Tough Justice Series Box Set: Parts 1-8

Dr. Oliviero titled his head to the side in question, but he never voiced it. Instead he waited for Lara to present her concerns first. Not pushing her, not applying pressure until she cracked. He was letting her open up on her terms, not his. She hadn’t spent a lot of time with him, aside from their first preliminary meeting, but she had instantly liked the man.

“You said you’d read though my file from after my time undercover?” she asked, jumping right in.

He nodded. “Yes, and before then, as well. It’s my job to read each team member’s transcripts from previous sessions. It’s important that, because of the particular high volume of stress this job can incur, each agent’s psychological health is taken care of, as well as monitored and recorded. That includes yours. It’s why they give me this office with such a great view.” He gave her an easy smile and motioned to the windows behind him. They looked out over Broadway. “But, you already knew that.”

It was true. Lara did already know the answer to her question. When she’d accepted the job on the new task force, her file—everything on her and her time at the FBI—had been transferred to NYC. But, still, she had needed him to confirm it out loud. Or else she might have not opened up at all.

“I saw Moretti today,” she started after a rush of an exhale left between her lips. “In prison, I mean. As a part of a case. Not in a dream or nightmare or whatever. I saw him. He was only a few feet away.”

Dr. Oliviero’s brows pushed together. “I take it this is the first time you’ve seen him since—”

“The trial,” she finished. “Yes. I never thought I’d see him again, truthfully, but...it was a necessary evil.”

Lara shifted in her seat. She knew the good doctor didn’t miss the movement. He had an impressive and extensive resume of dealing with the mental side of health. He was also no stranger to body language.

And Lara’s was screaming she was dancing through a part of her past she’d rather not tango with ever again.

“And now you’re having a hard time shaking the visit,” he summarized.

“Yeah.” Lara rubbed the side of her arm. She suddenly felt vulnerable. She hated it. Dr. Oliviero waited. “Moretti...” She paused trying to find the right words. “There are predators in this world. There always have been, and there always will be. People who do unimaginable things with little to no reason behind their actions, aside from the basic need to watch others suffer. I know this. During my FBI training and career I’ve been shown the most violent, senseless and heinous crimes committed by equally monstrous people. We’re told—and taught—to detach from it, to distance ourselves from the—the horror so we can seek out justice. To rid the world of the bad and to protect the rest. But...” The words she’d found became lost.

“This case—Moretti—has gotten to you.”

Lara nodded. She didn’t know what else to say.

“Let’s talk about what seeing him triggers for you,” he continued. She readjusted herself again. Victoria’s stern order blared in her head. Though Lara didn’t like to open up about her past, her boss had been right. She needed to find a way to sort out her tumultuous emotions, and Dr. Oliviero was going to help show her how. “Your father was a powerful NYPD cop, a sergeant before he retired. Correct?” Lara felt herself nod, but it was a clipped, jerky movement. Her willingness to delve into her life quickly took a turn.

“Yes. He passed away recently,” she said. Words cold even to her ears. “Alzheimer’s.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Lara gave a small nod of acknowledgement while an onslaught of memories assaulted her. Among them, always accompanying thoughts of Bartholomew Grant, was a pain that stretched across Lara’s heart until sinking to the pit of her stomach. An image of the man wasn’t the cause.

It was the memory of a woman that pulled at her heart strings.

Anna Grant’s body, photographed crumpled on the floor, surfaced behind Lara’s eyes.

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about my father,” Lara said into the quiet. “Can we focus on Moretti instead?”

Dr. Oliviero interlaced his fingers. His dark eyes softened. There was no way he didn’t know her family’s past.

“Sure,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“So, why don’t you tell me about Moretti? Or, should I said, his organization.”

Lara shifted in her seat. “What do you mean?”

“Recount your infiltration into the syndicate. Tell me the details that you remember clearly and, therefore, hold them more closely. Technically, we were supposed to do this when you resurfaced from undercover, but with the trial and your father’s passing, etc... I was giving you a bit of time.” When Lara didn’t say anything, he added on, “Relaying a story—a very challenging, emotionally and physically, story—to another person can be proven to be very telling. Not to mention, therapeutic. Seeing Moretti, a man who has become such an invasive part of your life, can trigger emotions and stress that you might not even realize are there, flowing beneath the surface. Walk us through the beginning, and let’s see how you feel once you’re done. Okay?”

