J2 | The Nature of My Game | NC-17 (1/4)

[dugindeep]

PART ONE

It was the middle of the night when Richard Speight decided it was time to leave. His home was dark and quiet, daughter and son asleep in their beds and his wife still lightly snoring in their master bedroom. He moved around the house with soft steps and swift hands to pack bags and stack them by the front door. He grabbed his jacket then moved through the brisk midnight hours to stuff the luggage into the hatchback of his used Forester.

His breathing quickened when headlights flashed down his street, strobes clearing a path down the residential way. He feared he’d be seen, found to be on the run, so he quickly shut the back of the vehicle then shuffled around the side of it so the coming car wouldn’t see him. Shutting his eyes, he silently counted to ten as the car kept on moving right past him, maintaining the same speed all down the road until it turned the corner and was out of sight for anyone in the area.

Richard slowly rose from his crouch, carefully looked all around his neighborhood, and when he was satisfied to be alone again, he hurried to get the last of the bags in the car. When he turned back to his house, he stuttered to a quick stop then stepped back at the sight of James Patrick Stuart standing on his front lawn.

For the last ten years, Richard had run his dry cleaners and been a perfect image of a happily married man with two kids and a warm home. The image was what the neighbors all saw at weekend barbeques and soccer games, but in the darker hours of the night, he answered to the man in front of him.

“Hello, Richie,” Stuart said calmly, almost happily.

“Mr. Stuart,” Richard mumbled with a nod.

“Are you and the Missus taking the kiddos on vacation?”

He was … or at least, that’s what he would tell his family when he was planning to wake them in the coming minutes.

“Maybe to Walt Disney World?” Stuart guessed. “See a little bit of Universal Studios? Surely could be fun, but you’ll end up sweating like a pig in that heat.”

Richard’s heart beat impossibly fast and his hands shook in fear. “No, no,” he insisted, “just a family emergency.”

“Oh? Is it your mother’s heart again? We can send someone to look in on her.”

“Don’t you dare!” he shouted, nostrils flaring and hands fisting tight at his sides. Warm tears built in his eyes as the thought of one of Stuart’s men stepping foot inside his childhood home, of them approaching his mother and laying even a finger on her.

Stuart stayed in his spot and only moved to slip his hands into his pants’ pockets, tipping his head to the side as he observed Richard.

And Richard shook in place as he regretted every single thing he’d ever done since Pellegrino, Stuart’s right-hand man, stepped foot into the cleaners. When Pellegrino had promised protection in what used to be a rough neighborhood, where Richard’s father had run the business since the 1970s, where other businesses fought to stay afloat and safe as the years passed.

Stuart shrugged. “Then what’s the hurry, Richie?”

When that protection came with an ever-growing price, and eventually turned into a service for Richard to launder more than clothes - money and drugs that gathered an entirely different clientele but kept his bank account padded and his family well fed.

Then he smiled. “What’s so important you have to run off at,” he checked his bold, silver watch, “two o’clock on a Wednesday morning?”

When those services became too much, and Richard pocketed all the cash in the store and called in an anonymous tip to the organized crime unit, telling them everything about the real business going on at Speight’s Cleaners.

“Richie, are you running away from me?”

When Richard came home and decided they could start a new life on the other coast or stay here and die at the hands of the city’s most powerful crime boss: James Patrick Stuart.

“Did I do something wrong?” After a moment, Stuart tsked. “No, that’s right. It wasn’t me. It was you. You who ratted your own store out and stole my money.” Stuart finally moved, coming closer with slow, methodical steps. “You know what I hate, Richie? I hate rats. And I hate thieves. And I hate cowards who run in the middle of the night after they rat and steal.”

Richard slunk down before the imposing stance of Stuart, cowering over him.

Stuart then leaned in close and whispered, “Especially when it’s ratting on and stealing from me.”

It took a few seconds to notice the second man coming from the side, to see the gun rise in the air, and to feel the muzzle against his forehead. But it didn't matter after the gun went off and the bullet ended the whole charade.



Knee deep in paperwork is no way to get through life, son.

That’s what Jensen’s first Commanding Officer told him when they stopped a seventy-something grandma blowing past a stop sign out on March Avenue. Jensen believed the guy, too, because Steven Williams was old and hardened, and may have spent a few too many decades in vice, but the son of a bitch seemed to love it.

Bossing around the Patrol, nagging the ones who couldn’t keep their bar-pins straight or the duty belt nestled up high enough to maintain clean lines of the navy uniform. Jensen learned a lot from the man, spent his late teens and early twenties earning his trust, stockpiling treasures like you can love your informants, but don’t love them into a hotel room.

A hundred ditties like that have been catalogued in Jensen’s brain for any such occasion the job calls for, but he’s never been able to escape the dreaded brown files that make him detail nearly every move.

He’s only four pages in, times and dates and details swirling together on the Confidential Informant he fed donuts and coffee to that morning. He should be further along, but his eyes are crossing over his own handwriting and he hasn’t yet put two and two together.

This wasn’t what where he wanted to be at this point in his career: sitting behind a desk and reading files. He wanted to be out on the street, but it was the only condition where the brass would let him stay on the force after he’d defied orders a few too many times in the field. Now he was stuck in an office, spinning his wheels and trying to make sense of his informant’s news.

