Chapter Text
Adolin scrubs his hands together vigorously under the faucet, watching as the soap suds spiral around the stained white porcelain and down the drain. He lets some of the tepid water pool in his hands and splashes it on his face, then shuts off the tap and depresses the push tab on the paper towel dispenser.
Nothing comes out, so he shoves it down harder.
Again, no paper towels appear.
“Fucking– shitty ass fucking bar,” Adolin growls, then hits the side of the dispenser in frustration. He clutches the edges of the chipped sink and closes his eyes, taking a calming breath and letting it out slowly.
When he feels a little more steady he shakes his dripping hands off, then uses the bottom of his shirt to wipe the water off his face. He catches sight of his reflection in the polished metal on the wall, pausing, thinking with muted amusement that he can always tell exactly what type of bar he’s in when they use a flat sheet of metal in the bathrooms instead of a mirror.
He looks alright, all things considered; he didn’t get much sleep the night before, dwelling on his final meeting with the Captain and tossing and turning with anxiety and anticipation of the following day. But his eyes are clear enough and the purple bags beneath them look no worse than anyone would expect from someone in his unique position. His clothing is new but nothing overly fancy, nothing too reminiscent of his old life where he had money to burn. His hair is clean, but not too neat.
What really makes him hesitate is what’s under his shirt, the thing taped to his abs and chest that feels like it’s burning a trail into his skin. A surveillance wire, one the Captain himself insisted he wear. Adolin argued vehemently against it, but he was told in no uncertain terms that he was going to wear the wire or he would be pulled off the case completely, so, against his better judgement, he let them tape the fucking thing onto his skin, gritting his teeth and fuming but managing – just barely – to keep his mouth shut while they did.
It’s thin and black, unnoticeable unless someone happens to pull his shirt up to search him, which his team tells him isn’t normal procedure even for the new guys, but Adolin doesn’t like it, doesn’t like taking the risk. All it takes is one paranoid guard, or even one unfortunate brush of the arm, and he’s made and this whole thing they’ve taken literal months to set up and practically blow up his career for is fucked.
He stares himself down, blue eyes bright in the dull silver reflection.
Fuck it, he decides suddenly.
He yanks the wire off, then the transmitter, wincing as the tape pulls at his skin, then shoves them deep into the trash bin in the corner of the filthy bathroom. Taking one last look at himself, he runs a hand through his blonde and black hair before unlocking the door and pulling it open, stepping out of the single toilet and back into the run-down bar he ducked into ten minutes ago.
It’s a shabby little place and he only really stopped for a nervous piss but he slaps a ten on the sticky wooden countertop anyway, asking for a Budweiser, which the very obviously stoned bartender slides across at him with his change. He leaves two bucks on the bar and takes his beer to a circular table by the window, downing half of it before he sits on a stool, staring out at the street.
The meeting is supposed to take place in ten minutes, across the street and three doors down, at a busy Italian pizza place they’ve been watching for some time now. It’s a base of sorts for Sadeas’s crew, though the couple of times they’ve sent someone inside they weren’t even able to pinpoint where exactly the mobsters hold these meetings; the restaurant, their people say, is just a restaurant. No hidden rooms, no secret tunnels.
The department has been tracking Torol Sadeas and his Sons of Honor for several years now, but the man is too smart, too slippery, to be caught easily, and he rarely makes mistakes. He still has powerful connections from his time working for the DoD, and he’s unafraid of using them whenever he needs a get out of jail free card. The Feds refuse to help with the investigation at all; the Captain has suspicions that the higher-ups there are also on Sadeas’s payroll.
When the PD has managed to get a hold of him or any of his lieutenants it’s almost always on something superficial, usually a traffic offense or some other bullshit charge. They’re inevitably back out on the streets before the end of the day.
The men Sadeas recruits for his organization are ruthless, clever, and competent, cleaning up after themselves so well that there’s nothing for Adolin’s team to track by the time they arrive at the scene of whatever crime they’re called out for, always leaving the police two steps behind. Cleaning up, of course, doesn’t mean the scene is always spotless… It just means there’s nothing to tie any of them to it. Just blood and bodies and occasional property damage.
But never Sons bodies. Those, they do clean up. It’s not often that the PD is able to properly ID a member of the Sons.
