Hello there! This is Brooke, presenting my first Brooklyn Nine Nine fanfiction. Honestly, I've wanted this to happen on the show for ages but I knew it never would so I decided, why not, that's what fanfiction is for. Regardless, this is my attempt to keep myself distracted from the long hiatus we now have ahead of us before Season 3 premieres - so, obviously, this will contain spoilers right up to the end of the Season 2 finale. I should also point out that while I've attempted to keep all the characters IC, comedy is not my strongest suit and the whole point of writing this piece was to deal with the grittier parts of the job that the show can't deal with due to its genre and runtime.

Anywho, here's the first chapter of Part 1. I hope you guys enjoy and do let me know if I'm doing anything wrong.

Disclaimers: I don't own Brooklyn Nine Nine, or any canon characters that may appear in this piece of writing. I own intellectual property, plot, and non-canon characters. I also am not an American or an expert on law enforcement agencies in the United States of America, so any and all writing describing their working, and their involvement in the plot, is purely fictional and not based on any real person. I get all my info on the mentioned law enforcement agencies from the internet, other writing I may have read, and from watching too many movies and TV Shows.

Here you go! Do read and drop review!

It's a warm day in Brooklyn when everything goes to hell. It would seem like the most appropriate weather for every tragedy to occur to them, but for some reason the sun shines with adequate brightness, the breeze in the air is just the right mix between salty and fresh, and the balminess in the air is just the right amount to enjoy New York City. Amidst the sounds of people who have little time for nonsense, cars that give little purchase, and buildings that have little patience for nature, the city continues to thrive that late spring afternoon.

Inside the nine-nine police precinct of Brooklyn, calamity ensues.

Amy's entire body shakes from head to toe and it takes all her effort to not show it. The past twenty-four hours have been an emotional roller coaster. It ranges from being Dora, Johnny's fiancée, to the spontaneous kissing distractions, to the captain leaving, and the most flustering of all – the real kiss she's shared with Jake a few minutes ago. Even as she finds herself filled to the brim with anticipation and nervousness, watching the elevator doors, she can't help but feel happily dizzy. She knows there will be a thousand conversations before her and Jake even begin contemplating where to go now (some of them will require more than three drafts and her thighs burning from a laptop that overheats too often) but at the moment she can't forget how genuinely content she feels with the memory of his lips on hers. Unlike the previous kisses, that had left her awkward and tense and positively longing for more, this one feels like a promise.

Amy likes promises. They are solid. They are reliable. They are a guarantee. She likes promises, yes she does, and nothing terrifies her more than getting one from the most unreliable guy in the precinct. Good hearted? Yes. Reliable? No. It's a risk, and Amy doesn't usually take risks. If anything, her only life jacket before doing this nosedive is knowing that it's a risk with a guy who knows exactly how to work around them. So, yes, this promise is a thrilling one because it is the least reliable one she's come across.

Her thoughts are brought back to the present as she watches the doors open and a woman walk out, in uniform. Her dark hair is neatly tucked into a braid, brown eyes piercing everyone who is looking at her. Entering the bull pit, she keeps an official stance, eyeing all of them closely before speaking up.

"Everyone, I'm your new Captain – you may call me Captain Heuvel. I'm sure most of you are taken by surprise by the rather sudden shift in power structures, and while I will allow some time for you to get used to the way I run things, I ask that we all not dwell too much on shock. Regardless of what decisions may have led to this, this is still a police precinct, and Brooklyn still has perps to be brought in. All of you proceed with your work until I say otherwise. Sergeant Jeffords, my office, please," she says in a single breath, addressing Terry and finishing the rather abrupt announcement. Amy holds her own breath throughout the entire speech, torn madly between demanding the return of her rabbi or scoping the possibility of finding a new one.

Everyone shuffles back to his or her stations, still eyeing Captain Heuvel warily. Two years ago, nobody would've been on edge about a new Captain. But after Captain Holt's upheaval and restructuring of the nine-nine, nobody is far from being on edge. To make things worse, it has been less than half an hour since they've said goodbye to Captain Holt, and the wound is still very much open.

Amy walks in a daze as she sits on the edge of her chair, carefully eyeing the closed office door that had once been Holt's.

"So, that happened," she hears behind her, and the voice immediately rewires the flow of worries and questions in her head. Turning, she sees Jake lean back in his own seat, eyeing her warily.

"It did," she responds, carefully, unsure if he was talking about Holt, Heuvel, or the kiss.

"A lot to contemplate, huh? Are you going to pull out the granny glasses and start making notes?" he says, amusement on his face. She still doesn't know what topic he's attempting to approach. She recognizes that look all too well. It is the same look he'd had a year ago when he'd shouted America needs me, right after telling her he liked her. He hadn't been joking when he said he was a master of repressing emotions he didn't like dealing with.

"Jake – " she whispers in a warning tone. "Don't. Don't joke. Please, for five minutes –"

She's interrupted by the office door opening and turns around to see Terry walking out. Captain Heuvel stands in the doorway. Amy subconsciously sits straighter in her seat, clearing her throat, fingers tucking back some of the hair that had come loose after her less than professional acts in the evidence locker. She can already feel herself going to ass-kissing mode, as Jake and Rosa would call it. She's sure Gina would come up with a much better term for it, but Gina's also gone now and it's a wound Amy didn't think would sting.

