"A deep cover job changes you in ways that are hard to describe….it creeps into your soul after a while. Spend enough time posing as an alcoholic ex-spy committing the occasional crime to pay the rent, and the line between fiction and fact becomes blurry…."
The thing that surprised Michael the most was how easy it was. Creating the persona of a washed up has -been, broken down by life and his own choices, and then slipping into his skin. It had been play-acting, at first, but he was trained and experienced and it wasn't that hard. When he first came to the Dominican Republic, his cover story was close enough to the truth that it was an easy sell. A burned spy, just out of federal detention, dumped by his girlfriend and down on his luck. He'd stayed at a slightly shabby motel on the fringes of the tourist area until his money had run out and his Spanish had improved, and then moved into a truly shitty apartment in a local barrio.
Gainful employment had been slightly trickier. He didn't have the papers to get a real job, and he needed to stay under the radar. He worked the local scene of low-level criminals to set it up. A few small B&E's gave him operating funds, and introduced him to the local fences. They took him to the dingy and dangerous bars where bare-knuckle boxing could generate some revenue and raise his profile just enough, but not too much. All in all, it only took him two months to setup the appearance of a downward spiral.
At first, he'd played things strictly by the books. He sent coded messages to Andrew Strong, his handler, every week, and kept the drinking to an absolute minimum. Just enough to sell the cover. He'd made sure he was stone cold sober for the fights. After all, no matter how big and bad and young the local cabrones were, he was a trained fighter, and he was worried that a small slip on his part could do some serious damage to someone, and blow his cover in the process. The stakes were just too high.
His cover strengthened as the man he was started to crumble. He found himself a popular opponent at the fights. The young guys in the cantina loved to take a shot at the gringo, so he had plenty of challengers when he fought. But he wasn't 25 anymore, and it started to take its toll. After all, no matter how good you are, you're gonna take some bad blows. And the utter loneliness, the all too real squalor of it was wearing him down. So one Friday, when his knuckles were raw and bleeding and his head was aching from one too many blows, someone put a shot of the local dark rum into his hand, and he downed it rather than dump it. He told himself he was just living his cover, but one become two, and two became many, and when he passed out on his couch that night, the dreamless sleep was welcome.
Because his sleep was plagued by ghosts. His father's angry fists and angrier words. Larry's vicious whispers and violent actions. Nate. Nate coughing up blood and saying "I'm scared" and bleeding out in the street.
The ghosts of the living visited him, as well.
Sometimes, if he was lucky, it would be Sam. Sam wearing some outrageous shirt, telling ridiculous stories about his lady friends. More than once Michael had woken up, swearing he could hear Sam's laugh and the good feeling would linger for a time. Jesse appeared, from time to time, too. More often, though, it was his mother, or, God help him, Fi.
Even in his dreams, his mom could twist him round the axle. Pain, anger, comfort and love swirled out of her in equal measures leaving him helpless and bewildered on waking. On some level, he supposed they were even now: she had failed to protect him as a child; he'd failed her ever since. Her visits left him hollow.
But worse by far, was Fi. She came in many forms, all of them devastating. Sometimes she came with her warm hands and warmer lips and he'd wake up in the middle of the night, so hard he had to take himself in hand to find release. Sometimes she came with fierce words, calling him out for the emptiness of his good intentions, and he'd wake up in the morning with an ache in his chest that left him breathless. Worst of all, sometimes, she came with stories of their life together, before: dancing in a pub in Ireland; hours on a job passing like minutes as they talked and laughed; waking up together in their bed in the loft, her eyes soft, because she trusted him to watch over her as she slept. And he'd wake up in the early afternoon, so low that getting out of bed seemed an impossible task.
By the six month, the cracks began to show. His reputation as a fighter had grown and brought on bigger and badder opponents, and he was drinking harder, even before the fights. The man he used to be would have been repelled by it all; the cover he'd become was indifferent. There was no sign of Randall Burke, his target, and no end in sight. There was just rum and violence and - just once - a night with some faceless woman in a fruitless search for comfort.
The worst part was there was nothing he could do. He longed to take action, to seek out Burke. He knew the man was in the country and if he could just engineer a meeting, maybe he could get things rolling. Langley was insistent that he not make any move and let Burke initiate contact, convinced that any move on Michael's part would spook Burke and blow the whole plan. As always, they were quick to remind Michael of all that was riding on his take-down of Burke's network. Of everything he had to lose. Of the people he loved that were counting on him to keep them out of jail.
