Page 103 of The Pleasure of Panic

That’s Darrel. He glances over at me from behind his sunglasses when I slip into the passenger seat of his BMW in the arrivals lane at Denver International Airport.

“Thanks,” I say, shutting the door, and look around at the wide-open sky of Colorado as we pull away and head to the airport exit. “So you’re what? Retired again?”

Darrel just nods his head. He’s not wearing a suit today. Dark slacks, white button-down— untucked and sleeves rolled up to his elbows—and more than a few days’ growth on his face. But the guy still looks official somehow. Like you can just tell you don’t fuck with him.

And after the story he told me back in DC… I have to admit, I’m glad we’re on the same side.

But all that’s yesterday’s news. Today is new. A fresh start. I’m not an FBI agent anymore, but let’s face it. I fucked that shit up a long time ago.

“You decide what to do next?” Darrel asks me. Fuckin’ mind-reader too, I guess.

“Maybe,” I say. “Sorta? Nah,” I finally admit. “I’m just gonna patch things up with Issy and worry about all that other stuff tomorrow.”

He doesn’t ask any questions about that. He was just feeling me out to see if I was on board with keeping my mouth shut. And it’s funny, ya know? How OK I am with keeping my mouth shut.

I shot my father last fall. They told me he died, but they lied. Motherfuckers are always lying. That whole time I was on paid leave for firing my weapon on duty, they were shaking down my old man. Coming up with a plan to weed out the bad seeds and bring some integrity back to this job.

Which is where I come in. They told me, Just go to Denver. Meet up with your contacts. Feel them out and turn them in. That’s all you gotta do and we’ll let you go.

So I did that. Well, I sorta did that. OK, if I’m being honest, I wasn’t doing shit until Issy came along. Until she got me involved in her game. Until I woke the fuck up and realized there were things in this world I wanted to be a part of. People I wanted to get to know. Things I wanted to do.

What I didn’t know, both back then and the night I began playing the game with Issy, was that my father made a deal with them too. To save me, not himself.

He would hand over all his information—all the dirt he knew and who he knew it on—and in exchange, they’d get me out of the life he forced me into.

Yesterday I escorted him to the minimum-security federal prison camp as my last assignment with the FBI.

He made good, turning in both Declan and Senator Walcott. Caleb Kelly was just a bonus, it turns out. No one’s really sure how all that went down.

But that’s because none of those assholes know about Jordan Wells. They think Darrel Jameson was running this play.

He’s good. I’ll give him that. But he’s no Jordan. That motherfucker is brutally twisted.

I like him. I like them both, I decide.

Darrel and I don’t talk the rest of the way into downtown. Just kinda sit there, satisfied with things.

It was hard to watch my dad go. Real hard. But he kept his head up, told me maybe we’d see each other when he got out, and then turned away and walked into the administration building without looking back.

I have a feeling I’ll probably see him again. But I’m gonna let him go for now. Let him find his demons, fight them on his own terms, and figure out his own way forward. A real Zig Ziglar kinda peace washes over me with that thought.

When we get to Issy’s office, Darrel pulls into a no-parking zone a few shops up and says, “Good luck, man,” as he stares straight ahead.

I might never go out and have a beer with good old Darrel here. But if I ever need a hitman, he’s the first guy on my list.

“You too,” I say back.

I get out, close the door, but just as I’m about to walk off, I hear a window slide down and look back at him.

“Hey,” he says.

“Yeah?” I ask back, leaning down into the window.

“I could use some help. If you need a job and shit.”

“What kind of job?” I ask.

“The kind you do.”