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  “The NYPD has been trying to take down one of the biggest drug rings in the city for years. They’ve had little success,” the chief explains as he looks over the papers. “The organization has seen some arrests, but they’ve all been the lowest men on the totem pole, if you catch my drift. The NYPD has tried to hit the syndicate at every angle in hopes to stop them, but nothing sticks. Somehow the group stays one step ahead. Now they want to try and wriggle a guy into the group and take it down from the inside. ”

  “And you want me, even after my blunder?” Grady hears the words slip out from his mouth before he can stop them. The NYPD must’ve tried going undercover before, just either not had success or lost a cop.

  “I can overlook that,” Chief McArthur says. “You won’t be working with any amateurs on this undercover sting. They want to bring this group down.”

  “Got it.”

  “Good. I already sent your information up to NYPD. They took a look at your file and agree you’ll be perfect for the undercover op. Given the way you look and your tattoos, you’ll blend right in with the scum of New York.”

  Grady shoots his chief a harsh look, ready to chew the man out. Instead, he just chews on the corner of his lower lip. “Yeah, good thing I look like a criminal.”

  “I mean no offense, Grady.” The chief senses the rage brewing in the bowels of his lieutenant. “Besides your outward appearance, the fact that you have no living relatives will make it hard for the drug ring to find out who you really are. Plus, you’ve been working drugs here for two years. You know your stuff. Truth be told, you’re the best man for this kind of job. They hand selected you.”

  “Got it,” Grady says as he looks down at the papers. “What do they want me to do while I am undercover?” He knew NYPD would fill him in there, but they’d have set something up prior to fill McArthur in.

  “They already have an informant to get you inside,” Robert explains. “He can get you in contact with a drug dealer who often works with the syndicate. It’ll be up to you to work your way in, of course. Once you get in with the syndicate, you’ll have to gather as much information about them so the NYPD has a case against ‘em. That means you can’t let your cover get blown until the case wraps up.”

  Grady got it. The group would get too cautious to allow a foul up like a mole happen twice. Dead once. Call me stupid. And dead. “How long will I be gone?”

  “That’ll be up to you, kid.” The chief grins. “Get in and out quick and you’ll be home to enjoy some of my wife’s turkey. Or maybe the next turkey dinner. It’s all a matter of how well it works out. You know.”

  Grady did. “When do I leave?”

  “Here are the tickets for the plane to get you there. It leaves at seven on Thursday. Gives you enough time to pack. Rest up before you go, kid. And come back.” He handed Grady the tickets and stuffs the papers back in the envelope before handing that to him as well. He leaves the photo. “I’d come to see you off, but I’m going to have my hands full being down two officers.”

  “Yeah, I got it. Thanks for the sentiment anyways.” Grady starts for the door, when his attention turns back to the shady picture on the desk. “Chief, you never said anything about the guy in the picture.”

  Robert McArthur looks at the picture for a moment. He rubs his grizzled chin, squinting his eyes as he tries to remember. “Oh yeah, NYPD believe he’s the head of the drug op. It’s the best picture they have. As you can see it’s of poor quality. Not much is known about the frontrunner, except he goes by the name Dean.”

  Grady stares at the picture curiously. “Why’s this picture the only one we could get?”

  “It’s the only pic that Dean has ever sent to the department,” Chief McArthur says, his tone darkening as he hands Grady the photo. “It came in a package sent directly to the NYPD. Along with the picture was the head of the man who took it.”

  Chapter 3

  Twilight settles in the downtown area of Pittsburgh with the stars beginning to take their shapes in the blackened sky. Grady gazes out the window of his apartment, watching the moon rise over the horizon. Retreating from the glass, he finds comfort in the one bedroom living quarters. The décor is set to the classic lifestyle of a typical bachelor. In the sink dishes are piled high in an unorthodox fashion. One wrong move and the tower will end up collapsing. Some of them still have traces of dinner from three days ago.

