Chapter Text
What was really left for him in New York? Memories? He resigned from his position ADA despite the vocal objections of his now former boss, DA Sam McCoy, who had even called after he packed his belongings and watched as his lifetime friend and foe, the City and People of New York vanish in his rearview mirror.
“Are you sure you wanna do this Rafael?”
“Jack, it’s time for me to move on; as I told Liv.”
The heaviness laced each syllable that formed along his tongue. He had to leave, despite McCoy literally showing up at his place, giving a final stand to convince Barba to stay on.
The jury had found him not guilty of murder, which he was ever thankful for. But, had he been presented with the same situation, he would’ve done it all over again without thinking twice. Baby Drew was dying; dying cell by cell, bit by bit every second of every day he remained on the damned ventilator. His parents were suffering mentally, physically, and spiritually. His father had taken his son “hostage” with a pellet gun, striving in vain to keep the machines from going off. Barba didn’t want to try the case but, Jack McCoy, the unrelenting DA, hard ass and asshole, and his boss had stated rather bluntly, “We’re not in the compassion business, Rafael.”
After the trial, he had been approached by the infant’s parents. Rafael anticipated some intense emotional exchange, anticipating harsh words which would harbor no substance. His chest had constricted, his throat tightened like an invisible noose as they came up to his side. Their eyes displayed not anger or rage but harbored respite towards the man who had been given a taxing and difficult task.
“Mr. Barba, thank you. Our Drew is no longer suffering.”
At least his god would be forgiving when his time to atone arrived. Rather, he would like to think as much…..
Now, life was dealing the former shark of Manhattan a new hand.
One he wouldn’t have anticipated at any point in his once robust career.
“Mr. Barba, we would like to extend this opportunity to be an Assistant District Attorney for the United States District of South Carolina.”
At first, he took it as some sick joke; some former courtroom foe, friend or family member of one of the many suspects now in Riker’s, Attica, or Sing Sing compliments of Barba, but no, it hadn’t been. A few well-placed phone calls to friends in the US Courts in New York revealed there had been a search for a new ADA based in Charleston and apparently, the Federal government didn’t discriminate when it came to being on trial for murder and being a former Manhattan ADA on top of that. Barba couldn’t but help to scratch his head at this sudden change in fortune. Sure, he was skilled in the art of litigation and had a few notable notches on the gavel so to speak, but he held a grain of skepticism even as he started this new chapter of his professional and personal life. His mother had been both elated and heavy hearted at this news, openly weeping as he spent his final day at her apartment.
“Rafi, you know I am so proud of you. Your abuelita would also be so proud of you.”
Lucia’s bittersweet tears caused his own to spring from the corners of his eyes. He rarely cried, Hell, he didn’t shed a single tear at his father’s funeral though that bastard wasn’t worthy of the memorial service held for his worthless abusive corpse.
“I’ll come back and visit, Mami and you can call me anytime.”
Barba took a deep breath, attempting to hold back the emotional spring welling deep within his chest. He hadn’t left New York since he left for Harvard and now the same sensations of uncertainty and excitement experienced in his youth found themselves resurging in his being.
He had read up on Charleston, noting it was nicknamed the Holy City for the density of houses or worship within its confines. At least if he needed to make any confessions a Catholic Church wouldn’t be too far away. He could ditch the heavy coats, scarves, gloves, or other attire that went with living in New York City winters, which wasn’t a bad thing. Snow was novel in the South, with only the mountains to the west seeing any feathery down of winter, though Charleston did have that snow event which New Yorkers, including him, would’ve mocked and laughed at those poor bastards melting down over 5 inches of snow. That was Monday to them. Down here, he could go lighter in apparel though summers were left to be desired but not without saying Manhattan had been cursed with its share of brutal summers. Another drastic difference was the lack of skyscrapers in Charleston. The trees of steel and concrete were absent in the skyline, yielding to a vast gulf of blue. That would take time to adjust to after a lifetime of residing in the shadows of the Manhattan jungle.
