroom. He rubbed the tense spot between his eyes. "What is it man?" He snapped.
"Take a look. They caught the son-of-a-bitch! Diablo better start screening his new guns for fucking misdemeanors before he sends them on major runs!" De hooted as he passed over the bulletin he was reading.
Sean reached out and took the sheet without giving a sideways glance, his stare intent on a short list of Diablo's latest movements. He absently scraped a hand over his chin, the prick of stubble reminding him that he needed to shave. He scanned the fax then peered over the top of the paper at Demetrius. "This for real?" He mumbled.
"Hell yes!" De shouted. "They caught Diablo's new lead on a damn routine seatbelt check. No I.D. on him, so the locals take him in. Print check comes back flashing more red than a matador at a bullfight. Frost got it over the wire this morning." Sean felt De's stare on him as a sudden quiet fell over him. He felt a warm grip on his shoulder as De queried, "You all right?"
"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine. Another brick out of Diablo's wall is always a good thing." Sean murmured. One down . . . As much as he celebrated each step gained toward bringing Memo down for good, they were stinging reminders of what he had lost. Sean continued to read over the bulletin and came across a statement at the end regarding the FBI agents found the previous week. "De. They found that other agent?"
He looked over and saw that the look on Demetrius's face had washed over from triumphant to somber. "Yeah, they found his body last night," Sean leaned back in his chair as De continued. "Frost says that the family was notified before the wire was sent."
Sean nodded slowly and passed the paper back to De. An awkward silence fell for a moment between them. Sean looked away with a heavy sigh. What had people thought when they heard about Stacey? What the hell do you say when this happens?
Sean felt a burn in his chest as he recalled that he had been unconscious and in the hospital throughout those first days after he and Stacey were attacked. He glanced down and picked up a random case file. De cleared his throat and said, "Funeral arrangements will probably be out the next couple of days. Being that he was an agent, every cop will want to pay respects.
Sean murmured an absent "Uh-huh."
"You still meeting us for that picnic Saturday?" De said, trying to lighten the mood. The invite brought a faint smile to Sean's lips, "Yeah, wouldn't miss it. I have a couple of new moves to teach Rachel–"
"Yo! You better cut that out, man. Candace'll have my ass in a sling if you keep that shit up! Teaching her those arm locks and curse words is gonna land me in a full fuckin' body cast!
Sean laughed out loud as the picture of De in traction formed in his mind. It felt so good to laugh again, he hardly felt the jab to the shoulder from De in protest, "Hey, it ain't that funny man."
De's somber face made him laugh all the harder. The next jab from him caused Sean to turn away from him and right into Frost. Sean sobered up quickly as the craggy faced agent said gruffly, "Tea time's over . . . get on that stack of case files. I want them done yesterday."
The authority in his voice was only contradicted by the faint smile behind his eyes. The younger agents swiftly composed themselves, barely, and exchanged manilla folders so as to look busy.
After running over the day's workload, Sean sank heavily into his swivel chair. He ran a hand over his head, his scalp felt rough as sandpaper. His eyes were set straight on the mug shots of Memo and his new succession of traffickers, his thoughts were on the family that was now mourning their loved one that was lost trying to catch Diablo.
Sean's mood darkened with the knowledge that more would die in the effort to capture him and dismantle his organization. How many more lives are you willing to destroy? He already knew that answer personally. I'll never stop trying to bring you down. He meant every bit of the thought with his entire soul.
He glanced back to the bulletin De had left behind in his haste. Sean skimmed over the piece of paper once more, his gaze pausing on the statement regarding the fallen agent. He wrestled with the gears that started to turn in his mind. To learn about the criminal, start with the victim.
The morning air was cool and damp, a fog having lifted just as the funeral procession passed through the tall wrought iron gates into the cemetery. A single Hearse followed by several jet-black stretch limousines and a caravan of vehicles stretched back down the road, their pace a snail's crawl.
Within minutes a wide gathering took place beside an open grave, the final resting place of Ryan Matthews. The casket that held his body was made of fine mahogany, trimmed in shined brass. The colors of the American flag draped over the top seemed stark amid the sea of black and grey that adorned the people that stood around it. The site was embellished with blossoms of every flower imaginable. Some fashioned in intricate arrangements, to wreaths, to single blooms laid around the base of the coffin.
A thin veil of mist still lingered and lent a slight chill to the air, the sun burrowed beneath a thick layer of hazy clouds. Seated close to one side sat a fair, slender, woman whose eyes bore a vacant yet anguished gaze. And then the final words began, and caused those eyes to fill with moisture and emotion.
Loren's entire body felt leaden as she silently took in the scene before her. Ryan's mother and extended family seated to her left. Her parents and her partner Marcus Finch sat to her right. Across from her stood a sea of a people well known as well as unknown to her. She recognized Ryan's schoolmates and bar buddies. Their neighbors had come together to show their support. Family neither she nor Ryan had seen in years, as well as their tight-knit circle of loved ones and good friends all had come to pay their respects.