Murray had told him Stuart had a new line for drug sales in Buckingham. That there was a new crew making deliveries, but someone was aiming to stop it.

Jensen hasn’t heard a whisper on any of that. Doesn't have any knowledge or intel on another run of drug pushers trying to hold tight to any area that Stuart hasn’t already declared as his own.

Maybe Murray is lying. He is a street-level rat, after all, just looking for payday from police who are hungry for information.

When the phone rings, Jensen happily flaps the folder shut and picks up the receiver before the second ring can end.

“Sergeant Ackles, B.O.C.,” he states routinely then awaits something interesting on the other end.

“She’s gone.”

Instantly, he looks up and around the office. Half a dozen other officers are going about their business, moving around in their seats or to one another’s cubicles. “Since when?”

“Radio went out ten minutes ago. No warning.”

Jensen’s fingers clench around the receiver and he sits at the edge of his chair. “Where?”

“Out in Riverview.” There’s a rustle of movement on that end of the line, and the phone is passed from Whitfield over to Manns.

“It’s been twelve minutes,” Manns says quickly, “maybe too early to panic?”

Rolling his eyes, Jensen chuckles without humor. “And yet you called me?”

“Just keeping you informed.”

“Where’s the truck?”

“We’re just two blocks out from the meeting point.”

He searches his memory, sifting through random comments or messages from a throwaway phone that kept everyone’s position secure. “What meeting?”

“They’re hauling a pallet of G out to Buckingham.”

“Son of a bitch.”

There’s a short pause then an awkward chuckle. “You didn’t know?”

“No, I knew … but I didn’t know.”

“Wait … what?”

Jensen sighs and leans back in his chair. “Fucking Murray was right. I hate it when Murray’s right.”

Manns chuckles again, this time more in mocking. “At least he earned those fifty bucks.”

He waves off the thought and gets back to the issue at hand. “Keep your lines open and get me on the phone the second you get her back. I’m coming your way …”

Half an hour later, he’s out at the truck with Manns and Whitfield. The only update they have is a few seconds worth of video with a dark Volvo passing the truck and heading to the Warehouse District.

Jensen’s cell phone rings, and he can’t decide if the news is better or worse.

"She's been arrested."

Jensen pulls his phone away to stare at the display, tiny digital numbers he can’t recognize beyond something in the center of the city.

Then they fall into place and he recognizes that this call is little more than a courtesy. One Police Place didn't call many people below Captain.

Jensen tucks the cell closer to his ear. As if this would help erase the whole situation. "What happened?"

“Someone from the two-seven broke in and nabbed her.”

It wasn’t wholly unexpected, but his mood sours at the predicament. Especially coming from someone as high up as Jeffrey Dean Morgan, a Deputy Commissioner with the sharply-ironed angles of his uniform and the barrage of bars and stars across his shirt.

“You might want to grab her before they find out what she is.”

He jumps out of the back of the faux-heating truck. “I’m on my way.” He stumbles to a stop just before his car, biting down on his tongue for a second. “And don’t let them take her past the cages.”

“This is your girl.”

“You can’t make a call to stall things?”

“This is as far as I get involved. Now go get your package.”

And he does, with little instruction to Manns beyond packing it up and registering any tapes they were able to get. His drive back into town and far over to the eastern part towards the two-seven is made in a tense silence. He doesn’t bother with the radio, doesn’t listen to anything aside from his own voice going over everything.

Jensen didn't want to be a babysitter any more than she wanted one. Danneel was a big girl, but he was still responsible for every move she made, even when they didn’t talk as often as he would like.

The front desk at the two-seven makes him flash his badge, forces a lie out when he explains his presence as directly related to a prostitution ring out in the one-nine. He claims Miss Graul is one of his witnesses and is needed back in his custody for an early-morning court appearance. The lie gets him up to narcotics, and Jensen continues to put on the charade once there, even as he wonders how the hell this came about …

Sure, narcotics tracking down a load of meth is exactly what it should be doing, but Jensen was promised space when it came to Stuart.

A female detective in street clothes approaches Jensen once he’s entered the area. She sizes him up, cocks her head, and she must be a sharp one because he gets the feeling she automatically reads him as one of them.

“What can we do you for, Sergeant?” she asks with her hands on her hips.

He opens his mouths, mentally retorts am I that obvious?, then nods towards the back corner where he sees a few bars that make up the unit’s holding cell. “The front desk said to ask for Rhodes?”

“And you are?”

“Vice. The name’s Ross.”

She eyes him warily. “Ross? That a first name or a last?”

“A little of both,” he replies with a put-upon smile. “I’m here for Elta Graul.”

She gives him a short nod. “You’re in the right place, but that girl ain’t going anywhere until after her arraignment.”

“Actually, she is, because she’s a witness set for court in the morning.”

“That’s funny,” Rhodes replies with a smirk. “Because she’s been telling my partner that she’s nothing more than Suzie Homemaker.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Jensen mumbles then clears his mouth. “Can I talk to her?”

She lifts one sharp eyebrow and Jensen does the same, though less in judgment and more in confusion, and maybe a little bit of hope that she lets him. “I’m sure you won’t mind if my partner and I join you?”