Without warning, a red shining in his rearview snapped Barba back from his musings as he spied the state trooper with lights flashing and siren screaming.
“Shit,” he muttered and eased onto the shoulder and sighed irritably. Knowing the drill, the engine went silent and hands came to rest on the top of the steering wheel. All Barba could do was watch as the not so imposing form of the trooper exit her patrol car and make her approach. This was going to be interesting. Profiling was not a novel concept and he was no exception being Cuban-American. Down here in the South, his name bore no value. He witnessed the vile and sometimes bloody and violent consequences of profiling and silently hoped this cop wasn’t one of those who liked to ask about citizenship status.
“Afternoon,” the trooper greeted evenly as Barba looked up and over. She was taller than most women with blonde hair and an accent that sounded Minnesotan or Wisconsan or perhaps Canadian. A pair of “cop shades” rested comfortably on her nose, shielding her eyes from the looming Southern sun. “I clocked you going 80 back there. The speed limit is 70.”
“I am sorry about that.” He found himself inhaling deeply and slowly, attempting to maintain a balanced tone.
“I’ll need your license, registration, and insurance, please.”
Barba leaned over his seat, slowly and methodically, aware of certain incidents involving cops and people of color. Keeping his hands visible, he fished the documents out and presented them to the waiting officer. She accepted the offering and went to run his information.
Well, starting off with a bang, rather a ticket.
He tapped his fingers on the top of the wheel as the trooper continued running his information. His plates were out of state; the second strike. The third? He was driving a 2016 BMW. Cops loved those out of towners driving expensive vehicles; well, Carisi would claim that but then, Carisi loved exaggerating things from time to time.
The slam of a door alerted him she was done. Barba awaited the verdict as she appeared at his window.
“Alright, Mr. Barba, I’m going to let you go with a warning this time; but, please do mind the signs as next time, you may not be so fortunate.” Hanscum returned his documents with a small shake of the head.
“Thank you, Officer Hanscum,” he smiled with relief. Barba expected a ticket but didn’t second guess his good fortune.
“Alright, well you have a nice day.” She added a genuine smile before turning to return to her own car.
Barba decided to use cruise control the rest of the way. His thoughts drifting towards the unknown, wondering what else awaited him in the Holy City.
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Cole shook his head.
He knew Alex was wound up tighter than a Timex. She ALWAYS got that way when they had to serve a Federal warrant. But the former Marine understood her deep-seated apprehensions and anxieties when the District Attorney or FBI came calling, asking they go in hot, whether it was to bust some piece of shit trafficker or assist in conducting a raid or liquidating property or assets. That was the job of a Marshal. The public couldn’t comprehend the depths of what they did; most of which was beyond the stereotypical images of the Wild West and marshals going into Dodge City or Tombstone and busting up drunken cowboys on a Saturday night. Their duties had evolved and expanded as the times and social/political climate did. Hell, just last year he had been part of a detail to protect a high-profile visiting dignitary from some European nation the average American couldn’t find on a map let alone properly pronounce.
“Cole,” Lisa popped in, scurrying towards her desk. “Where’s Alex?”
“Wyatt Earp is in debriefing. You’re good.” He watched the fear ebb like an ocean wave at the mention of their superior cooped up with her superior. “Where’s Deano?”
“Bathroom. After the run in West Ashley, he doesn’t want an encore.”
Cole snickered at his team member’s misfortune. A few months ago, they had conducted an arrest in the affluent West Ashley neighborhood, resulting in aforementioned Deputy Marshal experiencing what Lisa coined, “A bladder mishap.” Cole thought it was funny as Hell seeing how Dean could be a bit of an ass on occasion and being witness to such a humbling moment was schadenfreude.
“Phew!” The subject of their gossip arrived. “I need to start pacing myself.”
“Don’t worry,” Lisa waved his fear away, “The fun hasn’t started yet.”
