Chapter 25 – Chain of Custody
February 26, 2016 – 8:47 AM
LAPD Western Division – Investigation Room
Athena was reading the report printed on recycled paper. Mike stood, arms crossed, staring at the bulletin board with photos of circuit boards, modified laptops, and shipping boxes sealed with false labels.
"This all started with an anonymous tip about electronic components diverted from a technical school in Pasadena," Athena commented.
"And now we have parts intended for military personnel being sold at a Crenshaw scrapyard labeled as electronic toys."
Mike approached the bulletin board.
"Athena... this isn't neighborhood theft. It's disguised export. Dual-use tech. If these chips end up in the wrong place, they could be used for homemade missiles, explosive drones, or encrypted communications systems."
She turned to him.
"How do you know that with such certainty?"
Mike hesitated for a split second. Then he spoke calmly.
"Because in 2010, I helped track an identical batch… in Kandahar. They used Western chips to control remote detonators. All made with civilian technology. Sold by people who thought they were just 'passing on parts.'"
Athena watched him silently. She didn't question him.
She picked up the phone from the table.
"Then it's time to pass it on. This is out of our hands."
Mike nodded.
"I know someone. At the Bureau. Reliable. Not just an agent in a suit. He's been in the mud."
11:12 AM – FBI Headquarters in Los Angeles – Coordination Room
The room was cold, with shades of gray and white. Digital maps on a large screen, LED panels showing records of shipments and export operations.
Special Agent Matthew "Matt" Rourke, short gray hair, a dark blazer over a tactical shirt, walked in with a confident stride. Seeing Mike, he gave a slight smile.
"Look who stepped out of the shadows."
Mike shook his hand tightly.
"Rourke. Still looking like he's sleeping two hours a night."
Rourke replied, his voice deep and drawling, with a light Texas accent.
"You haven't changed, Mike. Not since Kabul."
Athena watched the two of them. Rourke noticed and extended his hand.
"Special Agent Rourke. FBI. Former HRT. I was assigned to the case because your name appeared on our red alert."
Athena shook his hand.
"Sergeant Athena Grant. LAPD. And yes, it's ugly."
Mike opened a folder with photos and technical descriptions.
"These components here. Several batches have serial numbers erased with acid. But we managed to track one of them. Production batch from 2014. Originated from a company with Department of Defense contracts. Leaked via a second-tier supplier."
Rourke analyzed carefully.
"You know what this means. Chain of custody broken. If this ends up in Yemen or in the hands of Hezbollah, we have dead diplomats."
Mike nodded.
"That's what I thought. That's why I called you."
Athena watched everything. The tension between the two men was silent. But there was respect. Weight. Unspoken history.
"What do you need from us?" Athena asked.
Rourke responded, looking at them both.
"I want you to bring the suspect to us. Quietly. He trusts the junkyard owner, and the owner trusts the LAPD not the FBI. If he smells a fed, he'll disappear within 24 hours. Can you bring him in for an 'informal interview' at LAPD headquarters? We'll get him from there."
Mike answered without hesitation.
"Yes. But we'll need to act tonight. They're expecting a new shipment. If he delivers it in person, it's the only chance to catch him with physical evidence."
7:40 PM – Crenshaw Junkyard – Capture Operation
The sky was dark blue, a harbinger of night.
Mike and Athena were dressed in civilian clothes, inside an unmarked vehicle. They listened in through the wiretap on the junkyard owner's cell phone authorized by an emergency warrant.
The suspect arrived in a small truck, plastered with a fake IT company logo.
"We have a visual." — Athena said.
Mike activated the communicator.
"Rourke, it's our turn now. He's unloading boxes. Three men with him. One appears armed."
On the other end, Rourke's dry voice:
"Confirmation received. LAPD leading approach. FBI 100 meters, ready for support."
Mike got out of the car, approaching the gate as if he were a client. Athena came up behind him, pretending to be distracted on the phone.
When the suspect turned around—
—Mike approached him.
"Good evening, LAPD. Can we talk for a minute?"
The man hesitated. He touched his pocket.
Athena was quick.
"Hands where I can see them! Now!"
The man obeyed, tense. The other two tried to run, but the FBI had already surrounded them.
Rourke appeared from the fog of the warehouse, his gun pointed at the ground, his voice firm.
— "FBI. You are under arrest. Federal arrest warrant."
Mike approached the prime suspect, who was nervous and sweating.
— "You understand that selling these chips overseas isn't just smuggling. It's collaborating with potential terrorism."
The man just murmured.
"I just delivered it. I don't even know who it was for."
Mike looked at Rourke.
"Sounds familiar, doesn't it?"
Rourke replied:
"Kandahar. 2010. A farmer said the same thing. And three Marines died the following month."
Silence.
Athena looked at them both.
"What a world you saw… that no one else can imagine."
Mike replied, his voice low:
"A world that's still here. Just under the guise of routine."
9:15 PM – FBI Headquarters – Interrogation Room
The suspect signed the custody agreement. Rourke closed the file.
"With that, we've completed two months of monitoring. You helped unlock the jail."
Mike nodded.
"Now the DOJ has what it needs."
Athena stood.
"The case is yours now."
Rourke looked at Mike.
"You're not going back to Langley, are you?"
Mike smiled.
"No. My place is elsewhere now. With Athena. And her children. And a little peace, when I can."
Rourke nodded respectfully.
"You found what most of us never find."
11:10 PM – Police car, moving through the dark city
Athena was driving. Mike was in the passenger seat, silent.
"You trusted him, huh?"
"More than me, sometimes."
She looked at him.
"You carry a lot of what you saw. And what I didn't say."
