Chapter 3 — Truths on the Surface
January 24, 2016 — 9:10 AM
Vehicle 12-A-49 | Pico-Union, Los Angeles
The morning was especially gray. The overcast sky cast shadows over the neighborhood's alleys and corners, making everything a little more opaque as if Los Angeles had, for a day, grown tired of pretending to be sunny all the time.
Athena drove calmly, one hand resting on the window. Mike looked out the side, his gaze fixed on a woman pushing a shopping cart full of empty cans and torn bags.
Neither of them said anything. But it wasn't an uncomfortable silence. It was a space of waiting the kind of pause that precedes a conversation that matters.
Athena was the first to speak.
— "Yesterday, when you told me you were in Brasília… It didn't seem like just another station."
Mike glanced at her sideways. His posture was firm, but his gaze was not inquisitive—it was human, curious. Like someone who has seen too many people lie, but prefers to listen to the truth patiently.
"It wasn't," he said finally.
She remained silent, encouraging without pressuring.
Mike ran his hand over the back of his neck, a reflexive gesture, as if trying to reorganize his thoughts before speaking them out loud.
"When you're in Ground Branch, it's all physical. Direct. Violent. You know where you're stepping, even if it's mud or hot sand. But when you become Station Chief… you step on expensive carpets, but the ground beneath you always feels unstable."
Athena turned her head slightly, interested.
"The embassy in Brasilia? That's not a war zone."
— "Not in the classic sense. But have you ever tried to navigate local politics, economic interests, multilateral agreements, and adversarial agents in friendly territory? In Brasília, what you don't see kills you faster than an improvised explosive device in Kandahar."
She drove in silence for another block before parking in a quiet alley.
She turned off the engine and turned to him. — "And what exactly did you do there? I mean, what can you tell me."
Mike nodded, as if he had already prepared himself for this conversation. He took the radio off his belt and placed it on the center console.
— "The Brasília station was officially a coordination platform with the Federal Police and ABIN. In practice, we operated on three fronts: arms smuggling, Hezbollah financing networks in the Triple Border Region, and surveillance of suspicious diplomatic personnel, especially those linked to Russia and Iran."
Athena kept her expression neutral, but her eyes said she was absorbing every word. — "Did you have a team under your command?"
— "Six permanent agents, plus a network of local informants. I managed everything from meetings with the military attaché to gathering field intelligence. And sometimes, I went into the field myself. Brasilia may seem like just a political hub. But underground… it's an active espionage game, 24 hours a day."
She leaned back in her seat, looking out the window for a second, thoughtful.
— "And you… did you handle it well?"
Mike took a deep breath. He looked toward the windshield.
— "I coped. I was efficient. But not… well. In the last six months before I came back, I lost two informants. One staged suicide. The other disappeared body never turned up. I knew I was slipping in emotional control, but keeping up appearances was part of the job. When the CIA's internal report pointed to my increased drinking and isolating patterns, the suggestion came: 'It's time to leave, Mike. You've done your time. Time to decompress. '"
— "And you chose the LAPD for this?"
— "I chose the concrete. The contact. I needed something real. Here, if you save a life, you feel it. If someone dies, you carry it. There are no endless layers of distance. Here… I get to touch the world again."
The silence stretched for a moment. Athena didn't answer right away. She grabbed her radio, plugged it back into her belt, and turned the car back on.
— "Let's get some coffee. You're going to need it."
10:04 a.m. — Local coffee shop in Koreatown
The place was small, with warm lights and the smell of freshly ground beans. Young baristas spoke to each other in Korean. Customers sat at Formica tables in low conversation. It was the kind of quiet haven that few officers knew about.
Athena sat at a table in the corner. Mike got the coffees. No gourmet lattes just black and strong.
— "Do you speak Portuguese?"
Mike nodded, blowing on the rim of his paper cup.
— "Yes. Fluent. I need to keep it up. I have a Brazilian contact here in LA, a former colleague in intelligence. We meet up sometimes."
Athena rested her arms on the table, her gaze steady.
— "And does he know you're a cop now?"
— "Yes. He quit too. He's a security consultant for private companies now. But… he's the kind of man who still sleeps with his gun within reach."
She stared at Mike for a moment longer. Then she lowered her tone.
— "You know what worries me, Edwards?"
— "You're calling me Edwards, so something serious is coming."
— "It's not you," she said. "It's what you still carry it. I don't want to see anyone else break down in silence."
Mike didn't answer right away. His face was calm, but his eyes... there was a battle going on, silent and deep. "The only thing that keeps me together is being in motion. If I stop... I start remembering too much."
Athena nodded slowly. "Then we keep walking. But... if I notice you're tripping, I'll pull your shirt up before you fall into the abyss."
Mike gave a small smile. "You'd make a good CIA agent."
"And you, with a little more tact, would make a good school counselor."
They both laughed. For the first time, Mike didn't feel like he was carrying everything alone. Someone, finally, was seeing him.
12:30 PM — Patrol
The radio called again: "Unit 12-A-49, we have a report of suspicious activity at an abandoned industrial building in Vernon. Reconnaissance and verification request."