What is also a major frustration is how Sadeas’s right hand man is basically just as untouchable as he is. Meridas Amaram is a decorated former military officer, honorably discharged from a long and illustrious career in the Army, always showing his face at charity galas and the like, putting on a stunningly convincing show of being a good person. He’s also very good at side-stepping responsibility, pointing the finger at anyone but himself for the bad things that always seem to happen around him, and then distracting everyone from the issue with his charm and several large, strategically-placed donations.
Of course, they would be fools to forget the power of Ialai Sadeas, Torol’s wife. The department believes she’s the ultimate brain behind their entire operation. As clever as they come and the ultimate queen of blackmail, there are very few people in this city who aren’t under her thumb one way or another.
The most notable exception to her web of lies is, of course, the Metro PD. Of course, Adolin would be willing to bet that there’s a mole or two in the department somewhere, because that’s the unfortunate way of the world and he’s a realist, but it’s no mystery that the Captain himself is a sworn enemy of Sadeas and Amaram, and has vowed repeatedly that taking down the Sons is his number one priority. Adolin and he are of like minds in this regard, at least.
There had been no real leads or forward progress on the case for nearly a year, and then, by a random stroke of luck, the department got a break about six months ago.
Jakamav, Adolin’s best friend and partner, was out drinking with some buddies when he literally ran into a guy from Sadeas’s crew, physically colliding with him as he turned from the bar, drink in hand, and spilling the guys beer all over him.
Adolin and Jakamav weren’t primarily working the Sadeas case at the time, having recently been moved to another case to get fresh eyes and minds on the Son, – the department liked to rotate them occasionally to prevent burnout – but they weren’t so far removed that they wouldn’t recognize the guy’s face. Jakamav, always quick on his feet, took advantage of the situation.
He apologized for spilling the man’s drink and offered to buy him a new one, and the guy, surprisingly amiable, took him up on it. He gave a name – Daz – and they got to talking.
Jaz says they kept the conversation light for the most part. Apparently Daz is a super friendly guy, but he also happened to be several drinks in already, so when Jakamav started lamenting vaguely about how miserable work has been for him lately at his “office job”, Daz told Jakamav he didn’t know the half of it, spilling that a few of his “co-workers” had been let go recently and that it’s always a bitch to find replacements in his line of work.
He didn’t say anything incriminating, and his complaints would mean a whole lot of nothing to someone who didn’t know they were talking to a literal mobster, but, of course, he wasn’t talking to just anyone. He was talking to a cop who knew exactly what his “office job” was.
And so now Adolin is here, perched on a wobbly bar stool and chugging the rest of a beer that’s a few degrees too warm and just this side of skunked, about to go undercover as the newest member of the Sons of Honor. Sans wire.
One shitty beer isn’t nearly enough to completely numb the anxiety he feels at willingly jumping into the lion’s den, but it’s enough that his hands are steady and his shoulders are relaxed as he walks headfirst into probably the most dangerous thing he’s ever done in his life.
He sets the glass down with a thunk and stands, then weaves around the high tops toward the exit to the pub. A small bell mounted above the glass-paned door tinkles as he steps back out onto the street, door swinging shut behind him.
The wind is brisk, biting through his clothing. It’s been an unseasonably cold fall, winter creeping up on the city and grasping with sharp, clawed fingers. Adolin pulls his jacket more tightly around himself as he makes his way down the somewhat seedy street, passing a dilapidated coin laundry and another run-down pub that pumps heavy rock music out onto the street loud enough to be heard several doors down.
He waits for a couple of beat up cars to pass before crossing, hands tucked deep into his jacket pockets in an effort to keep them warm. An oncoming car driving way too fast blares its horn but Adolin flips it off, unconcerned, hopping up onto the curb as the driver speeds off angrily, yelling some profanity out the window that gets lost in the wind.
The front window of the Italian restaurant has a large graphic of a slice of pepperoni pizza stickered to the glass, the word “PIZZA” stamped in slanted red, white, and green letters under the image. Adolin hurries to the front door, head ducked against the chill wind, and enters the restaurant, the smell of garlic and tomato sauce walloping him in the face like a physical thing as he approaches the hostess stand.
The young woman there is playing on her phone and doesn’t bother to look up as she greets him.
“How many?” She asks flatly, typing away in what looks like a text chat, long nails clicking obnoxiously on the glass surface of her smart phone.