In his darkest moments, fueled by rum and pain, Michael resented the hell out of them. Sam and Fi and Jesse and his Mom. Of the price he was paying for their freedom. It was tempting, with the demons whispering to him from the bottom of the bottle, to forget that he was the reason any of them were threatened at all. He was the one who dragged them all into his mess. Into this quest to get out from under the burn notice, to bring down the network, to get back in. And at last, he was left with that truth: he had no one to blame but himself.
After that he lost track of time for a while and focused on self-destruction, full time. He drank with utter abandon, and if his fighting technique suffered from the rum, his viciousness made up for it. He spared no thought for Burke or the mission. He'd just live this way until he died, or the Agency threw him in some hole somewhere. Either outcome was fine.
He was late sending a sign of life to his handler one week, and missed the next two entirely. He shouldn't have been surprised to see Strong the next week, sitting on a park bench near the liquor store Michael visited with frequency. Michael, giving no sign he'd seen the other man, continued into the store, bought his rum, and then headed up towards a local square where tourists and locals mixed. It was their agreed upon meeting place. Michael found, to his surprise, that some old habits kicked in. He stopped and bought an empanada from a street vendor to let Strong get in front of him, and to check for surveillance, before joining Strong on a park bench.
Michael considered him for a minute, vaguely wondering what approach to take. He decided to play it straight. "Why the hell would you show up here?" He kept his voice low, wary of his surroundings, but still managed to sound furious. He took a bite of the empanada and opened the rum, drinking straight from the bottle inside a paper bag.
The other man gaped at him. His anger was apparent. "Why would I come here?" Not used to life in the field, his voice was too loud. Michael gave him an angry look, and Strong tried again, more quietly. "Jesus, Michael. You missed two consecutive check-ins. Half of Langley thought you might be dead."
Michael shook his head, and said ruefully. "Not dead, but not for lack of trying." He took another swig from the bottle, and then offered it to Strong. "Drink?"
Strong waved it off, and studied Michael for a moment. He hadn't seen Michael in almost two months – face to face meeting were risky and therefore rare – but his messages hadn't raised any red flags until they'd stopped coming. Now, seeing him in person, he began to reconsider. Maybe he shouldn't have left him in the field so long without assessing him. With his blood shot eyes, scraggly beard and bruised and bloodied knuckles, the man before him was almost unrecognizable as the smooth, Armani-clad operator he'd been in Miami. Still, Michael was the consummate professional, and selling a difficult cover. He deserved a little latitude. "It's a little early, isn't it?" Strong said, trying to sound casual. Michael gave him a toothy smile, his eyes flashing with amusement, and for just a minute, he was Michael Westen again, despite it all. Strong shook his head. "You look like hell" he said.
"That's the idea, remember." Michael snorted with derision.
"Why'd you miss your transmission." Strong asked, starting to run out of patience.
Michael considered which manner of lie to tell. Admitting that he simply didn't give a shit was probably a non-starter. He chose the most plausible. "Battery died in the transmitter."
Strong's look of relief was visible, and Michael felt a little surge pride, like he always did when he fooled an adversary. "Ok, no problem. We'll get you another one." Strong sighed. "Next time, do me a favor and use a backup method, OK?"
"Sure thing, jefe" Michael said. "Any news on our mutual friend."
"Not yet." Strong sighed. "He's still in the D.R., and we know he's heard you're here. It's only a matter time." Strong sounded confident, but Michael openly scoffed. "Sure." He said, his tone making it clear that he wasn't.
"Do you want any updates from Miami?" Strong asked.
"No."
"Some news of your friends, of your Mom, it might help you…"
"I said no!" Michael interrupted, raising his voice more than he should.
Strong looked at Michael with genuine concern, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet. "Look Michael, you're a field man, and I'm not. I'm not going to tell you how to do your job, but.."
"Good" Michael said, his voice quiet, but fierce. "Don't…"
"But.." Strong cut back in with more force. "You're hitting this burn-out cover pretty hard. It might scare Burke away." He sighed. "If you're too much of a mess, you're no good to Burke, or anyone else."
Michael closed his eyes, and tilted his face up, into the equatorial sun, seeming to consider Strong's words. He opened his eyes again and faced his handler. "I've got it under control." He said, almost meaning it.
Strong reached a decision. "Ok." He said. "But I'm going to stay in the country. We can meet if we're careful, and I want to keep an eye on things. I don't need to tell you now much is riding on this, Michael."
Michael stood up. "Do what you have to, Strong." He said, and walked away without looking back.