Jensen motions forward. “Be my guest.”

Rhodes leads him back to the cage, where a tall-extremely tall-man is leaning against the bars and obviously growing more and more wearied over the tale being spun before him.

“I’m telling you,” Danneel-playing her undercover role as a Southern tart out of Louisiana, complete with a syrupy drawl-says as she rests against the other side of the cell so she’s oh-so-close to the officer. “I haven’t done a single thing wrong here. It’s all a big misunderstanding.”

“Oh, I’m sure, sweetheart,” the detective returns with an unamused smirk.

“If you just let me have my one phone call, we can get this all straightened out.” She tilts her head to the side, long, wavy, auburn hair sliding off her bare shoulder and putting the low cut of her dress on display. “Then you and I can talk other business.”

Detective Rhodes raises her eyebrow again and slants a sharp look in Jensen’s direction. “You sure this is your star witness?”

“You should see the rest of the case,” he jokes, but it falls flat, especially when the male detective-presumably, Rhodes’ partner-turns to them with a sharp look.

“What’s this?” he asks while critiquing Jensen, head to toe and back up again.

Jensen can’t lie that the search is one part irritating and a large part curious, because he also can’t pretend that this guy isn’t unnaturally attractive with the strong lines of his shoulders covered in a soft sweater and the length of his legs in dark jeans. Jensen’s been on the force for 17 years, and it isn’t often he’s comes across and officer with a face that doesn’t look like it was beaten in from long hours on the job.

“This is Sergeant Ross,” Rhodes introduces. “Claims he needs Graul for a court appearance in the morning.”

The man turns back to Danneel, puts on a fake pout, and grants her a pretty powerful set of puppy dog eyes. “Oh, sweetheart, I thought you had four kids to get back to out in the ‘burbs.”

“Look,” Jensen breaks in with the easiest smile he can offer under this performance, “I’m sure you guys got plenty of other folks to process. Let me get her out of your hair.”

Rhodes narrows her eyes. “Let you. Oh, honey, I bet that pretty face and mouth gets you a whole lot of favors across the district, but not when we’ve got one of Olsson’s business partners in custody.”

Jensen’s eyes widen ever so slightly, all out of reflex. He tries to pull back his reaction and instead glares at Danneel-both in aggravation for what the situation really is and for what it should reflect to these two detectives from a detective who just wants to take a witness into his custody. He sighs and rolls his eyes at the detectives. “So, what? You wanna arraign her? Let one of Olsson’s hoods come and bail her out in the morning, make you all look like a joke for letting her out ROR?”

“Excuse me?” the male detective asks, forcing himself into Jensen’s personal space, glaring down with a stern brow that belies the charming smile and deep dimples he’d had when talking to Danneel-albeit mockingly. “What kind of vice Muppet do you think you are??”

Even as he scoots a foot back, Jensen continues with the faked interest. “Hey, I’m just saying that if you wanna leave the DA hanging with a pair of empty cuffs-”

“Alright boys, put your sticks back in your pants,” Rhodes insists. She now stands between them, shooting a dark look at each, then pats her partner on the chest. “Padalecki, why don’t you get some transfer papers? And you-” Rhodes pokes her finger in the center of Jensen’s chest, makes him flinch back and touch his shirt to make sure she didn’t pierce through with how hard she got him, and stands right in front of him. “You can sit here and sign all the duplicates we need for chain of command if you’re that interested in a pro like her.”

Jensen doesn’t see her, but he hears Danneel huff with offense. He’s not up for paperwork, doesn’t need a trail explaining how he made this one go away, but sure, he’ll play their game for another few minutes. “Yeah, that’s cool. I’ll sign anything you need.”

“Here’s the first batch,” the guy-Padalecki, for which his name does nothing for him, though the derisive smile actually does something to Jensen’s groin-says as he drops a stack of papers on the nearest table. “You may wanna grab a seat. Those gumshoes of yours could get a little soft.”

“Yeah, sure, no problem,” Jensen forces out while pulling a chair over to the table. He pats his pockets as he slouches to sit, then looks up at Rhodes and Padalecki. “How about a pen, maybe some coffee?”

“Oh, sure, you want a fresh croissant, too?” Padalecki asks, but doesn’t bother waiting for an answer as he walks away.

Rhodes tosses a pen at him, nails Jensen in the neck, then turns back to her desk.

There’s no real offense here as he’s lost their attention and has a chance to look at Danneel without prying eyes. He flips his hand out with a what the hell? kind of motion and look on his face.

She rolls her eyes in response, slips her hands through the bars, and rests her elbows on the horizontal bracket keeping the cell together. When she wiggles her fingers, he realizes she’s not cuffed, and it might not take much to get her out of here without any notice.

Jensen shuffles through the paperwork to the page where the person of interest is required to sign off in agreement that he or she is now in his custody.

“Hey, so, uh,” Jensen says aloud, gathering Padalecki’s stubborn attention from where the guy is now across the room at his desk.

“Yeah,” he replies shortly.

“There’re a few parts where I need her John Hancock.”

Padalecki sighs, rises to his full height, stretches a bit taller as he walks, and surprisingly unlocks the cage without further argument.