Adolin clears his throat but she doesn’t look up.
“I’m here to meet with Daz,” he says, voice low enough not to carry but loud enough to be heard clearly.
The girl grunts and points over her shoulder toward the door to the kitchen.
Adolin politely thanks her for doing the absolute bare minimum and walks in the direction indicated, pushing through the swinging door and into the back of house. It’s chaotic, like every other restaurant back of house Adolin’s ever been in, and Adolin takes it upon himself to decide that he’s not meant to chat with the cooks tossing pizza dough and ladling bright red sauces onto uncooked pies.
Instead, he heads toward the rear of the restaurant where a manager’s office sits, the door shut tight against the cacophony of the pre-dinner time rush.
Adolin knocks firmly and waits.
Thirty seconds later a short, dark-haired man, who may even be a true Italian, answers, scowling at him. Or maybe at life in general. It’s hard to tell.
“Who are you?” Maybe-Italian snaps.
“Hi, I’m Adolin,” he says politely. “I’m here to meet with Daz.”
The guy’s scowl deepens.
“‘Course you are,” he says. Then he turns and slams the door in Adolin’s face.
Adolin brows fly up to his hairline, surprised. He stands there for about a minute and is just about to pound on the door again when the guy pulls it open, still scowling.
“Barbershop on eighth,” Maybe-Italian grunts. “Use the back door, turn left in the alley, then through the clothes shop two doors down.”
And before Adolin can ask for any more details or even thank him he snaps the door closed again, missing Adolin’s nose by an inch.
Okay then.
Adolin does as he’s told, leaving through the back door, wending through the foul-smelling alley for about half a block, then locating Roseanne’s Lightly-Loved Clothing Boutique by the faded stamp on the red metal rear door. It’s unlocked, so he enters the back of the shop and passes through without incident, stepping out the front door onto a street adjacent to the one the pizza place is on.
He knows his team is going to wonder where he disappeared to but he can’t worry about that right now; he’s got no way to share his location because he ripped off his wire, he put his foot down on wearing an actual tracker, and he’s certainly not pulling out his phone to call them. He’ll just have to fill them in later.
After a brisk ten-minute walk, he finally reaches what he assumes is his true destination.
The barbershop has a blue, white and red barber pole mounted to the brick outside the entrance. There’s a large glass window on the front of the shop, though it’s frosted, only allowing Adolin to make out vague human-shaped figures moving around inside.
He takes a deep breath, then pulls open the door and steps inside, the buffeting of the wind and the sound of passing cars dimming as he enters. The door swings shut behind him like an omen, like the physical representation of the end of his old life, if he wants to be dramatic about it. Though he supposes that was actually six months ago, the moment he first volunteered for this assignment.
It’s a small shop, just four chairs for customers and a couple of worn armchairs situated near the window next to the cashier’s teller. Only two of the barber’s chairs are currently occupied, one by an older man with longish graying hair and the other by a younger man with a heavy gold chain around his neck.
Adolin is less interested in the people getting their hair cut, looking instead at the stylists standing behind them.
One of them is a tallish man with sharp, pointed features and dark eyes, strong shoulders and an irreverent posture. Adolin’s never seen his likeness before in any of their briefings or video surveillance of known hideouts, but that’s not a surprise. Sadeas’s guys are good at staying in the shadows and hiding their faces.
The other is shorter, wearing a dark t-shirt with a band name splashed across the front, and he has a face that looks like it doesn’t know how to do anything but smile. He expertly trims the younger kid’s hair as the teenager laughs at some joke, flashing several gold teeth that match his chain perfectly.
Dark skin, big smile. That’s got to be Daz. No photos of him either, just Jakamav’s description to work off of, but Adolin’s almost sure it’s him.
After his friend’s impromptu run in with Daz in the bar, the Organized Crime Unit did some digging and found confirmation of the mobster’s claim through other sources; word had spread quietly through the criminal underground over the previous weeks about how Sadeas was looking for more men to fill in the gaps left behind by recent “vacancies”. Apparently there’d been some kind of internal falling out, to which they’d lost several people.
Their Unit sent out some feelers, made some inquiries through trusted informants, and, after much consideration, decided it was the perfect opportunity to plant an undercover agent in Sadeas’s organization, something they’d been unable to achieve since they started working on the case over six years ago.
