Daniel had never even needed to think about it.
In his mind, there had never really been a choice.
He had dedicated his life to finding the scum of the Earth, gaining their trust, and getting them the fuck off the streets. That was what he did. He had a soul etched with black marks because of it. But it was all for the greater good. He saved people from abusive pimps, notoriously violent drug cartels, vicious human traffickers, and domestic terror cells.
It never even occurred to him to stop. He thrived on it. Some people were born knowing they were meant to do something- be a poet, sing death metal, teach children. Daniel, never having had any of those drives, did what his father raised him to do- protect the country he loved. And while he himself had little interest in combat, in being shipped into literal war zones, he managed in his own way.
But suddenly, he was tired.
He couldn't say for sure he ever felt that way before- done, beat-down, over it. That was how he felt though.
He wanted out.
"What's that look?" Max asked suddenly and Daniel knew his decision was clear on his face.
"That's the look of defeat, man. I'm done."
"There's always..."
"No, man. I'm done with this. I'm done being undercover. I'm done spending my entire goddamn life lying. I swear to fuck, sometimes I lie so much I start to believe the lie myself."
Like at Lam.
Sure, all the training he had done to be what he needed to be to work there was just that- training. It was something he was aware he did to meet and end.
But working there- serving the drinks, talking to the people, doing the mindless cleaning, yeah, it was easy to believe most nights that that was what he was- Danny the friendly neighborhood bartender.
"You're saying you want out?" Max asked, voice a strange mix of feelings Daniel couldn't quite decipher.
"That's what I'm saying."
"You understand the whole of what that means, right?"
Daniel shrugged, finishing off his second beer. "It means I can figure out who the fuck I am and what the fuck I want out of my life. I've given everything to this job. You, man, you have your family. They might not get to see you much, but they love you. You always have them to fall back on. I have shit. I have less than shit. My entire goddamn life fits into a duffle bag, ready to skip town at any given notice. This is no way to fucking live. Not anymore."
With that, he put his empty beer on the table and walked to the door, closed it without saying anything else. What more was there to be said?
He made his way back to his apartment, noticing with a feeling of distaste how hollow it was before going into his spare room, grabbing his separate cell, and calling in the news to his superiors. Not just about his cover being blown, but about quitting.
They completely ignored the latter, maybe picking up on a slowness in his speech, figuring he wasn't in his right mind, and drilled him on the former. They wanted to know how she knew, why she knew, what made her snoop in the first place.
And then they wanted to know something he never thought of until that moment: was Max's cover blown as well?
He didn't have an answer for them on that.
He didn't fucking know.
But Vin being the high-profile target the Bureau wanted so they could hang his head on their wall like a goddamn hunting trophy, they weren't convinced the risk was high enough to pull Max too.
So that Sunday, he was going back in.
Daniel hung up disgusted, voiced raised to people he used to trust with his life, with his secrets. Because they were taking unnecessary risks. And he knew Max; he would go in. He would finish the job. Or die trying.
And Daniel had a sinking, sickening feeling that that was exactly what might happen.
Daniel, more conflicted than he had felt in a good long time, did what felt right in the moment- he went for the liquor bottle. Once he got a good drunk on and realized he felt not a whit better, he went to his room, threw on a change of clothes, and dragged his drunk ass to his gym. He spent forty minutes on the treadmill at high speed- sweating the booze out of his system as he stared straight ahead into the goddamn room where Faith had taught her self-defense class.
When he turned the machine down and jumped his feet out to the side panels, catching his breath, he made a plan.
He wasn't going to say it was a particularly good plan.
But it was a plan.
And Sunday, well, they would see how it played out.
THIRTEEN
Faith
"Mi amor," Rodrigo's voice said, at once both amused and concerned, "you keep bleaching, there will be no bar left," he told her after he dropped off two flats of rocks glasses.