Lawson dozed on the sofa until eight in the morning. Blake and Daisy had already slipped out early for their 8:00 AM classes.
Before leaving, Blake had stuck a bright pink note on the counter:
Don't forget tonight's surprise! ❤️
After grabbing a quick breakfast near the apartment, Lawson drove downtown to the FBI Field Office.
Three months away hadn't changed the building much. The only real difference was Nathan Neal's new title. He had been bumped from Senior Special Agent to Supervisory Special Agent — a low-level management gig that let him boss around everyone else.
Even competent veterans like Sean Arthur now technically answered to him, a fact Neal clearly enjoyed way too much.
"Well, look who it is! Lawson!" Neal grinned as he walked in. "Back from the Academy? I heard you crushed it at Quantico."
Compared to Neal's barely-passing scores, Lawson's results had been god-tier.
While at Quantico, Lawson had quietly asked Peggy to pull the transcripts of a few familiar names. Sean Arthur had graduated with an A (Excellent), Jane Banner earned a solid B (Good), and Nathan Neal had scraped by with a C (Satisfactory) — rumor said he was one point away from washing out.
Yet here Neal was, same age as Sean, now giving him orders.
It was the perfect reminder: competence didn't always decide how fast you climbed. Politics did.
Riding the high of his promotion, Neal made small talk for a minute before getting down to business.
"So, Lawson. Have you thought about which division you want to transfer into?"
"I want to go back under. Deep cover."
Neal blinked, caught off guard. "Seriously? Most guys who survive deep cover and finally earn the badge want to stay as far from the streets as possible."
Lawson smirked. "Maybe they just never learned how to have fun with it."
Neal stared at him like he'd grown a second head. The idea that undercover work could be fun clearly didn't compute.
"Alright," Neal sighed. "If you're dead set on going back into the mud, I've got a few active ops you can look at."
He slid a thick stack of manila folders across the desk — all ongoing organized-crime investigations. Mexican cartels, Russian Bratva, and the Irish Mob.
Ever since the Bonanno family collapsed, those three groups had been expanding aggressively, carving up the territory the Italians left behind.
"The problem is they're all extremely insular," Neal warned. "Infiltrating any of them takes serious time."
Mexicans and Russians ran on strict ethnic lines — highly xenophobic, almost never letting outsiders into the inner circle.
The Irish were slightly more open, but still tight-knit and heavily protected by old political connections. After centuries of immigration, they'd blended into American power structures — JFK being the most famous example. That kind of leverage meant the Irish Mob often had friends in very high places.
Lawson flipped through the files and quickly settled on the Irish. Brian was already inside the syndicate. That connection could fast-track his own entry.
"I'll take the Irish," he said. "I tangled with a few of their guys back when I was with the Bonannos."
"You sure?"
"Positive."
Neal scooped up the Russian and Mexican folders, leaving only the Irish stack. "Take these home and study them. Don't lose them — they're highly classified and need to go back to the vault."
Lawson eyed the mountain of paperwork and held back a sigh. Days of dry reading ahead.
"One more thing," Neal added. "I'm heading to Quantico myself in a few days for advanced management training. While you're under, someone else will be your handler."
"Who?"
"No idea yet. The Special Agent in Charge makes that call. Go home, read the files, and wait for the phone to ring. Once your final paperwork clears, your new handler will reach out and you'll be official."
"Got it. I'm out of here."
"Good luck out there, Lawson."
"Good luck at the Academy, Neal."
It was an amicable split. Neal had lied and skimmed CI payouts, but Lawson had played his own games in return. In the end, Neal had helped secure Lawson's green card and badge, while Lawson had delivered the bust of a lifetime that got Neal promoted. They'd both gotten what they wanted.
Leaving Neal's office, Lawson navigated the usual bureaucratic maze. Director Gordon Cole had fast-tracked his original badge, so now everything had to be finalized properly. Since he was going back undercover, the paperwork stayed strictly secret.
The silver lining? He walked out with a brand-new, sterile Glock 17 as his official sidearm.
As he headed for the exit, he ran straight into Jane Banner and Sean Arthur.
"Lawson! You heading out?" Jane asked with a bright smile.
"Yeah, just finished my paperwork."
Jane eyed the heavy stack of files under his arm. "Need help carrying those?"
"I've got it."
Sean stepped forward anyway and smoothly took half the load. "Don't be a stranger, Lawson. We're officially colleagues now."
Lawson raised an eyebrow. He'd assumed Jane had leaked his return, but she gave a tiny head-shake — she hadn't said a word.
Sean didn't leave him wondering long.
"The Irish Mob case is mine. Got a minute to talk about it?"
Clearly Sean had the clearance and already knew Lawson's assignment.
"Lead the way."
