Page 34 of Great White
“Marvin Wang.”
“Thank you. We’ll put him on our radar.” The man, agent Jack Taylor, walks back to his cruiser with my documents still in his hand. I wait impatiently as he runs them, periodically scanning my surroundings. To the naked eye, this looks like a routine traffic stop, but beneath the surface, it is so much more than that.
Taylor returns with my license, registration, and a ticket.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Nope.” He smiles shamelessly. He’s enjoying this. “Gotta make it look legit.”
I read the ticket. “Broken taillight, seatbelt, obstructed license plate. This is like a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar ticket worth of bullshit.”
“Yup.” He keeps up with the shit-eating grin. “Legit.”
“Cabron.” I toss the ticket on the seat.
“Keep that intel coming. And don’t miss your check-ins. I don’t want to have to keep writing you tickets.”
“I don’t want you blowing my cover, either. That was reckless showing up at the restaurant.”
“I had to see you with my own eyes.”
“Well, you’ve seen me. Now make yourself scarce.”
“Be careful.”
“This isn’t my first rodeo,” I remind him.
“That doesn’t mean you can’t get dead.”
“Ugh, whatever.” I throw the car into drive. “Hey.” I keep my foot on the brake. “Did you send a team into the club the first night I was there?”
“Yup. Thought it would help throw them off your scent. You were too new to bring in the feds.”
I nod. “Smart.”
Taylor does a little salute. “Now get the fuck out of here.”
I slam on the gas and take off.
I sit outside Toro Embolado, the red lights of the cursive letters and glowing bullhorns shining against the dark El Paso sky.
I’m stalling, and I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s Taylor’s visit. Maybe it’s Dove’s cold shoulder. Maybe it’s my own reservations.
I’ve done a lot of undercover jobs. Undercover has been my life for the past seven years, but this time it’s different. The whole vibe. The situation, the players. Even me.
I am the problem.
My heart is involved, and it shouldn’t be. It can’t be. It’s what gets you killed. Mistakes are not an option, and I’ve already made a ton.
When I finally pull on my big girl panties and go inside, I find Dove in her usual spot, standing by the window in her office.
“Hey.” I stand beside her and shove my hand into my pocket.
“Hey,” she graces me with a response.
I hate the awkwardness, but maybe it’s for the best. It keeps space between us.
A well-needed space I’m realizing now. In hindsight, falling in love with a drug dealer you’ll potentially narc on doesn’t exactly spell future. It spells disaster.