Mike replied, looking out the window.
"And you... that's where I can start saying it."
Athena smiled.
And kept driving.
The city slept for now.
Chapter 26 – Echoes of the Desert
February 27, 2016 – 7:20 PM
Grant Residence – Kitchen and Dining Room
The sound of the pressure cooker releasing steam filled the kitchen. Michael chopped vegetables with almost professional precision. May helped with the table, while Harry tried to convince Mike to watch an episode of NCIS after dinner.
"Is it realistic, Mike?" Harry asked, a glint in his eye.
"Let's just say... not that many things explode in a database investigation."
Athena laughed as she emerged from the bedroom in a loose, comfortable shirt. She glanced at Mike, who, as always, sat at the table as if he'd been a part of this house for years—his body relaxed, but his eyes ever watchful.
"You seem lighter today."
Mike gave a half-smile.
"It's Michael's garlic rice. It always gets me down."
"Or maybe it's the fact that you closed a federal case with class."
"Maybe that's it, too."
Michael entered the room with a platter of roast chicken, the aromas filling the room.
"Everyone to the table. Mike, you sit here. May, can you leave the drinks?"
Harry pulled Mike by the arm, as if he were a child asking the hero to sit next to him.
"And later, you tell more stories, right? About the CIA. Or the war!"
May rolled her eyes.
"Harry, he's not a video game character. He's a real man."
Mike looked at her, serious and calm.
"Actually, it's a good night to tell a real story."
Everyone looked at him. Athena held his gaze for a second longer.
"Something to do with Matt?"
Mike nodded.
— "Yeah. You know Agent Rourke as an FBI guy. But he wasn't just that. He was my last link to the field. And today... maybe it's time to explain why."
7:45 PM – Everyone seated at the table
Mike picked up his water glass. He tapped his index finger lightly on the rim. A deep, steady sound.
— "It was 2010. Afghanistan. I was stationed at what we called Delta Base, just outside Kandahar. A senior officer in the CTC division—the CIA's Counter Terrorism Center. My primary role was human intelligence and SIGINT. I fed the JSOC, the Joint Special Operations Command, teams targets, local leader movements, and Taliban attack patterns."
May listened intently. Harry, his mouth open.
Michael stopped chewing.
— "Back then, every direct action every raid on a suspicious house, every nighttime mission needed to be backed by one thing: legal chain of custody. And in that, the CIA... wasn't exactly specialized."
Athena raised an eyebrow.
"Because you operated outside the judicial system."
"Exactly. We operated in the dark. We killed targets with drones or with Delta operators, but there was no way to arrest someone, collect evidence, and ensure it would be admissible in a US federal court... until the FBI got involved."
Mike paused.
"That's when they sent in the HRT, the Hostage Rescue Team. It's the FBI's tactical equivalent to what SWAT is for us. But in 2010, they were integrating joint missions with Delta Force. And that's when I met Special Agent Rourke."
Flashback – Kandahar, 2010
Delta Outpost – 3:12 AM
Fine dust in the air. Shouts were muffled by radios. The air smelled of metal and sweat. Mike was leaning against one of the tactical tents, his laptop open, an aerial photo illuminated by the screen's light. He wore an unconventional vest and a short beard—a mix of civilian and combatant.
A Blackhawk helicopter swooped down. Out stepped Rourke, young, with hard eyes and the stride of someone who knew death firsthand.
"Agent Mike Edwards?"
"Depends on who asks."
"Special Agent Rourke. FBI-HRT. I've been assigned to review and validate the footage collected during JSOC raids. My job is simple: make sure the federal prosecutor in New York doesn't throw it all away because someone handled a photo without gloves."
Mike laughed dryly.
"Good luck. Here, the gloves will rip before we get up the alley."
But they shook hands. And from that moment on, they built a tight partnership, without affection, but based on absolute trust.
Back at the table
Mike took a piece of bread and spread butter calmly.
"For six months, I fed the missions. Rourke followed behind. He'd go in after the shooting stopped. And he'd collect everything: blood, shrapnel, laptops, phone chips, everything. He'd photograph, seal, catalog. Sometimes, all we had was a burned-out laptop and a flash drive hidden in a latrine."
Harry's eyes widened.
"And he... wasn't afraid?"
"He was. But it was a disciplined fear. The kind of fear that keeps you alive."
Michael crossed his arms.
"You saw the worst. But did you know you were on the right side?"
Mike answered without hesitation.
"Most days, yes. Other days... we just hoped the right side survived."
May watched him silently. Athena did too.
Mike then looked at everyone and said:
"The reason I entrusted the case to last week, the message passed to Matt wasn't just competence. It was because he's one of the few men I know who knows what it's like to live with the truth and not be able to tell it. The dirty, ugly truth, hard to justify. But real. And necessary.
8:30 PM – End of dinner
The conversation softened. They laughed, talked about other things. But the silence between words carried weight. A respectful silence. Loaded with history.
On the back porch, Athena brought two glasses of wine. Mike sat, looking up at the sky.
"You had a different face when you told that," she said, handing him the glass.
"What do you mean?"
"Harder. More... closed. As if you relied on your body, not just your words."
Mike nodded.
"Because memory isn't a movie. It's a tattoo on the inside. And every time I tell him, I scrape it off again."
Athena stared at him.
"Then why tell him?"
He replied softly:
"Because now there's someone who deserves to know."
She touched his arm. Comfortable silence.
Inside the house, May laughed at one of Harry's jokes. Michael was cleaning up the dishes.
And outside, under the Los Angeles night sky, a former intelligence agent finally allowed himself to exist whole in a home that wasn't his by birth, but by choice.
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