🐦

Casey

That night, Casey slept with a knife under his pillow and his bat propped against his nightstand. He had actually planned to stay awake the whole night in case White Knight decided to come back, but sleep got the better of him just two minutes into his stakeout. In the morning, Casey looked around his apartment for a telltale sign— a book moved a few inches, an empty glass on the counter, even a missing shirt from his closet— anything to indicate that maybe White Knight snuck inside to make himself at home, but everything was left as Casey had left it.

Casey couldn't stop thinking about White Knight's cryptic message. It was all he could think about. "We've met before." Just who the hell was he? Where could he find him? How could he find out more information?

White Knight knew his fucking name. Not just 'Jones'. He called him by his first name. It never was a lucky guess. Casey couldn't shake off the feeling that White Knight knew more about him than he knew about him. He asked all the questions, but he was holding back. That much was obvious. Maybe White Knight wasn't here to save anyone— maybe he was here to play Casey. Either way, his little disappearing act didn't do Casey any favors. Now, he was stuck with more questions than answers.

Why is my life so damn hard?

Casey had just finished pouring his cereal into the bowl and opened the fridge when he realized he didn't have milk. I knew I should've went to the store yesterday. It would be a waste to just put it back in the box, so Casey decided he'd eat it dry. It was better than using tap water as a substitute.

He grabbed a fistful of Captain Crunch and shoved it into his mouth. That's dry. Very dry. He figured he'd just kick back and relax, trying really hard to forget the conversation that took place last night.

He sat down on the couch and was about to reach for the remote when his phone rang. Actually, his burner phone rang. The one that was strictly meant for business. He looked at the caller ID and could feel a little piece of his willpower to live drain out of him.

It was either answer the phone or have a team of FBI agents break down his front door. Casey went with the first option; he wasn't about to go out of his way to call the repair guy.

"What?" Casey answered a little too gruffly.

"Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed?" Agent Murphy's voice asked on the other end.

"For your information, I slept on the left."

"Yeah, college will do that to you. That, or you end up sleeping on the floor."

Casey resisted groaning. He appreciated Agent Murphy's attempt to make a joke, but he was the last person he wanted to talk to. "No offense Agent Murphy, but unless you're calling about an update about Ana—"

"It's not. But we still need you to meet us at our usual spot. It's kinda important."

"Kinda? So is it or is it not?"

"Look, we just need you to meet us. Don't make me track you."

"You sure about that? I'm naked."

"I'll bring you clothes from the gift shop. Just be here in fifteen minutes."

"And you had to call to tell me this? You could've texted."

"That doesn't confirm anything. At least calling I can make sure you're not planning on leaving."

"Where else could I possibly go?"

"Anywhere that isn't here. See ya, kid."

Agent Murphy hung up. Casey shrugged. Seriously, where was he going to run off to? Even he wasn't that stupid.

Casey sighed. White Knight, the FBI. . . they all had a habit of 'showing up' just when he was getting comfy. Seriously, he needed a vacation.

***

The usual spot was under an old bridge on the edge of the city. Quiet, out of sight, and just shady enough to keep anyone from snooping. When Casey got there. Agent Murphy was already leaning against his SUV, arms crossed, with Agent Hudson standing nearby, as pretty and serious as ever. Casey contemplated a million times whether he should tell them about last night's conversation with White Knight. Would it be wrong if he did? White Knight must've known that there was a chance Casey would've snitched him out to the authorities, but yet he still went. No threats against his life or anything. Maybe he was trusting him NOT to blow the whistle. Even if Casey hated how he was holding the information away at an arm's length, his gut told him he might need him after all someday. Besides, he'd told plenty of white lies before. How was this time any different?

"How's the thigh?" Agent Murphy asked when Casey approached him. Standing side-to-side, he and Agent Hudson looked like a power couple— Murphy dressed like he was a regular member at some high-priced country club; and Hudson as if she were a soccer mom about to deliver freshly baked cookies to her child's after-school bake sale. 

"I'll live," Casey said. "But I'm guessing you've seen worse than that, right?"

"I've had my fair share," Agent Murphy admitted. "Can leave you with some hard-to-face scars."

"Like what?"

"Let's just say they're not all physical."

The subtle drop in his tone and the way his bottom lip stiffened so fast were clues that that was all the information he was willing to divulge. Casey cleared his throat.

"Alright, what's the emergency?"

Agent Murphy sucked in his teeth. "A mess."

"Why? What happened?"

"It's about the costumed ninja we arrested at the docks."

Casey felt a splinter of hope. "Did he confess?"

If he wanted some good fortune, now would've been the time. But something in Agent Murphy and Hudson's pinched expressions told him otherwise.

"It was a dead end," Agent Murphy said.

"What do you mean 'a dead end'?"

"The guy never cracked," Agent Hudson explained. "Not a word, not a slip, nothing. Like he's trained to keep his mouth shut— or brainwashed."

"Well, even if he didn't talk, I bet you guys took his fingerprints and swabbed him, right? Something had to have popped up!"

"I was just about to get to that. Apparently, when we ran his fingerprints and facial photo through every database there is— both domestic and international— we didn't come up with a single hit. This guy is a ghost."