Jensen flashes his most charming smile at Padalecki once Danneel has stepped out from behind the bars. “Thanks. And maybe that coffee, too?”

“You got it, princess.”

He doesn’t argue the slight, because Padalecki is then around the corner to fetch a drink, Rhodes still has her back to the rest of the room, and Jensen now has Danneel’s elbow in his tight grip as he leads them out of the unit.

They remain silent until they’re in the elevator alone, riding down three floors to the lobby. “You’re a fucking moron,” he grits out between his clenched teeth.

“And you’re cranky,” she shoots back, wrenching her arm out of his grip. “What’s that all about?”

“Gee, I dunno … my undercover goes missing, gets arrested, and then I have deal with the Mod Squad to get you out of there.”

Danneel stands straight, even while barefoot with her heels likely in evidence. “You could’ve let me stay.”

“Yeah, sure,” he snorts. “Let you spend some time in GenPop while the Narcs go after Olsson.” He shifts towards her and quickly changes the subject. “What the hell was he doing there anyway?”

“Hell if I know? Stuart asked Wade to take part of the shipment out to Buckingham. He called it a fresh investment.”

“And then?”

Danneel sighs. “And then Wade ran a freaking red light and a patroller got us with a moving violation and the package in the trunk.”

“That fucking guy …”

“Yeah, and now narcotics is onto him … which screws us over.”

“Not yet. Maybe those two upstairs won’t look too far into it.”

“You really think so?” she asks with a cynical quirk of her mouth.

“Well, they didn’t bother keeping an eye on us …”

Jensen holds his breath as the elevator doors slide open, hopeful there won’t be more narcotics officers standing before them. There aren’t, and Jensen smoothly walks through the lobby of the police station with Danneel sauntering beside him. “Cut that out,” he mumbles from the side of his mouth, “you’re drawing attention.”

“My mama always said ‘a proud hen never backs down’.”

He smiles a little, bites into the corner of his mouth to avoid showing off in front of the few patrolmen watching them leave. He doesn’t need to be too proud, but she has a point; they escaped this little mess.

For now.





There’s a flurry of noise all around Jensen as he grabs the morning newspaper and drops a few bills on the counter of the corner street shop. City noise with horns and whistles and people on cell phones doesn’t disrupt his morning routine, especially when he’s lining up his talking points for a meeting with the ADA covering his case in twenty.

“Hey, Ross!”

The voice is insistent, loud, calling out again, and Jensen subtly looks around. Nothing, and no one, grabs his attention any further so he keeps walking until the voice is now beside him.

“I don’t know why I’m shocked.”

Jensen glances to his left and then up and up to the tight face of Detective Padalecki. “Jesus!” Jensen gripes as he flinches a few feet away. “Warn a guy before you just slide up on him.”

Padalecki seems a bit smug at this point, but Jensen won’t acknowledge it. He’s not up for acknowledging this exchange at all, because it can’t be good that the guy is out of his district and trailing Jensen.

They continue walking, Padalecki’s long legs keeping him perfectly in step with Jensen’s, which is further irritating. “A little out of your area,” Jensen jokes, “aren’t you, detective?”

“Yeah, but you know, I gotta go where my CIs are.” He stops Jensen before they can cross the next street with his palm firm and warm at the center of Jensen’s chest. “Funny thing about that … I was just across the street, having a lovely conversation with my informant, when suddenly he’s spooked … and I’m thinking, maybe his old boss is hanging around the area again, but then I remember, no, I took that trash out last year and he’s serving five to ten for distributing to minors.”

Jensen removes Padalecki’s hand, takes his time to stare at him, and then shrugs. “And what’s that got to do with me?”

“Well, apparently my CI wants to run back into hiding because of you.”

“What?” Jensen laughs, turning back towards the crosswalk. “That’s absurd.”

“That’s what I thought.” Padalecki stops Jensen again, this time poking Jensen near the collarbone. “Until he told me that you have him on the payroll, too.”

Jensen shakes Padalecki off and smoothly smiles. “I have no clue what or who you’re talking about, but it sounds like your CI ain’t holding up his end of the bargain and is trying to skirt away from helping you out.”

“So, I wasted a hundred bucks to find out your name isn’t Ross and that you’re not really in Vice?”

The guy seems a bit smug, yet still annoyed with Jensen’s refusal to answer.

“Why don’t you tell me who you really are?”

Jensen chuckles, tries to move away again, yet is stopped with two hundred pounds of angry detective now standing toe-to-toe.

“And why don’t you tell me how it is that you got my detainee out of my building without so much as a peep on anyone’s radar?”

Now, Jensen’s washed of all humor and stares right into Padalecki’s eyes, doing his best to not appear rattled. He isn’t, really, but it’s no time to start.

“Or how I got stuck with an empty pair of handcuffs when Olsson jumped bail. Just like you said I would.”

“Some things … you learn on the job,” Jensen offers. “Gotta cut your teeth on something, right?” When the narc is offended and stuck in place, Jensen quickly moves around him and swiftly across the street. Of course, it only takes twenty seconds for the guy to catch back up with him.

“Murray says you’re running with the Bureau of Organized Crime."

Murray, that fucking rat, Jensen rants to himself, then muses that a CI is a rat from the start, always will be one.

