The chili is just about done simmering on the stove as I pull a cast-iron skillet of cornbread out of the oven. The butter and bacon fat melted into the bottom sizzles. It'll form into a sturdy crust on the bread, making it perfect for standing up to the thick chili.
Inverting the pan onto a metal rack, I leave it to cool for a couple of minutes while I ladle big bowls of chili. I sprinkle each one of them with cheese and add spoons before setting them on a tray. The cornbread is still technically too hot for me to slice, but I'm not feeling particularly patient. The house smells warm and full of spices, and I want to bury myself in the food.
Once thick wedges of the bread are added to the tray, I pick it up and head outside. Sam stands beside the fire pit he built me. Flames jump and spark into the night sky. There's something masculine and primal about him building a fire and standing there with a long stick, prodding the flames, to grow. It stirs up all kinds of feelings in me. I have to set the tray down and wrap my arms around him from behind.
My hands flatten on his chest and stomach, and I nuzzle close to the curve of his neck. His clothes smell like smoke, but his skin is all fresh, clean Sam. He pats my hand on his chest and leans back against me, so we prop each other up.
When he's done stoking the flames, he tosses the stick down beside the fire pit, and we pick up our food to carry over to the wooden glider sitting to the side of the fire. One of my grandmother's quilts is already draped across the back, and we nestle down into it, pulling it around our shoulders to ward off the chilly night air.
We eat in silence for a few minutes, just enjoying the sensory layers of the evening around us. The touch of the cold air in contrast to the heat radiating from the fire. The smell of the wood-burning and the spices in the food. The night sounds of birds and insects who still haven't given up but will soon quiet down for winter.
When Sam speaks, his voice sounds almost impossibly loud against the crackling of the flames.
“Can I ask you something?” he asks.
“Of course,” I say.
“I haven't wanted to mention it because I don't want to upset you. But I've heard you talk about the Dragon a couple of times. I know he has to do with an undercover assignment you did early in your career with the Bureau, but you’ve never really given me all the details.”
“They aren't the most pleasant details,” I tell him.
“Will you tell me anyway?” he asks. “I want to know who this guy is and what's going on with him.”
I stare into the dancing fire, finding the shades of color in the flames and against the dark wood turning to pale ash in front of me.
“The Dragon is a man named Darren Blackwell. He was already under investigation by the Bureau for quite a while before I got involved. They had a lot on him, but not quite enough to be absolutely sure of a conviction. He was linked to major drug running and a seemingly never-ending stream of violent crime. There were indications he led organized crime syndicates and instigated street wars to boost his own income. As you can imagine, the Bureau was very interested in not only stopping him but also finding out who was working with him," I explain.
"It could lead to stopping a major vein of drugs and crime," Sam says.
"Exactly. But in order to do that, they needed to get to him in a way that would be unexpected. Just a normal sting wouldn't work. They couldn't send in a fake buyer or somebody pretending to want to work for him. He would figure that out too fast. This guy was smart and influential. Smooth, respected, and feared. They needed something he wouldn't be suspicious about, something he would have to work for. So, they sent me.”
“Why you?” Sam asks.
“I was new. I had only been working in the Bureau for a short time, and my face wasn't known in criminal circles yet. That's an unfortunate side effect for some agents who frequently go undercover. Of course, most stay undetected and can do multiple assignments without ever being noticed. But there's always a possibility of criminals from one investigation crossing over into another. They wanted to make sure the person they sent in was a fresh, unrecognizable face.”
“And a woman,” Sam notes.
“Yes,” I say. “That was the point. He already had an army of men ready to do anything he wanted of them. He didn't need anybody else. And he wasn't interested in new customers unless they were highly recommended and came with mind-boggling amounts of money to throw at him. So they came up with a different approach. Dangle something in front of him he couldn't have. He wasn't used to that. He was used to always getting exactly what he wanted, when he wanted it. The only way to get the information the Bureau needed and get close enough to him to bring him down was to earn his trust and loyalty.”
“That doesn't sound easy,” he says.
“Not at all. And not guaranteed. There was always a possibility he wouldn't be interested. Or he wouldn't be willing to go along with it. Sending me in was a risk, and everybody involved knew it wasn't going to be fast. This wasn't something that I could just do in a few days or a couple of weeks, and it would be over with. That became my life. And I had to