"May memories comfort us in the loss of Ryan Matthews. A Loving son and devoted husband. He was a constant and dedicated member of the elite of Law enforcement . . . " Loren cast a faint smile over her sorrow as the minister's voice echoed softly across the cemetery as he eulogized her husband. She kept her eyes focused where her heart now lay, in the wooden box . This can't be happening!
Her eyes felt raw and hot beneath the steady flow of tears she had shed in the past days. ". . . Earth hath no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal. The words of Thomas Moore . . ." Loren's lip trembled at the thought. This pain will never heal. This will never be ok.
She sucked in a slow and deliberate breath before raising her head again to look at the people who had gathered to mourn Ryan's death. The cleric's voice was deep and soothing as he continued, ". . . because of who he was, because of all he did for others." She vaguely felt her father's hand grasp her own as sobs began to throb inside of her.
"Tenderly . . . may time heal your sorrow, Gently . . . may friends ease your pain, Softly . . . may peace replace heartache, And may warmest memories remain." Tears that flowed stung her evergreen eyes, her lids fought valiantly to blink them away. Please God let me wake up now! Ryan will be here and tell me it was all pretend, NOT REAL! At that moment the flag was lifted off of Ryan's casket and folded ceremoniously. Loren trembled as the young officer stepped slowly toward her to present the token of remembrance. As she placed it gently on her lap, the wave of sadness swelled and thrashed inside of her, causing her to lean against the sturdy shoulder of her father. And then she wept.
The multitude of people who had come to pay their respects at the funeral returned to the home of Ryan's parents for a quiet reception. Loren had tucked herself away in a corner by the intricate French doors that led to the terrace. Carefully seated on an ivory brocade settee she leafed through the overwhelming amount of correspondence that had come to her since news of Ryan's death had been announced.
From all of us at the bureau we offer you our sincerest condolences. Your husband Ryan will be missed . . .She quickly flipped past the neatly penned note from Ryan's colleagues at the FBI. Her throat felt dry and as the muscles began to constrict, she set the letters aside.
Loren stood and began to navigate her way through the crowd. Every few paces she was stopped by friends and loved ones who offered sympathy along with their embraces. Colleagues and acquaintances offered condolences that could have been photocopied and passed out at the door. I can't do this. This isn't happening! She had the sudden feeling that the room had moved in quite close over the last few moments. She had to get out of there, now.
She caught a glimpse of her partner Marcus as he stood by the great marble fireplace talking to Ryan's mother, a widow herself for only a couple of years. Loren took the hand of a former mentor of Ryan's as she glided by, "Thank you so much for coming. Ryan would be glad you were here." She couldn't hear the words as she said them, merely sensed them. That sentence was repeated over and over as she made her way to the back of the house, and each time she said it the less she believed it.
Loren felt as if the room was closing in on her, the voices of the endless wave of guests and mourners swirling into one big blur. She felt the perspiration break across her brow, heat flushed up and over her as she sped up her pace. I need air, just air. Loren glanced back at the scene she left behind. I have to get it together. She swiped her clammy hands along the skirt of the black sleeveless sheath that she had chosen for that day. The day she buried her husband.
Loren again began to maneuver her way toward the large oak double doors that led to the front vestibule. Almost as soon as she had started, she was stopped by a small group of Ryan's kin. They each took turns embracing her as if waiting for a ride at some carnival side show. She gave a weak smile and a soft 'Thank you' before pulling herself away and continuing.
Then there were his brother's. In arms as it was. Agents from every conceivable department of the government. Even members of the local and state police had attended the grave side burial of her husband. Some Ryan had met and known, others were there out of solidarity to one of their own who had fallen.
Then again they were her brothers and sisters as well, she had to remind herself. Not only her partner and captain but her entire squad had come to give support to 'Their Girl'. Not that anyone would've given a damn that even the bureau of Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms was represented that day, but it meant the world to Loren for they were like a second family to her. And she needed every bit of their care and support now.
After a couple more brief delays, Loren finally broke away from the deluge of hugs and sympathetic quotes and sailed out the door into the breeze way. She took a quick look back for once last survey of the swarm of people crowded into the grand living room.
As she turned to continue her escape she slammed headlong into something hard. Immediately she felt two large hands firmly grasp her upper arms to steady her, a heady scent of woods and heat filled her senses. She felt the gravelly bass of his voice vibrate through her before she heard it, "I'm sorry. You, OK?" She nodded and slowly looked up, up into eyes that held a sadness much like her own. Before she could speak, the man gently turned her and led her out the front door, the heavy slab of Oak firmly shut behind them.