  In the living room and bedroom, clothes lay strewn across the carpet. Most of the beige rug is hidden under laundry. Stepping over them, he takes a seat at the kitchen table, which he has converted into a desk. Beside the placemat is a stack of old case files. Tapping his finger against the wood, he thinks for a moment, only to rise again and head into the bathroom, which is probably the cleanest place in his apartment. A white sheen glosses the tiled floor. Grady steps over to the sink, and is greeted by a reflective version of him in the mirror. Ocean blue eyes stare back at him, a man with shaggy blond hair and a scruffy beard.

  “No more rugged ass road look.” He laughs at himself, as he reaches for a spot on the sink.

  Beside his toothbrush is his electric razor. It’s already plugged into the outlet beside the sink, so he hits the button. The razor makes a slight humming sound, vibrating gingerly in his hand. Carefully, he takes the jagged edge up to his head and runs it across the mop. Strands of hair fall into the sink. The razor mows a perfect line down the middle of his head, leaving either side high. Grady chuckles at the bizarre haircut before continuing. Each pass over his scalp removes more from his head. All of it floats into the sink until it looks like a furry creature sleeping in his bathroom sink. A few trims here and there, he shuts the razor off and rubs his head. The crew cut feels stiff to the touch, but it’s much cooler than the long locks he had moments ago. He brushes away a few loose strands still clinging to the top of his head and shoulders. Once he’s satisfied, he turns the razor to give himself a closer shave.

  “Not bad, not bad at all,” he thinks aloud. Taking the hair in the sink, he scoops it out of the bowl and tosses it into the waste bin sitting on the floor. He jumps in the shower, washes hair and dirt off his body, carefully rubbing over the bruises from the episode earlier. They might not be showing on his skin yet, but he can feel the soreness already pushing through. Turning the water off, he grabs a towel and rubs his face and head to remove any follicles still hiding, along with the excess water.

  Exiting the bathroom, he hears a familiar tune coming from the kitchen. Picking up his pace, he finds his cellphone singing the song Bad Boys by a stack of papers. Before the ringing ends, he grabs the phone and places it up to his ear. “Hello?”

  “Is this Lt. Grady Rivers?” a gravelly voice asks.

  “Who’s calling?” Grady asks suspiciously. While he sounds pleasant on the phone, he walks into the living room to grab his gun.

  “This is Commissioner Baxton, NYPD,” the man answers. “I understand you’re the man who’ll be working with us.”

  “I am,” Grady says. Stepping to the window, he peeks from around the corner. Outside of his apartment there’s a black vehicle parked along the street. “Why’re you calling me now?”

  “Well, the day of your assignment’s been moved,” the commissioner says. “We need you in New York ASAP. I’ve sent a car. It’s outside waiting for you.”

  Bull shit. “Oh, that’s kind of you,” Grady says, taking the safety off of his gun. “And how do I know you are who you say you are?”

  “Cautious man, I like that,” Baxton says with a guffaw. “The car may not be an official NYPD vehicle, but the man driving it is.”

  As if on cue, the driver side door opens. A tall, yet slightly stout man steps out onto the curb. Even from the second floor, Grady sees the large silvery mustache crawling across his upper lip. He’s also able to see the cellphone placed up to the man’s ear. The commissioner hangs up the phone and waves to Grady up in his apartment. Deciding to play along, the lieutenant slips away from the window and goes to the front do
or. He tucks the gun in the back of his pants, pulling his shirt over top of it. Going out of his apartment, he takes the grimy steps, his footsteps echoing against the metal stairs. At the bottom he stands in the foyer, only to see the mustachioed man is still standing there. Grady steps out of the building to meet with the so-called commissioner.

  “You’re probably wondering why the commissioner of the NYPD is meeting with you personally.”

  “Yeah the thought crossed my mind.” Grady holds his hands behind his back, his fingers itching to touch the steel behind him.

  The man gives an earnest smile. “Well, this case is very important to me. It may sound a bit cliché, but you’re my last hope to catch Dean.”

  “Pretty words, but like you said over the phone, I’m a cautious man,” Grady says, taking a step closer. “How do I know you are who you say?”