The taller guy glances up at the sound of the door and his dark eyes lock onto Adolin, assessing. Adolin resists the impulse to bristle at the judgment in his gaze, instead giving the man a confident, dazzling smile. He’s not going to be intimidated by any of these guys, has to let them know right away that he’s not afraid of them, not going to stand being pushed around.
“Daz,” the guy says, voice sharp, and the smiling man looks up from his conversation.
“Ah, Kholin the younger,” he says genially, and Adolin nods in confirmation.
“Yeah,” Adolin says with another bright smile, “that’s me.”
“Neato, just have a seat, I’ll be right with ya,” Daz tells him, grinning, and Adolin gives him a thumbs up and walks over to the small waiting area, taking a seat in one of the chairs there.
It’s another five minutes before Daz is finished with his customer, and after he checks him out at the register and the guy leaves Daz smiles at Adolin again and gestures for him to follow. They walk past the four swivel chairs and into the back, and Adolin can feel the tall dark-eyed man’s glare trained on him the entire way. He can already tell that guy’s going to be a problem.
Adolin follows Daz down the dark hallway, spying a door labeled with a bathroom sign and an exit that most likely leads to the alley behind the building. Just before the exit, though, there’s another door, and Daz opens that one and gestures him inside.
It’s a tiny, cluttered office, bookshelf on the back wall and desk off to the side piled with loose papers and a haphazard collection of writing implements. There are two chairs, one on either side of the desk, and Daz takes the one behind it, reclining it with an unpleasant squeal that grates on Adolin’s eardrums. He throws his booted feet up on the messy sprawl of papers as Adolin takes the seat opposite.
“So, Kholin, you’re gonna be working with us from now on, eh?” Daz asks, arms behind his head, grin still in place. It doesn’t even look faked, and somehow it sets Adolin at ease, which is a nice change from the storm of nerves he’s been feeling since yesterday. The guy might be a criminal, but he seems like a genuinely friendly one, and Adolin’s always been a people person. He can work with this.
“That’s the intention,” Adolin says with an easy smile. His posture relaxes some, legs splaying wider and shoulders slumping.
“Bossman says you have a history with the police,” Daz says. “And Gaz vouches for you.”
Gaz, one of Shallan’s old informants.
Adolin’s ex is on the force, though she quit Organized Crime just after he made the decision to go undercover and has since moved over to cryptoanalysis. She still does the occasional forensic sketch for them when they need it, when their regular sketch artist isn’t quite up to par. She’s very detailed and exacting in her work.
“What do you know about us?” Daz asks him casually.
Adolin raises his eyebrows and looks over his shoulder to the closed door behind him. Glances up at the corners of the room; no cameras.
Daz chuckles. “It’s safe, gancho. You can speak freely here.” He drops his feet to the floor with a thump and leans forward, still smiling, but now his eyes bely the seriousness of their conversation.
“Well, considering the department’s been trying to take your boss down for years now, I probably know more than you think I do,” Adolin says bluntly.
Daz laughs. “Humor me.”
Adolin does. “Drugs, weapons, political scandals, blackmail. All the good stuff.”
Daz nods again, hand on his chin as he sizes Adolin up. “Good stuff, eh? Are those things most ex-coppers enjoy?”
“You’d be surprised,” Adolin says with a wry twist of his lips. He has to tread a fine line here, has to sound eager and willing and even wanting without sounding over the top or unbelievable. Money’s always a decent motivator, and word on the street is that Sadeas pays his people well.
Revenge, of course, is also a good motivator.
“And you want… money? The freedom to live the life of crime you’ve always dreamed about?”
“Money’s nice,” Adolin says with a small smile. “You wouldn’t believe the shit salary they give a cop, even one with SWAT under their belt.”
“And Sadeas pays well,” Daz says. Adolin nods. Daz gives him a knowing look. “No personal reasons for wanting to join up, Kholin?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Adolin says slowly.
Daz tsks. “Alright, I won’t pry. We all know what kind of person the Captain is, we’ve seen the papers.”
Adolin flinches, because, as much as most of those stories were made up for this express purpose, a lot of them hit uncomfortably close to home.
“This is a big change from being too rough with a couple of drug dealers, though,” Daz says, eyebrows raised.
