EPILOGUE

Alvarez leaned back in a chair, propped against the motel wall. The sun spread orange in the dry sky, accentuated by twisting pink clouds. Summer was in its terminus, and the still hot air had a breeze to it. The investigation was over, the FBI had issued its preliminary report, and Alvarez was waiting for reassignment. TARP had returned to its original duties, things were slowly getting back to the way they were, or rather, as close to the way they were as would ever happen. These kinds of things changed people, and communities. A reporter had won a Pulitzer Prize for his coverage of the killing. Every commissioner was running for reelection on an anti-law enforcement platform, casting themselves as the leaders who had gotten the county through the worst night in its history. Alvarez was not bothered by any of this. Not anymore. The world would spin just the same.

His life was once again taking on some semblance of normality. No more running around Mexico fighting cartels. The knowledge that he had started a war, that the power vacuum he had caused would further tear the country apart, rested icily in his chest, but he had to accept it. It was time to finally settle down, to regain something of the stability and life he had once held and take back what was taken from him once.

Alvarez drained the last of his tea and placed the glass next to him on the concrete. He was cutting back on the booze and had switched to patches over the cigarettes. It would be a terribly hard transition, and even as he considered the effort he wavered in his resolve. Still, he had done harder things in his life, and now he had someone for which to do them. He was on his way toward becoming a respectable citizen once more, he thought as he adjusted the ring on his finger. He would have to get used to wearing it again.

His phone vibrated, and he pulled it out to look at the number: Ortez. “Alvarez.”

“Ray,” answered his commander, “some hikers went missing in Montana. We found wolf prints around their campsite.”

Alvarez’ response was instantaneous. “Let’s go.”