  “I guess I could make a quick call to clear this up,” the man says, as he dials a few numbers on his phone. He places it to his ear and waits. After a minute, the commissioner turns his back and listens carefully to the other person. Grady grabs the gun tucked under his shirt, but does not draw it. He listens carefully to the conversation. “Yes, how are you this evening? Yes, I’m good too, thanks for asking. Anyways, I’m in your neck of the woods. Yeah, sorry I didn’t tell you. Our undercover operation took a bit of an unexpected turn so we’ll need him sooner. I know. I know. I’m standing here with Grady, but the boy refuses to move. He’s a cautious one, just like you said. Do you think you could speak with him? Okay, thanks.”

  The supposed commissioner hands Grady the phone. Taking it carefully, he brings it up to his ear with one hand while the other stays with the gun. “Who is this?”

  “A tired man,” he hears the voice of Chief McArthur on the other end. “The man you’re talking to is indeed Commissioner James Baxton. You can trust him.”

  “Understood, sir.” Grady is about to hang up.

  “Wait, Grady,” the chief stops him.

  “Yes sir?”

  “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.” Grady ends the call and tosses the phone back to the commissioner. “Well, I guess I’m your man.”

  A smile creeps under the silver mustache. “All right then, lieutenant. Grab your stuff and let’s go.”

  “Yes sir.” Grady runs upstairs, empties his garbage and already near-empty fridge. He stuffs a bag full of clothes and toiletries, and locks his apartment. Wrapping his door with a final knock, he chews the inside of his cheek. I’m coming back, he assures the door.

  Grady steps outside and climbs in on the passenger side of the black car. Before he can even fasten his seatbelt, the engine roars and the tires spin wildly. The black Mercedes speeds off into the night. A few short turns has them across a bridge heading toward the highway. With the window down, Grady can see the moon casting its eerie white glow onto the water. The waters of the Monongahela ripple, distorting the lights. It looks like white ghosts glancing upon the river.

  “You’re thinking this may be the last time you’ll see it,” Baxton says aloud.

  “What? No I wasn’t—”

  “Don’t try to deny it, kid. It’s plain to see you have deep roots in this city.”

  Grady takes one more look out the window. The city’s illuminated with hundreds of lights coming from the towering skyscrapers. Seeing it in all of its beauty brings a smile to his face. “It may be the last time, you never know.”

  “Listen, kid,” the commissioner speaks frankly, “I’ve no intention of shipping you back here in a pinewood box. You have my word you’ll see your city again.”

  “Wow, thank you.” Grady is somewhat touched by his words, but also tries not to sound sarcastic. He’s about to go undercover to catch a drug king nobody can touch. Undercover. Holy shit. What the hell is he doing?

  “Yeah, well, enough of this sentimental talk.” The commissioner’s face turns serious. “We have six hours before we get to New York. That’ll give us time to go over your assignment and your identity while undercover.”

  Grady takes one last look as the city shrinks in the distance.

  Baxton clears his throat and plays with the thermostat of the car. “Now, how much did Robert tell you about the case?”

  Grady slumps in his seat in order to get comfortable for the long ride ahead. “The chief gave me the basic rundown. I’m going undercover to work for an average run-of-the-mill drug dealer in order to work my way into the good graces of the syndicate, which is the real target.”

  “Partially true,” the commissioner says, hitting the accelerator as they travel through tunnels. “Your real target is Dean. He’s the brains to this whole thing. Bring him down and the rest will crumble.” The lights of the tunnel cast them in an orange glow. The Mercedes drives up behind a tractor-trailer truck, only to pass it once they emerge on the other side. “I’m sure your chief told you, but we have an informant to get you in with the drug dealer. After that it’ll be up to you to get close to Dean.” The car accelerates again once they are on the highway. “Look under your chair. There’s an envelope that contains your new identity.”

  While the black sports car weaves in between slower cars, Grady feels for the envelope under his seat. It takes a few tries, but he eventually finds the manila envelope. Breaking the adhesive seal, he spills the papers into his hand. A driver’s license is paper clipped to the top of the documents. Taking it in his hand, he studies it closely. The picture they used to make the fake identification is one from his actual driver’s license. Like now, his hair in the picture is trimmed with a crew cut, although it has a more militaristic styling to it. Similarly, all of his physical features are identical to his actual driver’s license. That is when he realizes it is a Pennsylvanian license. The only difference is that it says he is from Philadelphia instead of Pittsburgh.