“What does organized crime want with Graul and Olsson?”

“What do you want with them?”

“To get them behind bars.”

They’re now at the corner facing the County Building, and Jensen knows he can’t have Padalecki following him there, especially not to the people he’s meeting with. Part of the promises made with Morgan included the widest net of secrecy over this whole matter, especially where Danneel was concerned.

Jensen shrugs with a whatever kind of notion in him. “Well, then you keep on living the dream and run down Olsson.”

“And what about Graul?”

“Graul’s my business,” he replies firmly, protective veneer rising to the occasion. They’ve been buddies since training and he's her only connection outside of Stuart’s organization. He’s not about to let anyone else in on that secret.

Padalecki nods and scowls. “I always heard B.O.C. liked to keep a piece on the side.”

Jensen narrows his eyes then is distracted by his cell ringing. The Caller ID makes him curse. ADA Sterling Brown. He’s late for his meeting and that won’t help his argument to get a warrant for Olsson now that the dealer's tied to Stuart’s drug trafficking … which lights a bulb in Jensen’s head and he smiles at Padalecki.

“How about this …. You’re looking for some help on Olsson-”

Padalecki grunts. “I wouldn’t call it help …”

“And you’re letting me get away with stealing your arrest-”

“I’m not really letting you anythi-”

“So we settle things with a little mutual back scratching.” Jensen spreads his hands out with ease and smiles. “I’ll tell you what I know about Graul and you can give me insight into Olsson.”

Padalecki seems to think on it, but of course doesn’t bite immediately. “Why would I do that?”

“To get a leg up on the guy.”

“And why would you do that?”

“Just helping out a coworker.” He grins once again, feeling a bit giddy and childlike for coming up with this plan so suddenly. He goes as far as good-naturedly patting the back of his hand on Padalecki’s chest. “The beers are on me.”

It’s more than obvious that the guy is suspicious, but he buys it, trades numbers, and watches Jensen head off to the County Building. Jensen boldly waves back at Padalecki once there are a full four lanes of asphalt between them, and happily marches into the building.

Up on the fifteenth floor, Jensen joins a tense conference room with ADA Brown, Jensen’s boss-Lieutenant Omundson-and, surprisingly, Deputy Commissioner Morgan.

“Ackles, so glad you could bother to join us,” Morgan declares in a booming voice.

“Sorry, sir, just had a bit of a development on the case.”

“And what is that?” Brown asks in his typical bored, tired, and skeptical nature. He adjusts the lapel on his high-priced, pinstriped suit jacket and rolls his head over to glower at Jensen. “Got another undercover arrested?”

“Uh, no, not that,” Jensen stammers out while lowering himself into a chair at the far end of the room, being careful to keep enough space between them so no one can wring his neck out, like they all appear to wish they could do. “But relatedly … the detective that’s tracking Olsson has agreed to share his case.”

“Ty Olsson?” his boss asks.

“Yeah, that’s who D and Wade were meeting up with.”

“Before or after Wade got them arrested?” Brown smarts off.

Jensen shrugs, unhappy with the state of that situation as well. “He’s not the brightest bulb.”

“Why didn’t we try to get Wade on our side as well?” Morgan asks. “We could’ve avoided the arrest entirely.”

“See my prior statement,” Jensen says with a flippant move of his hand. “But apparently Olsson is now getting into the drug trade with Stuart. Olsson’s who they were meeting, but he's now out on bail, probably about to skip any charges with a big-time lawyer on staff.”

“Did you know about this beforehand?”

Jensen opens his mouth to answer, then tries to build a better one than kinda. “Well-”

“Well isn’t a good start,” Morgan grumbles.

“A CI gave us a lead,” he defends quickly. “But I wasn’t quite there by the time it all went down. Manns and Whitfield were trailing her, but she cut and dumped the wire before the patrol officer could get to it.” Jensen sits forward, getting some fire in him to fight for running on this new track. “The narcotics guy wants to figure out what the hell me and D have to do with this, and how I got her out of there. He’s thirsty and probably willing to give up a lot of stories. We already have plans for tomorrow to sit down.”

“And what are you giving up?” Lt. Omundson asks slowly.

“Nothing more than Graul’s background. I’m not giving him anything that can’t be heard on the streets, but it’ll be new to him.”

All three share a silent look then turn back to Jensen. Brown’s the first to speak: “Who’s the guy?”

“Padalecki.” There’s another quick glance between them and Jensen feels the tension rise up towards the ceiling. “What? Is there something I should know about this guy?”

“Probably everything,” Brown says. “Because I’ve never heard of him, myself.”

“That might not be bad.”

“Might not be good. If he’s not on anyone’s radar, why’s he suddenly up for chatting with you?”

Jensen leans back and taps the table. “Maybe it’s my sparkling personality.”

Morgan clears his throat and the noise echoes around the room, burrowing into Jensen’s hearing like a low drum that unsettles his bones. The man rises, runs a hand down the decorated front of his uniform, and then tucks his hat into the crook of his elbow. “We’ve got enough holes in the department, not to mention B.O.C., specifically. I’m not excited about another officer being pulled into this effort.”