“Yeah,” Adolin agrees, thinking over his response carefully. “I’m… okay with that. After enough years on the force you… You learn that there is no right or wrong anymore. One guy’s trying to clean up the streets while the other is just there to provide for his family. Neither is wrong. Maybe one guy is trying to make change and getting stonewalled at every turn, so another guy doesn’t wait for permission and just does what needs to be done to make that change happen. I also think neither of those guys are wrong. Sometimes you have to get your hands dirty, and sometimes there’s going to be collateral damage to make a better world. I’m not afraid of that.”
“Hm,” Daz says, leaning back, the chair squealing loudly in protest. Then he smiles again.
“Well, you seem like a nice enough guy and you’re giving all the right answers, so you got that going for you. And Gaz likes you, which is even better; he’s a sort-of friend of mine,” he says with a little laugh. “Do me a favor and sit tight. I'm gonna go get my co-worker. He wants to meet you too. Don’t let him intimidate you, he can be a bit of a grumpy goose,” he says with a wink. Then he stands and walks out.
He shuts the door behind him and Adolin lets out a breath, though he doesn’t allow himself to look too obviously relieved. The fact that he can’t physically see a camera doesn’t mean there’s not one hidden somewhere out of sight. He needs to stay in character at all times, even when he thinks he’s alone. That’s the first thing his undercover trainers drilled into him back when he accepted this gig.
About five minutes pass before the door opens again, admitting the taller man. He’s alone; Daz must have stayed behind to watch the shop.
The man closes the door with a snap and moves around the desk, sitting in the vacant chair. Then he stares at Adolin like he wants to peel him open and eviscerate him, expose his insides and root through them for hidden truths and buried secrets.
“Sergeant Adolin Kholin,” he says. His voice is deep, consonants twisting sharply around Adolin’s name and former title. He doesn’t say anything else, just glares at Adolin with those discerning eyes.
“Yeah, that’s me,” Adolin says cooly when he realizes the man isn’t intending to speak again. Perhaps he should act more hesitant, more cautious, but that’s not how he wants to go into this. He’s not going to pretend to be cowed by some low-life gangster aiming to intimidate him. He also doesn’t particularly want to tack on the additional task of remembering to affect a different personality to an already difficult job.
Plus, the guy has no idea what it’s like growing up with his father. If he did, maybe he would realize his pitiful little glare is nothing in comparison.
The guy suddenly pulls a gun on him and Adolin immediately drops from his chair, landing flat behind the desk, belly to the floor.
When no shot comes Adolin slowly raises himself up, peeking over the desk. The man is smirking, the first expression Adolin has seen directed toward him that’s not disdain or outright dislike. He lowers the gun into his lap and Adolin stands fully, brushing himself off before sitting down in his chair again.
“Good instincts. You’ll need them,” the guy says with a hint of mockery.
Adolin’s lips thin. “Did you expect any different?”
“From ex-SWAT? Not really,” the guy says. Adolin scowls. He doesn’t like being played with. “When did you get out?”
“Out of the force or out of county?” Adolin bites out.
“Both,” the guy replies with a smirk.
“Six months and two weeks.”
The guy just looks at him and Adolin feels his muscles tensing under the scrutiny before he finally speaks again.
“Well, apparently you’re working with us now, not that we have a choice in the matter,” the man says, clearly unhappy about it but just as clearly unable to do anything about it. He continues, not waiting for a response.
“Here are the ground rules – do you need a pen and paper?”
Adolin glares and the man's dark eyes twinkle with condescending mirth.
“Do what you’re told,” he says, his face falling flat again as he lists them off. “Don’t argue. If you squeal, you die. Do your job and you’ll get paid. Don’t make mistakes. Keep your phone on.”
His eyes bore into Adolin. “Think you can handle it?”
“I think I can, yeah,” Adolin grits out.
“Good,” the guy says. Then he stands and stalks around the desk to pull Adolin out of his chair and shove him face down against the desk, patting him down roughly. Adolin lets him, clenching his jaw against the urge to haul off and punch the man in the face. The guy yanks him back upright and lifts Adolin's shirt to check his back, then spins him around and checks his front. He drops Adolin’s shirt and gives a grunt of assent before stepping back.
“You can call me Ash,” he says, voice cold. “Let yourself out. We’ll be in touch.”
And then he’s gone, and Adolin is officially the newest member of the Sons of Honor.