At that second Alex walked briskly into the room. Standing at 5’5”, U.S. Marshal Alexandra “Alex” Koch was not what most would peg as a Federal law enforcement officer. Her shoulder length chocolate hair was restrained in a neatly coiled bun at the base of her head, skin that was lightly kissed by sun. Her body was concealed by the tactical attire which donned her moderately built frame. Shades rested neatly on the crown of her head, tactical style of course. Holstered to her right thigh was her faithful Glock .40 S&W as its twin was secured tight to her hip. Normally it was one but with it being a high-risk warrant, both were called for duty.
“Are you ladies done gossiping? Because we have a scumbag to bust.”
The Deputies gathered around as Alex laid out the schematics of their target’s property.
“We’re being asked to deliver a warrant on one Alistair Heyerdahl. I’m sure you remember the raid our friends at the FBI did a few years back on the warehouse at Charleston Harbor? That was him. This guy is suspected in trafficking drugs, counterfeit goods, money laundering, and confirmed to have direct involvement in human trafficking. Surveillance confirms his ties to international gangs and possibly international organized crime. This guy is a piece of shit. He’s been able to elude us every single time.”
Jaws and fists clenched at the mention of human trafficking. Alex waved her hand over the schematics and started pointing to access sites and locations, one hand clutched fiercely to the desk’s edge as she spoke; her body leaned across the map, partially eclipsing the diagram.
“So, the FBI will be with us on this providing backup. They don’t want this shitbag to get away either. Now, that said, we will go through the main entrance with agents covering all exits. I want all of you wearing your vests, carrying both weapons.” She paused to peer directly at Dean with a raised eyebrow. Deep rings of cerulean lightened with humor. “You did use the bathroom, right, Winchester?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Alex’s mouth cracked a side smile as Cole and Lisa struggled to quell giggles, taking internal joy in their comrade’s squirming.
“Alright,” she exhaled, removing herself from the edge of the desk with seriousness dominating in her tone. “We’re meeting with Morris and Valente before proceeding. Henricksen will be back listening and monitoring the situation. Any questions?”
Everyone gave a short shake of their heads, eager to take another waste of space off the streets, especially one that operated in their backyard.
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No one spoke on the ride over.
Alex drove, mind drifting to Kevin, who was now in his first semester at Duke. While not of her flesh, she raised him without bias toward that fact, loving him as if he had been bore of her body. She had spent 18 years fighting to shield him from the dangers which lurked in both dark and lightened corners; dangers that donned suits and ties, working 9-5 jobs while flashing perfect rows of pearl and a charismatic persona or even familiar uniforms of law enforcement, fire, or EMS which they had crossed paths with in past assignments.
Lisa thought of Ben who was at school, enjoying his first year in high school. He had grown up so damn fast! In her mind, he was still that sweet curious toddler exploring more of his expanding universe determined to master it all. Now, he was noticing girls and girls were starting to see her baby boy in a rather novel way. As if she didn’t have enough to be worried about.
Cole thought of his son, Matt. He knew his son and wife, Melinda, worried about him each time they had to execute a high-risk arrest. They weren’t ignorant to what happened to Deputy Marshals when shit would go south in an instant; a misstep by a Marshal or the suspect gets a one up on and suddenly a multiple ways with various colors and shades, but it wouldn’t do one bit to ease any tensions they had.
Dean simply gazed at the passing landscapes, thankful Sam and Jess were miles away from this.
Valente and Morris caught sight of the approaching vehicles. This wasn’t their first rodeo and sure as Hell wasn’t going to be the last. When they worked with the Marshals, it was a well-oiled machine, each part moving independently but in tune with one another, creating a perfect rhythm as they executed arrest warrants and raids.
“Here comes the Earp Gang,” Morris made this comment with endearment as several agents had made this exact observation but with similar sentiments. His partner, Valente nodded and hummed in agreement. The “Earp Gang” as the team had been known to be called, rolled out of the SUV, all with shades drawn tight across their noses.
“Valente, Morris,” Cole greeted as the others grabbed the gear. “So, what do we know?”