Straightening in his chair, Jensen grows serious to match the Deputy Commissioner’s tone. The man’s not wrong; none of them are. This undercover operation was approved to worm their way into Stuart’s organization without a swarm of insects crawling all over it and disrupting a chance to bring down the county’s biggest boss. Jensen’s been doing his best to sidestep any possible mole, rat, or cockroach milling around the department.

“Of course not, sir,” Jensen says gravely. “Neither am I. But I’m not about to turn away a shot to peek into a new connection. At the very least, we draw another line to Stuart. Not to mention get Narcotics off D’s tail.”

Morgan clears his throat again, nodding at the room. “You all figure it out and Timmy can brief me on it later. Good day.”

Jensen makes sure he’s out of Morgan’s line of sight before mouthing Timmy at Brown, who narrows his eyes yet seems a little bit amused by the situation.

“You hear me?” Morgan demands and they all return with yes, sir!

Once the door is closed with Morgan on the other side, there’s a collective sigh, and Jensen eyes his boss. “So, we’re good on this?”

“Don’t screw this up,” Omundson says as he stands, pointing a firm finger in Jensen’s direction.

Jensen clears his throat and nods. “No intention to, sir.”

“What’s the story on Speight?”

In his mind, all the facts line up and he’s spitting them out rapid fire. “Cause of death is a bullet to the head. Another four bullets to the chest didn’t help matters. Coroner puts it at approximately three in the morning. No one woke up, not even his wife or his two kids. They were all asleep in the house just twenty yards away, so it must’ve been a silencer. His car was shaken up, but it doesn’t look like anything was taken.”

“So they’re faking a robbery?” Brown asks.

“I can only assume at this point,” Jensen admits, disappointed in that fact. “Danneel’s heard some chatter regarding Speight’s place, but nothing concrete.”

"Who's covering the case?"

"Homicide in the ninth precinct. Rosenbaum."

“And what do they say about Stuart’s alibi?” Omundson questions, though he’s rolling his eyes so it appears he doesn’t hold much water in there being a chance to go after the criminal.

Jensen sighs and shakes his head. “Says he was home asleep with his wife.” Before anyone can ask more questions, Jensen rattles off, “His wife confirms it without question. Daughter says he was up early the next morning to make them all breakfast. And before you ask, it was well after five that either of them saw him, so it’s not a safe alibi, but it’s not one we can crack yet.” After a quick breath, he tacks on, “I did get a ledger from Speight at our last meeting, so I’m hoping to find something in there.”

“You haven’t looked at it yet?” Brown sighs.

“Excuse me?” Jensen laughs. “What do you think I am? Lazy? Of course I have, but nothing’s jumped out at me yet. It’s like all the notes are too obvious when I’m trying to tie it to Stuart.”

“Maybe Harris could read something into it?” Omundson offers, and Jensen nods, thinking it’s not a terrible idea at all.

“Next time I see her, I’ll ask.”

“Good.” Omundson moves to the door then makes a point to stop in place and slowly turn back to the room. “And Ackles? Don’t screw this up.”

His Lieutenant leaves Jensen alone with the ADA, and Jensen huffs and shakes his head. “Like I need a reminder.”

“Maybe you do,” Brown points out. “About a few things, actually.”

Now Jensen itches to leave. He’s not ready to take on another lecture about procedures and confidentiality. Jensen’s spent 18 years on the force; he’s not a rookie on his first detail.

“So, while we’re at it,” Brown says, rocking back in his office chair, “I might as well bitch at you for showing up late.”

Jensen huffs and rolls his eyes. “Oh, give me a break, Sterl.”

“I hate Sterl,” he says quickly.

“And I hate being smacked on the knuckles for tardiness.”

Brown smirks and settles back in a comfortable recline. “You really think you can get something out of this Pada-whatever guy?”

“We got off on the wrong foot, but I think it’s possible.”

“So, you’re up for betting on it?”

“That I get laid?” Jensen jokes. “Maybe.”

Brown rolls his eyes then taps at the table. “So what’s the deal with the phones at Stuart’s auto shop?”

Jensen shakes his head in frustration. “They’ve been clean. A few calls with a lot of talking, but we can’t figure out even half the code they’re using now. They refer to a Mr. Flowers all the time, cleaning up messes and sweeping things under the rug.”

“You think a clean-up crew for the murders?”

“They haven’t really been cleaning up much lately. Look at Speight,” Jensen points out. “But maybe they’re dropping more bodies than we’re picking up.”

“And the cells of his employees?”

“Gone.” He inhales a sharp breath and gives Brown a twisted smile. “I watched one toss it in the garbage then buy a track phone from the little shop on the corner.”

Now Brown laughs. “They’ve got you tagged.”

“Brazen little shits,” he grumbles.

“Well, we need something. The video helping with anything?”

“Whitfield reports plenty of meetings. A lot of the big guys show up to talk to him. Roché, Lehne, Richings. But without audio …”

“What about lip reading?”

Jensen scoffs and lightly smacks his hands on the table. “They conveniently turn away from the street when they chat.”

“So,” Brown draws out, “we finally found a criminal smarter than you.”

“Not yet,” Jensen replies firmly. “I’ll get my man sooner or later.”