Athena started the engine.
— "Time to see if your infiltration experience is useful in the real world."
— "I promise not to ask for permission for the drone."
Chapter 4 — Stories at the Table
January 24, 2016 — 7:12 p.m.
Athena Grant's Residence | West Los Angeles
The smell of garlic sautéed in olive oil spread through the kitchen with a welcoming familiarity. In the dining room, Michael Grant was finishing cutting a baguette into diagonal slices, while May, leaning against the doorframe, slowly scrolled through her Instagram feed on her phone.
Athena came in from the garage, already dressed casually dark jeans, a blue cotton T-shirt, and her hair down. Her tired look was still there, but there was a softness in her gestures, typical of someone who has found refuge in their own home.
Eight-year-old Harry came running from his room with the energy of someone who had just had an invisible milkshake.
— "Is the food almost ready? I'm starving! I ran all over school today! I beat Lauren in the race!"
Michael laughed, placing the breadboard in the center of the table.
— "If you didn't beat Lauren after you ate two waffles for breakfast, I would be suspicious."
Harry sat down, swinging his legs under the chair, and then blurted out:
— "Mommy, your new partner is super cool. Like... he was a real spy, right?"
Athena stopped in the hallway that led from the kitchen to the living room and looked at her son with a half smile.
— "Yeah, he was in the CIA. He worked all over the world."
May looked up from her phone.
— "Don't you think it's weird? Like... a spy becoming a regular cop? That sounds like something out of a movie."
Michael, with a dish towel over his shoulder, intervened before Athena could answer:
— "Sometimes, people just want to find a place where they can be normal. Where no one shoots at them, blows things up, or sends them encrypted messages all day."
— "Or maybe he's hiding something. Like, a secret mission." — Harry said, his eyes shining. — "Do you think he's ever worn a disguise? Like a wig and a fake mustache?"
Athena approached the table, pulling out the chair next to Harry.
— "Maybe. But if he has, he'll never tell. These guys learn to keep secrets better than they do money."
— "Are you going to invite him again?"
Athena picked up a plate of gratin pasta that Michael had just taken out of the oven and placed it in the center of the table.
— "Yes. I think he enjoyed coming here. And you clearly enjoyed his stories. Maybe if he comes over more often, he might tell you some more—the ones he's allowed to tell, of course."
Harry jumped a little in excitement.
— "Mom, if he comes to my birthday, he can teach us how to escape spies!"
— "Are you planning on being followed by spies, Harry?" — May teased.
— "Maybe. You never know who's watching you. I saw that in a documentary."
Everyone laughed, even Athena, who for a moment allowed herself to relax completely. It was rare. Very rare.
Michael pulled out a chair for himself and poured wine for himself and Athena—nothing fancy, just a decent dry red.
— "He seems like a focused guy."
— "Yeah," she replied, swirling her glass slowly. — "But he's also someone who's carried more weight than he should. For too long."
May frowned, interested.
— "Does he seem sad?"
Athena thought for a moment.
— "No. He seems... trapped. Like he's been under layers of ice for a long time. And now, little by little, he's starting to thaw."
Michael nodded thoughtfully.
— "That happens to soldiers. Or people who've lived in zones of constant tension. They forget how to trust."
— "Does he trust you?" May asked.
Athena looked at her plate, then at her children.
— "Not yet. But he listens to me. And that, coming from someone like him… is a start."
Harry chewed a piece of bread, and between bites, he said with his mouth full:
— "We could start a story club. Mike tells us about the CIA, Dad talks about law books, Mommy about car chases… and I'll tell him how I escaped from class last Friday."
Michael raised his eyebrow.
— "You what?"
Harry froze for a moment. May burst out laughing. Athena crossed her arms.
— "Harry Grant. You just put yourself in the middle of an interrogation."
— "It's just… the teacher didn't see, I just went to get my pencil case..."
— "In the art room, in the building across the courtyard? Yeah, sure."
Michael tried to hide his smile. Athena couldn't.
— "You definitely get your stubborn streak from my side of the family tree."
— "But it's a good idea," Michael said. — "If Mike agrees to come over more often, he can tell you stories. But you'll have to do your homework in return, okay?"
Harry nodded enthusiastically. May looked at her mother thoughtfully.
— "You trust him, right?"
Athena looked at the three of them. She thought about how Mike reacted to the fire. How he talked about Brasília. How he avoided certain words, but gave himself away with others. And how, even though he tried to hide it, his body always seemed on alert — as if he was waiting for the world to fall apart at any moment.
— "Yes. I trust him. But more than that… I think he needs places like this. With real people. With real food, silly questions, and kids who think espionage is a comic book adventure."
Michael raised his glass.
"Then we toast to that. To second chances. To stories that can be told. And to those that should be heard."
Everyone toasted.
That night, between bites, Harry's laughter echoing through the house, Athena felt that maybe she was doing more than just guiding a new partner.
Maybe she was saving someone.
Little by little.
Day by day.
With patience, strong coffee…
And family dinners.
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