The beginning.

Lara sat straighter in her seat.

She’d told this story before—had to as part of the job—but still she hesitated. Her time undercover felt like a dream.

One that had turned into a nightmare.

The words came slowly at first.

It wasn’t as if she’d never told the story before. She’d had to tell it many times over. However, now, when faced with the realization that her retelling might somehow betray herself, she found the clipped, rehearsed words she’d told her superiors didn’t want to come.

It wasn’t that she was ashamed of what she’d done. In fact, she’d been told before that she should be proud. It wasn’t every day one undercover agent was able to orchestrate the downfall of an infamous crime leader like Moretti.

Yet, how could she brag after what she’d done?

“Moretti’s organization ran three things,” she started, building up to the memory she was supposed to recount. “Drugs, guns and humans. All three veins were expansive, strong and thriving. I originally requested I go undercover in the human trafficking side—I wanted to save as many as I could—but was told that’s why I couldn’t. I wasn’t there to save people in the short-term. I was supposed to find a way to get to Moretti. Cut the head of the snake from the body and save everyone in the long-term. Dealing directly with hard stuff like heroin and meth was also something everyone decided I would avoid. That left running guns. Smuggling ammo and weapons would put me in direct line with the top tier of the syndicate if I played my cards right. So, that’s what I did.”

There was a man named Spike, and he was waiting for her inside the bar. It was a total dive and had more drunken customers outside on the sidewalks than in. All huddled together, talking loudly and smoking one last cigarette before they stumbled back to wherever they came from.

She knew all of this because “Eve” had been coming to the bar for months. She recognized the people who frequented the joint just as quickly as she recognized the people who didn’t. Faces became familiar to her and vice versa. So when she saw a man with an aged fedora sitting at the edge of the bar, head bent low over a pint, she breathed a sigh of relief. Not only was he finally there, but he was sitting in her spot.

“Hey, Shorty,” Eve greeted the bartender, leaning against the bar. Shorty, real name unknown, gave her an appraising look and a nod. She wasn’t wearing a low-cut blouse or a high-rise skirt but a skintight black shirt and form-fitting leather pants. Her body may have been covered, but still she caught attention from the locals as soon as she walked in. “Who’s the hat in the corner?” she followed up. “He’s in my seat.”

Shorty paused his pouring to glance over to the man.

“He was a local way before you,” he answered. “Though I haven’t seen him in a while.” He shrugged. His bar might have been a hotbed of criminals converging, but Shorty was clean among all the scum. He ran his business right, serving whoever had the cash to pay. “They call him Spike, if I remember right.”

The man was called Spike and was nastier than the scabs grown on the inside of some of the patrons’ arms. Thin, tall and with pale blond hair that was perpetually greasy, Spike also had a twitch. Even in the dim light of the bar, Eve could see that. She supposed she’d form one, too, if her job entailed gun-running for the infamous Moretti.

Then again, that’s exactly what her goal was.

Eve ordered a beer on tap and pulled a pen from her bag. She took two of the paper coasters no one used and scribbled on the top corner of one when Shorty turned away. When her beer was ready, she took it and the coasters over to the bar stool next to Spike. She sat down with a twinge of excitement.

“This seat taken?” she asked. His eyes, a dull blue, scanned her body, pausing on her more intimate areas before returning to her face. She met his stare with smile.

“It is now,” he replied, perking right up.

Spike had been profiled as a man who craved attention from beautiful women but had gotten turned down by so many that he’d grown a complex against them. He’d eat up the attention, fall over himself to please his target, but the moment something didn’t go his way, he’d resort to violence. Aside from drug charges on his record, he’d also had two nasty past assault charges.

Eve sat on the bar stool and slid the unmarked coaster beneath her drink. The other remained in her hand.

“I haven’t seen you around here before,” she started. “But Shorty says you’re a local? Must have been on vacation the past few months.”

“You could say that.” His eyes narrowed. “I’ve never seen you here before. You’re no local.”

Eve had been ready for his suspicion. It was well deserved, but he wouldn’t know that for a while.