Jensen had thought he had everything in line to get the information he needed. Padalecki showed up early, grabbed them a table at a quiet dive bar on the west side of town, and got his questions out before they even had bottles in hand. Still, Jensen had easily steered the conversation in other directions, finding out Padalecki was an implant from Iowa, born and bred on corn but always looking for big city living. He jumped around a few metropolitan police forces until finally settling here in narcotics and, just like it had appeared early on, he wasn’t up for messing around when it came to his case.

Jensen also finds out that Olsson had come up through childhood with Mark Sheppard, who got off from serving 25 to life for homicide with the sudden loss of an eye witness. All other circumstantial evidence led to an involuntary manslaughter and ten years that were cut short thanks to good behavior, yet Sheppard’s seemed to have dropped off the radar since then.

After five years of silence, Olsson was picking up the reins and reviving the business. Padalecki had no proof of the connections, but he did have the sign-in logs at the maximum security prison Sheppard had spent six years in, and Olsson was a frequent visitor. Not much of it meant anything to Jensen-at least, not anything he couldn’t find for himself-but at least he was now aware of how far into Olsson’s history Jared was digging.

“And what about Elta Graul?” he asks while Jensen finishes off his third beer. Padalecki's first remains on the table with at least an inch left in the bottle.

“What about her?”

“How are you tied to her?”

Jensen chuckles, leans back in the booth with his arm over the back of the seat. He shrugs and watches how Padalecki bristles at the loose attitude. “I already told you … we had a bust in the one-three, she was one of a dozen girls in a high-class brothel, and now here we are. You and me.”

Padalecki keeps Jensen’s gaze, but he’s unimpressed. “And I already told you that Murray gave you up as B.O.C. So, what do they want with her?”

Of course, Jensen had hoped that tidbit had left Padalecki’s radar, but here he is staring down the one million dollar question. “It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got all night, Sergeant.”

Jensen spins his empty bottle from the neck, eyes Padalecki from the corner of his eye. “Do you really, Detective Padalecki?”

He’d meant it more as a distraction, yet the way Padalecki’s cheeks pink up and his eyes slant away tells Jensen something else entirely. And he’s up for following the game, yet also knows it could create more harm than good, especially where Danneel’s undercover status stands.

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

Jensen finds that he perhaps means that, harnessing the will to keep Danneel protected every second of the day.

“Jared.”

He watches Padalecki’s harsh stare settle into something defeated yet open. “What?”

“My name’s Jared. If you’re gonna bother flirting with me, you might as well use my first name.”

“Okay,” Jensen replies slowly, weighing the situation and wondering where exactly it’s heading. “Jared.”

“And you are?”

He thinks on how to respond and settles on leaning on the table, arms crossed, and aiming a soft, flirty smile in Jared’s direction. “Delighted to meet you.”

He soon finds he is delighted to get to know Jared, because once the narc loosens up and is steered off the discussion of Danneel’s undercover assignment, their conversation aligns, firing on all cylinders, and Jensen easily forgets that they’ve met under the circumstances they did. So much so that when it’s nearing midnight and Jared says he should head out, Jensen offers to walk out with him. And to the parking lot, to Jared’s car, and up against Jared’s body when they’re standing a bit too close and Jared just goes for it.

Jared’s got Jensen tugged up close, mouth opening into Jensen’s, hand tight at the back of Jensen’s neck, and Jensen finds himself incapable of stopping it. Nor does he want to.

The kiss is deep and frantic, nearly knocking Jensen out at the knees and tearing the air out of his chest. When Jared pulls back and they struggle for air, Jensen swears he’s stuck underwater, all sounds warped in his ears and his limbs floating.

“Holy fuck,” Jensen mumbles, wiping his mouth and covering it as he stares up at Jared’s intense stare.

“So, now that that’s out of the way … you wanna tell me why you took Graul?”

It’s a punch to the gut and Jensen staggers back a few steps. “And here I thought we were getting along.”

With a big hand wrapped around Jensen’s belt, Jared hauls him back in, diving down to start up another round of manic kissing. Jensen’s hands find their way up Jared’s neck, into his hair. Jared’s hands keep Jensen right in place while his tongue plunged deep into Jensen’s mouth, sliding all slick and fast, twirling around Jensen’s and making him dizzy-headed all over again.

Then it stops, just as suddenly as the last time, and Jared huffs out, “What does Graul have to do with Olsson?”

When Jensen can stand back on two feet and see Jared’s face, he puts a hand up between them and chuckles to himself. “Before I start calling myself a victim, I feel like this is quite the run of mixed signals. Do you wanna fuck me or interrogate me?” Jared now appears just as lust-blown as Jensen feels, with his pupils gone wide, hair a mess, and lips all pink and bitten. “Or both?”

Jensen licks his lower lip as he waits for answer. Jared’s salty flavor is all over his mouth, and he feels his fingers tingle at the thought of what else Jared tastes like.

Apparently the quick move of Jensen’s mouth is enough to spur Jared back into action. He grabs Jensen again, turns them, and rests against Jensen against the department-issue Explorer Jared was supposed to have left in a long time ago.

Now Jensen can feel Jared’s dick in his pants, at least half-cocked and pressing into Jensen’s hip. He figures Jared can feel much the same in a moment’s time because the thought of them fucking around right here, right now, with so little known between them is firing Jensen up.

