Special Agent Logan Waite stood in an abandoned warehouse. Dust motes floated in beams of weak sunlight piercing the broken glass of a skylight. A cold draft sliced through his thin undershirt. Around him, a dozen white supremacists, most of them men, murmured to each other, collectively producing a menacing hum. Many had faces lined with the tension only a lifetime of hatred could create. Others, posing with cigarettes, desperate to appear tough, still had the vitality of youth.
In his mind, Logan quickly replayed the conversation in the briefing room days before. Bathed in the unforgiving fluorescent light that had highlighted her dour expression, SAC Jamie Harper had leaned forward to emphasize the gravity of Logan’s mission. Her voice had been firm as she fixed her eyes on Logan. “You need to get closer to Savage. Start with Curly—he’s tight with Savage and could be your in. Earn his trust, and you might gain access to the inner circle. This gathering will be smaller, but it’ll be a volatile crowd. Stay vigilant.“
Logan focused himself back into the present and breathed shallowly. Anxiety clawed at him, but he was determined to channel that feeling into eagerness as he approached his target. The success of his mission depended on today, on this moment. He was no longer Logan Waite; he was Frankie Mancini from Baltimore. And he hated anyone who wasn’t pure American—white and Protestant.
He put on a smug sneer, puffed up his chest in a false bravado, and prepared to let his voice drip with malice. He would deal later with the disgust churning in his stomach over his false allegiance to an abhorrent ideology. For now, every detail, every word, had to be flawless.
Frankie strutted over to a hulking man, Curtis “Curly” McBride, and flexed his large biceps in his stained wife beater. “Curly,” he growled, jutting his chin. “Let’s talk about Sunday. You see that video Kyle got?” He allowed his lips to curl up. “Not bad, eh?”
He was referring to a staged incident involving another special agent, a Black man named Malcolm, who Frankie had “shot” and left for dead in a carefully orchestrated scene caught on video.
Curly narrowed his eyes and worked his jaw from side to side, processing. “Yeah, I did,” he rumbled. “Frankie, right? From Baltimore?”
“That’s nothing, believe me. I’ve been running jobs since I was a fucking kid. I’ve handled shit the cops don’t even know how to track. You need me. Savage needs me.”
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The mention of the name “Savage”—the elusive leader of the faction—hushed the ambient conversation a degree, and Frankie grinned even more, emboldened by the attention. “I’ve got loyalty, unlike some pieces of shit.” He glanced around at no one in particular, simply for effect.
Curly flashed a predatory smile. “Big talk, Frankie. We’ll see if you can back it up.
“I don’t talk unless I can back it up,” Frankie shot back, maintaining his swagger by flexing harder and folding his arms across his chest. “I’ve got a connection who can provide military-grade hardware. If you’re interested.” He thought about adding a wink but reconsidered, seeing Curly’s face revert to its cold frown.
“Boys like to brag,” came a voice from behind Frankie. A wiry woman in leather pants and a low-cut tank top slinked over to stand next to Curly. The head of a snake tattoo crept up from between her breasts, its tongue appearing to taste her neck. “How do we know you’re not just another mouth?”
“Who the fuck is she?” Frankie blustered to Curly, not acknowledging the woman.
Curly remained silent, his frown unchanging. The woman passed behind Curly, running a finger across his back, before approaching Frankie and holding out a limp wrist. “I’m Tina.” Her feathered bangs, bottle-black except for the gray at the roots, almost reached down to her vicious eyes.
When Frankie ignored her hand, she reached out and felt his bicep, sizing him up. “Hmm,” she purred, then licked her lips. “Let’s say you’re legit. What’s your endgame, Frankie? What’s in it for you?”
Frankie practically shouted, “My country is being run into the ground by people who don’t belong. That’s what’s in it for me. I want my fucking country back.” He flared his nostrils and scowled. “And I want to make sure everyone gets the message.”
Curly grunted. “Alright, alright, we’ll give you a shot.” He gestured for Frankie to come close and whispered, “Tomorrow night at nine. We’re meeting at the water towers up near Langley Park. Don’t bring any dead weight.”
“I’ll be there,” Frankie smirked, turning away to hide his relief. As he walked toward the door to leave, he added, “And I’ll bring more than just talk.”
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As Frankie drove away, he allowed himself to become Logan again, to breathe as himself. His thoughts drifted to his wife, Taryn, and their three kids, Candace, Max, and Rivers. His chest tightened with love, guilt, and fear as he pictured their faces. He thought of his little brother, Phoenix. Nix. That poor kid needed some friends. Nix was too dependent on him, practically worshiped him, Logan knew, but he couldn’t help but indulge him after all they had been through together.
He allowed himself one last moment to reflect on the people he loved, one last pang of grief over his abandonment of them—if only temporary—then he let them go and sank back into his persona. Frankie’s ruthlessness would guide him in the darkness. The only way out was through.