  “Wait, shouldn’t I be from New York?” Grady flips the card over and sees it’s a perfect fake.

  “The fact you’re from Pennsylvania instead of New York makes little difference,” Baxton says, as they pull up to a toll booth. “Our informant goes by the name Tony Miller. You’ll be playing the role as his cousin who has come to New York to find work in order to pay off your gambling debt.”

  “Got it.” He looks back at the license. “So I’m going by the name Grady Miller. I’m Tony’s cousin from Philly who needs to make some quick cash to get loan sharks off my back.”

  “Yes,” the commissioner says. “You also will be suffering from a gambling addiction. That’s what got you in this predicament. You’ll be meeting with a sponsor of Gambler’s Anonymous in New York. That’s how you’ll keep in connection with us.”

  “Clever,” he admits.

  Baxton turns to him. “Now, I suggest you rest up before we arrive in New York City.”

  Grady shrugs. “Sir, I don’t mind staying awake.”

  “You don’t understand, Grady. Our informant has told us the drug dealer is expecting you tonight at three. That’s the reason why I came to get you early.”

  Grady feels a slight tingle running along the length of his spine. He ignores the sensation. This is his job. He’ll do whatever he needs to keep people safe.

  As nerve-wracking as the undercover work sounds, he manages to shut his eyes and fall into a light sleep. While he has his eyes closed, he can feel every twist and turn the car makes. An unexpected swerve jars him awake for a few seconds, but he falls back asleep shortly after. While he lies there sound asleep, he cannot help but remember the trips he used to take with his father. He would often sleep in the car while his dad drove. The nostalgic notion makes him uncomfortable. Sitting up in the car, he forces himself awake.

  His head is swimming from the abrupt way he woke up. He doesn’t want to think about his father. Or anything family related.

  As if on cue Baxton says, “We’re here.”

  Looking out the window, Grady sees they’ve come to a stop by a street corner. Under the street lamp is a young man who appears to be around the
same age as Grady. He’s wearing a baseball cap with the brim tilted to cast a shadow over his face. Despite it being hot and dry, he wears a black long sleeved shirt. The cargo shorts and backpack completes the typical apparel Grady sees on criminals roaming the streets this time of night. Grady gets out of the car, but not before tossing his gun in the passenger seat. The commissioner only nods before driving off into the city. The undercover officer is left alone in the foreign city with a mysterious man in black.

  Walking up to the guy, Grady asks, “You Tony?”

  The shadowy figure steps forward and wraps his arms around Grady. “Hey, Cuz! How you doing? Good to see you, man! How’s Aunt Shelly been?”

  Grady’s confused at first before realizing Tony’s already playing the part, so he plays along too. “She’s been good. Not too happy about me playing the ponies, but you know.” He shrugs, trying to remember how much cash he’s got in his wallet and that he left his bag in Baxton’s car.

  “I hear yah,” Tony says. “Come on, I want you to meet the guy.”

  The two of them start walking down the block, reminiscing about a childhood that does not exist. Both of them laugh, taking to the role almost instantly. Tony makes a sudden right at the end of the street, forcing Grady to trail behind him. The informant strolls down another block, and then makes a left. Grady follows. Another half a block, Tony stops outside an Italian restaurant. Grady takes a look at it. The place looks like a dive. A neon sign that spells out “ITALIA RISTORANTE” in cursive hangs overhead. Some of the letters are missing while others are just blacked out.

  Grady follows Tony inside, taking a mental note of the bullet holes through the front door.

  Much like the cover of a book, Grady was too quick to judge. The inside of the restaurant is lavish. Its space is large enough to fit well over fifty people comfortably. Round dining tables are covered in white linen. Each has a candelabrum sitting in the center. Well past closing, the candles are out for the night, except for one. In the corner there is a single customer taking in a late night snack. A man sits in one of the three booths against the wall. Three candles are lit so he can see what he is eating. On his plate is enough spaghetti to fill the stomachs of four people. Yet the guy does not seem to slow down, as his fork stabs at a meatball the size of Grady’s fist.