Casey was beyond bewildered. How could there be nothing? Obviously, that meant the asshole was smart, not innocent.

"It gets worse from there," Agent Murphy interjected. "When we were transferring him to a secure facility, the transport van got hijacked."

"Hijacked?" Casey sputtered.

Agent Murphy nodded. "Yeah. Armed group, precision hit. They knew exactly what they were doing, and they got away with the suspect. No trace."

The words hit Casey like a punch to the gut. This wasn't some small-time gang as Casey had thought. He remembered the fighting style of the costumed ninja back at the docks. No wannabe gangster or criminal klutz could fight that good. 'My quarrel is with the master of the ninjas you got caught up with.' He couldn't be serious. This was the real deal.

"So what?" Casey said. "Ninja guy isn't your average street thug?"

"Not even close. He is organized, disciplined, and whoever's pulling the strings knows how to stay off our radar."

"And the drugs? The ones his partner took off with?"

"Still out there. That's where you come in, Jones. You've got access to your boss, Petrova. If you hear anything— about those drugs, you let us know immediately. If she presents incriminating evidence, we can finally present her before a judge or— at the very least— she can lead us to The Count, and his whole drug business will collapse."

They didn't have to remind Casey. This wasn't just about taking down Petrova anymore. Whoever that guy and his partner were, they were playing a whole different game, and Casey was stuck in the middle.

"And Ana?" Casey asked. "Any leads there?"

"We are doing the best we can," Agent Hudson said.

That phrase again. It didn't inspire much confidence.

"That's not good enough."

"Look, Jones, I get it," Agent Murphy said. "But you've gotta face the possibility that—"

"Don't," Casey cut him off. He better not dare. "She's not dead. I don't care what you think. She's alive, and I'm gonna find her."

Agent Murphy and Hudson exchanged looks with each other, but neither of them pushed it any further. How could they even suggest such a ludicrous thought? They just needed to look harder, that's all.

"Alright, kid," Agent Murphy relented. "But keep your focus. You're gonna need it."

Murphy and Hudson entered their SUV. Casey walked away from that meeting feeling the weight of it all pressing down harder than ever. The Russians, Ana, ninja clans— all of it felt like it was spinning out of control. What the hell was going on?

***

It'd been seventy-two hours and ninety minutes since the FBI updated him and his phone(s) were silent. Now these days, it wasn't that unusual. Casey was off doing his own thing, so he wasn't that bothered when the overflowing messages from his ice hockey teammates and frat brothers tuned it down a notch.

It used to be so simple: hang out with friends at the end of a very long day, blow off some steam engaging in some testosterone-fueled activities, eat some grub, and do it all over again the next day. But here he was— afraid that one wrong step and his cover as an informant would fucking blow. He couldn't wait for this to be over. The second that it was, he would. . .

"I come back, we'll celebrate by going to the new club that opened on Bleecker Street. And don't worry about us being minors— that's what fake IDs are for."

Of course. How could he ever forget that? He owed a reunion to his best friend, Raph. He wondered what kind of updates were in his life— like did he finally meet a girl he wouldn't blacklist? It was a shame Casey was never going to be able tell Raph the truth behind what he'd been doing this whole time.

Casey had been doing back extension, hack squat, and chest press reps for over half an hour now at his local gym. Usually with such a hectic schedule, he'd come here during the evening— just like the ice hockey arena, it was always nice to have the place (mostly) to yourself. But after last night, maybe he thought he should switch shifts. White Knight couldn't stalk him in his getup in broad daylight.

He wiped the sweat from his face with a towel. He would've squeezed in some leg press reps, but he needed to lay off his wound a little. He'd hoped he could take his mind off of everything that had happened so far, but it wasn't working. Nothing was.

And then he saw her.

She was standing across the room with a group of girls, laughing at something they said. Her shiny strawberry blonde hair that tumbled down her elegantly vulnerable shoulders. High cheekbones. A tilt of her chin that screamed confidence, even if it was just a front. Right there in the flesh and blood. Casey's heart stopped.

"Ana?"

Casey's hands froze mid-wrap, his pulse hammering as he stared. She left out the door with her friends. He wasn't hallucinating. . . was he? This was his delirium playing with him, right? Was he that dehydrated already? He swore it was her. Same posture, same glint in her eyes.

He didn't know what he was doing when he followed right behind her. It may have sounded creepy, but he couldn't let her get away again.

"Ana-"

Casey gently grabbed her shoulder. She spun around. Casey blinked. No. Casey blinked again, harder this time, squeezing his eyes shut like that would change anything. When he opened them, the girl wasn't Ana. Not even close. The hair was more coppery, the build smaller, the way she laughed-- too loud, too carefree. Her skin also looked smooth and flawless-- no trace evidence of old scars. Nothing like Ana at all. Just a stranger who looked close enough to drive him insane for a moment.

"Sorry," Casey briskly apologized. "Wrong person."

The girl shrugged it off and went back to talking with her friends.

Casey leaned back against the brick wall, running a hand through his hair, trying to steady his breath. It's gotten so bad that I'm now starting to hallucinate. Get it together, Jones.

But how could he? Every time he closed his eyes, there she was. Every time he opened them, he looked for her. And every time, she wasn't there.