part0028

Missy found them an apartment at The Biltmore in the North Loop neighborhood of Minneapolis. It was a one-bedroom—no need for two—in a renovated 1940s warehouse. The place was a downgrade on most fronts—smaller, more expensive, and overlooking a rooftop instead of a park—but the front desk personnel were known to be militant about nonresidents entering the building, so they signed the lease.

Things had been quiet for nearly a month now. No more pugnappings, fires, or shootings. It really did seem that the cartel thought they were dead.

Normalcy and routine began to return to their lives. Missy was walking to work—Google’s office was only a few blocks away—and Jacob was heading down to the corner coffee shop for a cappuccino every morning. (The capps were good. Just not Coffee Princess good.)

He hadn’t yet told Simon or Tina that he was “dead.” He wasn’t sure how to say it.

That last one wasn’t quite true. He wanted to be a writer. Just not when it meant putting anyone’s life at risk.

He also hadn’t told them because Simon had secured an offer for a $200,000 advance for the book, title TBD. The publisher, a smaller firm in New York, was looking to make a splash, and they’d bid hard for the rights. They had even agreed (verbally) to publish his other book, a retelling of Stephen King’s The Shining called The Shedding, which he’d been trying to publish for years.

So for now, he was still writing the TBD book, sending new chapters for Simon to read, pretending things were okay until he figured out how to make the big reveal.

With the stability of a new apartment and the cartel focused on their cartel business again, he was actually pumping out five to seven thousand words a day. He’d be done in a week if he wasn’t careful. He had to slow it down a bit to keep the book from going to the editor. Otherwise, he’d wake up one morning and the thing would be on shelves nationwide. Shit!

These last few days, he’d been hanging out in the coffee shop, alternating between typing another chapter and typing his “resignation” letter. He’d snagged a barstool at the window today and had written for the last hour, then he deleted it all. Just trying to slow it down.

He didn’t expect to find anything, but he’d taken to checking the Duluth News Tribune for any mention of Emmelia, the incident at her house, or the DEA. During this routine check, however, Emmelia’s name had popped up.

She was dead. And authorities were calling her a ringleader. They said she’d overseen one of the largest opioid distribution networks north of Chicago. Her fentanyl-laced opioids had been responsible for the deaths of both one Gregory Larry Johnson and one Sarah Sundin.

Apparently, Emmelia had been shot near the border on her way to Winnipeg. There were no suspects or leads.

There was also no mention of Emmelia being a DEA agent. He clicked through several variations of the same story. No mention at all.

Of course not, he finally realized. Emmelia had been undercover, and she still was. The operation was salvageable. Perhaps the DEA even had someone else at the Coffee Princess already working the case, taking over where the late Special Agent Emmelia Lemus had left off.

Was that true? He’d brought a lot of attention and disruption to her operation. Had he blown her cover?

That accusation pounded around in his head for a few minutes until his legs started to shake.

He couldn’t sit still. He slurped down the last of his cappuccino and went back to his apartment, where he leashed up the eye-patched Quincy and headed out for a walk to burn off the guilt and anxiety.

They ended up wandering the streets until sunset, until Quincy was so tired he had to be carried, until the crisp October air hurt Jacob’s ears, but still, his conscience wouldn’t calm down. Emmelia’s death was his fault. He’d blown her cover.

She took a moment to digest the bombshell, then said, “But you can’t say for certain you had anything to do with that.”

“After being undercover for five years, now she gets killed? That’s not coincidence.”

He paced around the apartment. Kitchen to living room to kitchen. “I shouldn’t have ever gone up there.”

“It just is. Think about how many people died up there. None of that happens if I’m not there.”

He stopped at the window overlooking the warehouse next door. Leaning his palms against the frame, his nose poking the glass and leaving a tiny, circular grease smudge, he said, “Do you think she told them we’re alive?”

“I don’t think that had anything to do with us. She was killed over something totally unrelated. Things’ve been quiet here. For weeks. She didn’t say a thing.”

Missy walked behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist. “It is. You don’t think so?”