“Right now, we haven’t seen any movement in or out of the building. Agents have been sitting on the site for the last 48 hours and nothing.”
“He might be locked down inside,” Dean finished donning his vest. “Wouldn’t be the first time we’ve had some ass clown do it.”
“Yeah, but this ass clown isn’t some mere drug dealer or white-collar con job.” Lisa tightened her hair tie, fixing her long dark locks into a tight bun.
“No, he’s worse,” Alex completed as she checked her weapons.
Emotions raced through everyone’s veins as positions were secured. Valente and Morris took position with the Marshals, Dean and Cole carrying “Fat Man” the battering ram which destroyed many doors over the years. Alex and Lisa stood with weapons drawn, each feeling their trigger fingers grow itchier with each second that passed. It felt like hours instead of seconds.
Morris used his fingers to count down from three to one, Dean and Cole swinging the ram, denting the solid steel door, dispatching hit after hit until the barrier groaned then surrendered, breaking off the hinges and vanishing into the dark. The stench which greeted was overwhelming but the invisible curtain of shit, urine, and other unidentifiable odors didn’t deter them team as they rushed in.
“FBI and US Marshals!!! WE HAVE A WARRANT!!” Valente hollered with every octave his voice could muster. Alex and Lisa scanned the inky blackness with their flashlights, locating several switches on opposing walls.
“Fuck, what the Hell is that smell?” Dean felt his eyes stinging. Cole had moved ahead, weapon trained to the dark. A sudden scratching sound caught his attention, steering the deputy towards a corner.
“US Marshals! Come out with your hands up!” Morris caught up with him, covering the shorter man. He rounded a few crates, moving heel to toe, surprisingly quiet in the boots he chose. It was always boots on these assignments. Dress shoes were like taking a knife to a gunfight.
Morris spotted a figure shifting around, huddled tightly to the corner. The poor lighting offered squat as Cole crept up, gun in hand as he gripped the soiled tattered quilt then in a fluid snap of the wrist, exposed the occupant beneath.
“Alistair Heyerdahl, where is he!?!?”
The woman was petrified, clad in ripped jeans that were splattered with stains that Cole didn’t want to know what they were. Her shirt was two sizes too big, one side hanging off her shoulder, cleaner, if one wanted to use the word to describe such. Her arms, legs, and face filthy, as if she hadn’t bathed in weeks while a ratted mess that if brushed and washed, would be a beautiful shade of brown. Bruised marred her arms and Morris suspected additional injuries were concealed by the filth.
“Cole!” Morris reappeared. “This woman is in shock. We need to get her outta here.”
“How do you know she isn’t faking it?”
“I’ve been on a few trafficking busts and I know this look and behavior. This is a woman who has been through Hell. Her pimp has more than likely beaten, tortured, and threatened her. Keeping quiet is how she’s still alive.”
Cole kept his weapon out, but lowered it as Morris knelt down, slowly, and extended his hand.
“Hey, we’re here to help,” his voice was quiet and gentle. “I’m an FBI agent, and he’s a deputy marshal. We’re the good guys. Let’s get you outta here okay?”
The woman didn’t move, shaking violently. Morris wasn’t about to give up. “My name is Agent Morris and this is Cole. What’s your name?”
The woman eyed Agent Morris warily but seeing him put the gun away and Cole softening his stance, cracked the terrified persona. Something told her she could trust these men. She was careful in her movements, turning to consider the offered hand. Several tension filled moments passed before she swallowed hard, realizing the one who kept her here was gone.
“Whoever did this to you isn’t coming back.” Cole shook his head. “We won’t let them.”
“Come on,” Morris coaxed her again. The woman timidly put out her hand, clutching his in hers. Morris smiled warmly and nodded. “I’ll find something to cover her with and let the others know we found her.”
He rose and turned, radioing for an ambulance. Somewhere in the distance he could hear Alex and Lisa’s voices.
“What in the HELL happened here?!”
“Call Henricksen.”