Somehow, something else comes into view. “This is a terrible idea,” Jensen mutters as Jared’s mouth hovers over his own, heavy breaths exchanged without them moving another inch.

“I thought maybe Graul was some girl you kept on the side,” Jared whispers, “someone you liked to screw in between grand juries, and that you’d look the other way every time she was arrested.”

“Maybe she is,” Jensen mumbles back.

Jared rocks forward, making Jensen keen and shut his eyes because all he wants is to grab hold of Jared’s ass to rub right off on him until they both come like a couple of messy juveniles on their first date. “But maybe she’s not really your type?”

Jensen chuckles a little, tries to back off and is reminded he’s stuck against the passenger-side door of Jared’s vehicle. “Look, we can’t really mix business and pleasure here …”

“You’re right,” Jared murmurs and slides a fraction back. They’re now staring at one another, and there’s nothing readable in Jared’s eyes, which are dark and wide, and seem to swallow Jensen whole. “Do you have a preference here?”

Jensen thinks on it and even when he has his answer near immediately, he knows he has to carefully craft his response. “We’re two good-looking guys, who are obviously a bit interested,” he sneaks in with a quick look down towards their waists, still pressed together. Jared slips forward enough to make Jensen change his statement. “Okay, a lot interested.” Then he sobers as well as he can under the fog of lust and want. "But I can’t give you the answers you want with Graul. So, if you’re trying to sneak in a side door, distracting me with what is apparently a really impressive dick and a great mouth, it’s not gonna work.”

The muscles in Jared’s throat work through a harsh swallow, and his eyes drift a bit south, settling somewhere around Jensen’s chest. It’s obvious Jared is now thinking through the moment and trying to plan his next move.

With careful hands, Jensen attempts to wedge some space between them, back Jared up enough that Jensen can slide out from against the car. Jared holds his spot, though, and looks Jensen in the eyes. “You really screwed up my case with your stunt.”

His chest tightens and he licks his lips, looking away with a bit of regret for ruining another detective’s work. “It wasn’t personal.”

“How could it be? We hardly know each other.”

To ease off the seriousness, Jensen smirks and lifts an eyebrow. “Well, we know a bit more about one another now.” When Jared snorts, Jensen tries, “And it’s not like it was bad, or anything.”

“So, what? After a terrible first impression, I’m your bud?”

There’s something honest and heartfelt in Jared, even with his bitterness leaking through, and Jensen finds himself fondly smiling at the guy. “The second impression definitely improved the situation.”

It’s quiet for a few moments then Jensen winks, Jared purses his lip in a hidden smile, and they’re back to kissing. Not nearly as rough as before, they take their time, as if mapping out new routes with their lips, tongues, and hands. Jensen finally lets his hands trail south, running his over Jared’s tight ass and groping, pulling, kneading. Jared wraps his arms around Jensen’s back as he presses the entire length of his body over Jensen, until he must lose all patience. Jared slides a hand down to the SUV’s door handle, pulls them away from the vehicle, yanks the door open, then ushers them into the back bench seat.

There is hardly room for them, but Jensen isn’t complaining when he’s crushed beneath Jared’s body with his pants opening and Jared’s hand slipping inside. They huff and pant as they try to make it work inside the cramped space, and Jensen reaches does to cup Jared through his jeans, all while Jared gets Jensen’s dick out and strokes it with that giant, warm hand of his.

Jensen tries to move around to get a better angle down to Jared’s pants, or even up to kiss him, and they bump heads and arms and knees the whole time. Jensen kicks the inside of the window with his legs stretching wide to finally let Jared rest between them so their dicks are aligned in Jared’s hand.

He feels like he’s back in college when he first found his sexuality, experimenting in cars and closets, dastardly hiding from anyone who could ever question why he’d suddenly found himself attracted to boys. It’s not as shameful as back then, but it’s far more exhilarating to be crushed together with Jared, a colleague of sorts, and a man more beautiful than any Jensen’s seen in a long time. He’s almost giddy when Jared finds the right rhythm and grip to stroke them together, pins and needles pricking all along Jensen’s legs and blood rushing through his system.

Jared whimpers and groans, then drops closer, smashing his mouth against Jensen’s with his tongue reaching far into Jensen’s mouth. Jensen grabs hold of Jared’s face to direct the hard, messy kiss, and assuredly feels the same as Jared with the sudden onslaught of muscle pulses and euphoria slamming into them. Jared breaks first with his come spilling over Jensen’s bare lower abdomen and up to his shirt. The first feel of the wet warmth on Jensen’s skin tells him he’s not going to last much longer, a hot rush of energy running through him just before he groans into Jared’s mouth and bites down on his tongue out of the reflexive muscle strain.

There isn’t much more said aside from Jared apologizing for Jensen’s shirt, and Jensen apologizing for letting it get this far.

And Jared’s small smile and shrugging, “It’s not like it was bad.”

“No, it definitely wasn’t,” Jensen replies. Then thinks, Not at all. “I’ve had my fair share of practice.”

Jared narrows his eyes yet comes around to smile. “Yeah, I bet you have.”



Part Two