"Some questions don't lead anywhere worth going, Bishop." Alvarez's expression is sympathetic but carries a finality that discourages follow-up. "Morrison's dead. We may never know what drove him to this, and chasing ghosts won't change what happened tonight. I suggest you don't waste your energy second-guessing yourself. You're a good agent, and I want you to take some time, clear your head, then come back when you're ready." He pauses, and something shifts in his tone. "In fact, I'm putting your name forward for a senior investigator position that just opened up."
The words sound supportive, generous even. But everything inside me is screaming that this is wrong.
My partner just tried to kill me in an empty warehouse, and the director's response is a vacation, a promotion, and a pat on the back? No investigation into Morrison's contacts or hisfinances? No attempt to understand why a decorated veteran agent would suddenly turn his weapon on his own partner?
My gut is telling me that Alvarez is shutting this down. He's fast-tracking the whole thing, packaging it up neat and clean so it disappears before anyone has a chance to look too closely. Which means he already knows the answers to the questions he's refusing to ask.
"Thank you, sir." I keep my voice level. "I appreciate that."
"Good. Go home, get some rest." He squeezes my shoulder once more, then turns to speak with the lead investigator, effectively dismissing me.
Holt walks me out to my SUV. "Are you okay, Raven?"
"Morrison just tried to kill me." I can hear the sarcasm bleeding through and I don't bother trying to stop it.
"I don't regret taking the shot," he says quietly, grimacing. "If I hadn't fired, you'd be the one in a body bag." His eyes already carry the shadows I've seen settle into other agents after a shooting, that hollow look that takes up residence and never fully leaves, and my sarcasm evaporates.
"Thank you for covering me. I'd be dead tonight if it weren't for you."
He studies my face for a long moment, like he's trying to gauge how close to the edge I really am. "Get some rest, Raven. This kind of thing messes with your head in ways you won't expect."
I pull out of the lot and point myself toward home, my hands steady on the wheel even though the rest of me feels like it's vibrating at a frequency I can't control. The road stretches out ahead of me, dark and empty, and my mind won't stop circling the same thought: Alvarez is covering this up.
Something is deeply, fundamentally wrong here, and there's only one person I trust enough to call right now.
Uncle Robert answers on the second ring. "Raven."
"My partner tried to kill me tonight." The words come out steadier than I expected, but my knuckles are bone-white where they grip the steering wheel. "We got a tip on our gun trafficking case, a warehouse lead in El Paso, and I pushed to check it out without waiting for backup. The place was completely empty when we arrived. No guns, no suspects, nothing but concrete and shadows." My jaw tightens as the memory of Morrison's face flashes behind my eyes. "Then Morrison drew on me. Agent Holt put him down before he could pull the trigger."
"Are you hurt?"
"No. But here's what has me rattled. Director Alvarez showed up and declared it a justified defense of another agent within minutes of walking through the door. No administrative leave for Holt or me, no investigation into why Morrison turned or who he was working for. He dismissed the entire thing like it was a paperwork error and then offered me a promotion." The words are coming faster now, tumbling out as the picture sharpens in my mind. "He's covering it up, Uncle Robert. Whatever Morrison was involved in, I think Alvarez already knew about it."
"Tell me exactly what Alvarez said. Every word you can remember."
I walk him through the conversation, every detail, every pause, every carefully chosen phrase. When I finish, Uncle Robert goes quiet for a long stretch and the silence on the line feels heavy with calculation.
"He's protecting something. Could be the agency's reputation, or his own involvement, maybe both." His voice shifts into the tactical register I've come to recognize over the past ten years, the one that means the situation has moved past conversation and into operational planning. "This is bad, Raven. You need to get out of there tonight. Do you still have that go-bag I put together for you?"
"It's in the spare tire well."
"Good. Where are you right now?"
"On my way to the apartment. I'll clear out what I need and then turn in my?—"
"No." Uncle Robert's voice cuts sharp enough to make me flinch. "You're compromised and you know it. If Alvarez is dirty, he's already making calls, and they will be waiting for you at the apartment. You need to drive straight out of town without stopping."
"What about my things?"
"It's just stuff, Raven. Everything you need to survive is in that bag. Destroy your phone as soon as we hang up and switch to the alias on the IDs I packed for you. I'll have money wired into the account and activate the credit cards before you reach your first stop."
"Okay."
"Now listen to me carefully, because there is almost certainly a tracker on your vehicle." He pauses long enough for the weight of that to hit. "You're going to drive north to Las Cruces. There's a car dealership called Graham's Car Superstore. Ask specifically for Graham and give him my name. He'll hand you keys to a clean vehicle, no questions asked, and his team will make your SUV disappear. As far as anyone tracking you will be able to tell, you simply vanished off the face of the earth."
My breath catches. Uncle Robert's voice has that edge it only takes on when someone's life hangs in the balance, and I know better than to push back against it.
"Where do I go after that?"
