Chapter 12: Fight Me, Daddy: Chapter 12

Logan pulled into the small parking lot of the Golden Nugget on the north side of Chicago. Meeting at a diner at ten-o’clock at night was a little cloak and dagger for his tastes, but that was how this particular client liked it. Pulling open the glass door, he surveyed the dining room. At this hour, the booths were filled with loud teenagers, cops grabbing a bite before their graveyard shift and a few blue-collars, which, of course, meant his client stuck out like a sore thumb. Logan slid into the third booth on the right. Across from him were two men, both with cheap haircuts and cheaper suits.

“Jesus Christ, Bob, why don’t you just duct tape your badge to your forehead? It would be less subtle.” Logan laughed as he signaled the server for a cup a coffee.

“Keep your voice down. We don’t want the world to know what we are doing here,” groused Bob’s partner.

“Relax, Tom. You could fire off your weapon in here, and the only thing any of these people would give two shits about is if the scene was going to delay their pancakes.”

The server snickered at his remark as she poured his coffee.

Giving him an appreciative look, she asked, “Can I get you anything?”

“Just the coffee, thanks,” responded Logan, giving the buxom blonde only the barest of glances.

He had a girl now. A sweet little broken doll. He was going to get them both away from all this dark shit and make a real life with her. Logan smiled at the thought.

“So you have the drive?” asked Bob anxiously.

Logan’s only response was a nod.

“Well, let’s see.”

Tom was already opening up his laptop to check out the veracity of the flash drive.

“There are a few things we need to renegotiate first,” said Logan as he leaned back in his seat, raising an arm over the back.

“The F.B.I doesn’t renegotiate. Your fee is your fee. It was already hell getting that through all the red tape. I’m not going back to ask for more, Logan,” warned Bob.

“First, cut the bullshit. You’re not F.B.I., you’re C.I.A.”

Bob and Tom exchanged glances.

“And just how do you suppose that?”

Logan took a leisurely sip of his coffee, enjoying making them wait. “It’s your guns. You can change your outfit and even flash a costume badge, but people will rarely carry a different weapon from their own. The F.B.I.’s current standard issue is a Glock 22 or 23. You both are carrying Beretta 92s, the preferred firearm of C.I.A. agents. You think I would take a job and not make damn fucking sure I knew who I was working with?”

Bob rubbed his jaw and gave Logan a resigned look. “You’re good. Okay, on the level. We can’t work domestic shit. You know that. We’re helping clean up the mess from that A.T.F. gunwalking scandal. Off the record of course. Orders come straight from the Oval. He wants it handled. Stretching the rules since it involves Mexico.”

Logan nodded his head, Operation Fast and Furious. The A.T.F. looked the other way while gun dealers sold to illegal buyers in Mexico. The hope was they could trace the guns back to the Mexican cartels and eventually cut off their firepower supply. It failed. Spectacularly. The A.T.F. lost track of more than half of the guns sold. In fact, that is how the cartels actually got their hands on the military-issued only FN Five-seveNs. The guns lost had been used in crimes on both sides of the border. It was a fucking mess and a PR nightmare that wouldn’t go away even years later. Every time the scandal fizzled, someone died from a gun traced back to Fast and Furious and the whole shitstorm got kicked up again.

“So how does the flash drive play in?”

“When we heard about the missing flash drive, we figured if we could get our hands on it first, we could use it to leverage the Columbians. We return the flash drive in exchange for their complicit help in tracking some of the guns through their end clients, the Mexican cartels. At this point, we just want those particular guns destroyed. We don’t care about anything else. We think they’ll play ball. They want this flash drive bullshit over as much as we want the Fast and Furious guns, and they have leverage over the cartels we don’t have…they control the cocaine supply. It’s a win-win.”

“And, of course, you’re old friends with the Columbians,” taunted Logan, referring to the theory the C.I.A. had been heavily involved in the early cocaine trade in Los Angeles in the 80s.

“That has never been proven,” objected Tom. Bob put a restraining hand on his arm.

“It makes for a nice lead in. The Mexicans might be onto what you are trying to do. They sent a crew after the drive,” offered Logan.

“What happened?”

“What do you think happened?” shot back Logan. “You’ll find them tied up at Chloe’s cabin. Here are the coordinates.” Logan handed him a small piece of paper. “There is also the coordinates to a shallow grave deep in the woods.”

“Do I want to know?” asked Bob.

Logan shrugged. “Let’s just say you can also tell the Columbians you took care of their little HR problem for them.”

Bob nodded his approval. “Actually, that could help with our negotiations with them. So what did you want to renegotiate?”

“I want Chloe’s name scrubbed from this whole mess.” Logan reached back and pulled out a worn file, folded in half, from his back jean pocket. He tossed the red folder on the table. “In there you will find every instance where her name intersects with Chad’s and the Columbians. Take care of it, and make sure the Columbians understand she is no longer a part of this.”

Bob raised his eyebrows. “That’s all. You don’t want more money?”

“Nothing I ever do is about the money. This is worth far more to me. See that it is done.”

Bob nodded as he tucked the folder into his laptop bag. Logan was confident it would be. No one double-crossed a man of his reputation.

“Good.” He kicked back the last of his coffee. “Pleasure doing business with you,” said Logan with a smile as he rose to take his leave.

“Wait. The burner number you gave us. It doesn’t work anymore. The contact we used to find you also said he can’t get a hold of you either. How do we reach you if we need you for another job?”

“You can’t. I’m retiring,” said Logan.

He turned and left the diner, anxious to get back to his babygirl.

The whole fucking mess had been cleaned up. His job was over.

It was time to start thinking about a future with Chloe.

He returned to the room to find her gone.

Walking over to the desk, he picked up a purple Crown Royal bag and upended the contents into his palm. It looked to be over a 100 large cut diamonds. He shifted his hand and watched how they glittered in the soft lamp light. Low-grade cloudiness aside, they were still diamonds.

He picked up the note beside them. The words may have explained that she couldn’t bear to repeat her mistakes of the past by falling in love with a dangerous man and how the diamonds represented how close she had come to succumbing to that dark life before, but he saw the true meaning behind the note.

His bedeviled angel had just grown wings.

Logan picked up the phone with his free hand and instructed the front desk to have the valet bring around his truck. He was checking out.

Looks like he wasn’t retiring after all, he thought, as he shifted the diamonds back into the bag. He had one more job to complete.

And his new client had just paid him in advance.