"Let's go to my office," Sean said, glancing dismissively at the files. "Honestly, reading all that paper is a waste of time. I can't believe Neal tried to dump this on you. The guy's a moron."
Even with Neal now outranking him, Sean still trashed him without hesitation. Their rivalry was alive and well.
Inside the office, Sean tossed the classified folders onto a side chair. "Lawson, I know everything there is to know about the Irish in this city. Ask me anything — it'll save you hours."
Lawson was more than happy to skip the paperwork. "Break down their structure and the active factions for me."
"Smart question," Sean grinned. "Americano or black tea?"
"Tea is fine."
"Didn't peg you for an Englishman." Sean turned to Jane. "Jane, do me a favor? Grab me an Americano and brew Mr. Lawson some tea."
Jane returned quickly with the drinks and leaned against the wall to listen as Sean started the briefing.
"The Irish syndicate isn't a single monolith like the Bonannos," he explained. "It's actually a coalition of four separate crews: the New Irish, the Sharks, the Byrne Crew, and the Castro Gang. All of them started in Long Beach back when early Irish immigrants settled here and eventually organized."
"They never united under one boss?" Lawson asked.
Sean took a sip of his Americano and grimaced at the bitterness, but the caffeine clearly woke him up.
"Nope. The Irish went through years of bloody infighting. The LA underworld is way more complicated than the East Coast — a total melting pot. Mexicans, Black gangs, Asians, Slavs… everyone's fighting for a slice. That makes things volatile as hell."
"Give me the breakdown," Lawson said.
"It's straightforward. After bleeding each other dry for years, the four bosses realized that if they kept warring, they'd just hand their territory to the South Central gangs on a silver platter. So they called a truce and formed an alliance to lock down Long Beach."
Sean laid four photographs on the desk.
First: a chubby, friendly-looking older white man. "Patrick Grigorash — boss of the New Irish. Don't let the grandfather act fool you; he's a smiling viper. Controls West Long Beach. Keeps a low profile, but cross him and you disappear."
Second: a rugged, vicious man with a long jagged scar down his face. "Oscar Kyle — second-generation boss of the Sharks. Took the throne last year by killing the previous leader. Runs the southern ports. Heavy smuggling. Basically owns the dockworkers' union."
Third: a refined, distinguished older man in wire-rimmed glasses. "Adams Byrne. Looks like a college professor, right? Used to teach high-school chemistry before he went rogue and started cooking. Half the synthetic drugs flooding LA come out of his labs. High-priority target for both DEA and us."
Lawson's eyes moved to the fourth photo — a dark, hostile face that looked ready to bite. He recognized it immediately from Svafa's files.
"And the most dangerous one," Sean said grimly, tapping the picture. "Frank Castro. Ruthless, cunning, and completely unhinged. He's the most aggressive boss in the alliance — arms, narcotics, even killing cops. There's no line he won't cross."
Lawson raised an eyebrow. "If he's that reckless and high-profile, how is he still walking free?"
Sean sighed. "Zero evidence. The guy's a ghost on paper. Everyone in LA knows he's a kingpin, but he never leaves a trail. And he's insanely lucky — every time we move on him, he slips the net at the last second. SWAT teams keep kicking in empty doors."
That was a massive red flag. Slipping the feds once or twice could be luck. Doing it constantly meant something else.
Lawson's mind flashed to Vincent Murphy — the dirty cop who had fed undercover agents to the mob while feeding intel back to the department.
"Any chance he's got a mole inside the department tipping him off?" Lawson asked.
Sean nodded solemnly. "We've run aggressive internal sweeps — LAPD, Bureau, DEA. Came up empty every time."
Lawson tapped the desk thoughtfully. "So if I'm going in, which door do you think I should knock on?"
"If it were me? I'd skip Patrick Grigorash. He's old, cautious, and staying low lately. No point poking a sleeping bear." Sean drew a big X across the photo.
"Oscar Kyle is a savage, but his territory is boxed in by the other three. His reach is limited." Another X.
That left the two heavyweights: Adams Byrne and Frank Castro.
"These two are the real threats to the city," Sean said, tapping their pictures. "One's flooding the streets with designer drugs, the other's a straight-up psychopath. Pick your poison."
Lawson rubbed his chin. Logically, Frank Castro was the best target — he already had solid intel on the crew from his time with the Bonannos. But there was a real risk of recognition. Frank had worked closely with Antonio Costa, and his men had raided the Bonanno estate. Someone might remember Lawson's face.
His final choice would depend on how well Brian was holding up inside the syndicate.
"I'll need to sleep on it," Lawson said.
"Take your time," Sean nodded. "Your paperwork still needs a few more days to clear anyway."
"Sean, can you give me a deeper dive on Byrne and Castro?"
"Oh, I've got plenty on both of them," Sean chuckled, leaning back. "Jane! Do me a favor and hit me with another Americano!"
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