Deep Trouble Undercover

“How far is too far, Sarge?” Benton brushed back his graying hair. “What are you really asking me, Steven?” His drawl was smoother than Jack Daniel’s. Like so many on the Jacksonville PD, he was just a good ol’ boy who’d done well. Lots of them didn’t care much for the younger, college-educated cops who came on board. Benton was always cool with me, though and he gave me this shot at high-level undercover work. Undercover was a young man’s gig; the guys over forty didn’t have much chance. I had to know. “When you worked undercover, did you ever—sleep with a suspect?” Benton’s gaze jerked around, some surprise on his worn features. He snapped the manila folder containing the Stalton crew’s operations file on the desk. “No, I never did. But I came close. You sleeping with one of the crew?” If he only knew. “No, it’s just…Things are getting kinda squirrelly. Tense, you know.” Working the Stalton gang was taking its toll on me; I hadn’t been sleeping or eating well the past month. I couldn’t stop thinking about Conrad and I couldn’t keep my focus on the job like I should. This quick meeting with my sergeant was supposed to make me feel better—not worse. Benton clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Do what you have to, Steven. The Feds are in the case now, we can’t blow it.” So I got the advice I needed—f**k whoever you have to in order to make the bust. * * * * The bust went bad. Yeah, we had our SWAT guys, who are damn good but when you’re bogged down with DEA and FBI guys who only run a raid like this once a year, things go really wrong, really fast. Instead of waiting until dawn to move in, some bigwig Fed decided to go in during a rave. Civilians all over the place, the crew we were after tucked away in an upstairs backroom and sure enough, things got blown to s**t. No civvies dead, but we took some hits, and two of Conrad’s crew got popped permanently. I slammed up the stairs, found Conrad bending over Jason, the one of his crew who had hero-worshipped him the most. The knees of his pants were soaked with Jason’s blood, there was a bloody palm print on his white T-shirt and the look in his eyes when he saw me with a badge around my neck and a gun pointed at him…betrayal, grief, rage. “You lying sonfabitch!” Conrad stood, hands wiping more blood onto his shirt. “Conrad—I…” My voice cracked. Below us, the clatter of the SWAT team banged at the bottom of the stairs. Conrad flinched. “Run.” I’ll never forget that night. Or the night before when he lay me out on a rickety table in that room and took me to heaven with his lips and his tongue and his hands. Never forget. I let him go, let him get down the fire escape, let him skip away into the night. * * * * The Feds let us take the heat for the deaths, milked the media for all it was worth, then they charged the ravers they could arrest and left town. The case was closed, and I got sent back down to street units. It took me over three months to track Conrad down. Once the Internal Affairs investigation was over, I knew my career in law enforcement was finished. Oh, they put me back on the street but I got the midnight shift in a toney part of town that never saw any action. After three weeks in a row with nothing more serious than a burglary call to an outside storage shed, I turned in my badge and my gun. I’ll never shoot one again. I ran the beaches for awhile, picked up some cash working the surf shops. It was fun at first, like being back in high school again. Nothing more to think about than the waves and the girls and whether I should wear the orange shorts or the green that day. Except that I couldn’t really think about the girls. I cruised the streets some nights to look for ravers. But the dance scene had ended once Conrad left; there was no one with the power and charisma to generate the interest, no one had stepped in to make money on raves. I did find one crew, but no one would talk to me about the Stalton team. It was the ‘net that helped me out. I got lucky in a Florida dance music chat room, found some kid who bragged a little too much about being in the scene, knew somebody who knew somebody who knew Conrad and sure enough, with some nudging from me (DanceBoy69), he dropped the dime on Conrad. Conrad was in Tampa. I turned in my keys to the surf shop the next day and packed for my trip.