"Detective Santiago," Heuvel calls out, motioning at Amy with her fingers. Immediately tensing, she stands up. Throwing Jake a we'll talk later look, she walks into the office.

"Shut the door, please," Heuvel says, and Amy does. "And the blinds too."

Amy closes the blinds too, watching Jake's curious face disappear. Turning to look at the Captain, Amy's eyes fall on the new name plaque that sits on the desk. Captain Vera van der Heuvel, it reads.

"Detective, your sergeant tells me you've got quite the arrest record – one of the best detectives in this precinct. Now, I also understand that you idolized your previous Captain, and that is certainly an admirable trait. I hope that doesn't change in his absence – he is a wonderful commanding officer to turn to as a mentor," she says, a warm smile on her face as she sits in her chair.

Amy has to breathe a sigh of relief. Not only are those welcoming words, but it is a nice change to have a superior officer who isn't hard to configure based on body language. There is no denying that she will remain in touch with Holt, and that she thoroughly misses his weird way of parenting the unit. But that doesn't mean that she is going to take it out on the next Captain.

"So, you're aiming towards this position someday, I hear?" Captain Heuvel enquires.

"Y-Yes, ma'am," Amy pipes up, a little flustered as she always is when trying to make a good first impression. "I want nothing more than to take your place."

Her eyes widen as she realizes how that sounds.

"I mean after you're gone – not that I want you to be gone any time soon – you should definitely stay here – as long as –"

"Please stop," Captain Heuvel chuckles. "I understand your intent."

Amy can only smile in a sheepish, apologetic way while kicking herself multiple times in her head.

"Detective, I need you to understand that what I'm about to tell you is sensitive information. Information that I share with you only under the confidence that it would've been given to you even if Captain Holt was still here."

Amy sits up straight – her spine is in danger of snapping backwards in half - a serious expression on her face. That sounds rather ominous, and out of place. The new Captain is already giving sensitive orders? That hardly makes any sense to her. She doesn't even know Amy, or how competent she is. The whole point of Amy's foot in mouth incidents is to prove her place.

"I meant what I said earlier when I addressed everyone. I don't intend to let the ball drop under new leadership, and cases will continue as they were a few hours ago. While I certainly look forward to improvement, I don't intend to undermine anyone. I know Captain Holt – I've known him for many years. And I trust that anyone he and his Sergeant vouch for is someone I can trust."

"Ma'am, with all due respect – "

"Stellar words to shine doubt on the respect being given, but go on."

Amy continues, turning red. "What is this about?"

"Detective Santiago, how familiar are you with the Herrera Cartel?"

Amy sinks down in her seat, immediately pulling facts from her memories. She doesn't like to brag (lies) but she is a sponge when it comes to reading old case files and soaking up knowledge of criminal history.

"Herrera Cartel – notorious drug cartel that originated in Tijuana but spread their roots throughout Mexico, then Guatemala, and now across Central America. About two years ago, they crossed the border and started smuggling drugs into Southern California – by now, they've got an influence all over the United States."

"Correct. Over the past few years, the Herrera Cartel has quickly morphed into an organized crime unit, one with many cells, divisions, and living parts that spread illegal arms and drugs across the country. Now, are you aware of what the Herrera cell in New York specializes in?"

"Arms trade and hit men," Amy volunteers. "Their main job is to conduct illegal trade of weapons, and to recruit wet work artists for the cartel. They're usually the ones who provide the muscle to take out enemies of the Herreras. Precincts across Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Queens - aside from federal agencies - have been working to find them for more than a year. NYPD had managed to nab a few people over the months but they're either too low level to know anything, too good at their job for the evidence to stick, or so high up that their defense lawyers almost always get them out of it."

"The Herrera Cartel, as a whole, has been a concern for Interpol, and many other international agencies. Of course, federal agencies have their share of worry and jurisdiction."

At this, Captain Heuvel takes a deep breath, as if she's about to deliver the groundbreaking part of her speech. Amy feels like her butt is going to slide off her chair as she hangs on her words.

"The FBI has reasons to believe – a source, to be specific – that the New York cell of the cartel is planning a major hit, one that could prove to be a crushing blow and possibly cause harm to civilians and federal agencies alike. I'm afraid I can't give you more information than that unless you agree to what they're willing to offer you."

"I don't understand," Amy says, eyebrows knit. "You're offering me, on behalf of the FBI, a sensitive job without even knowing me. How can you vouch for me..Ma'am?"

"I'm not vouching for you. But, like I said, this is an operation that has been going on for much longer than I've been here. I believe it was Captain Holt that vouched for you when they first approached him a few weeks ago. As your new commanding officer, it is my duty to pass the offer along since it is not mine to give you."

"And what exactly will I have to do?"

"That is information that will only be given once you accept the FBI's offer," Captain Heuvel says.

"Which is what?"

"To go undercover and provide intel on what the Herrera Cartel's next hit is going to be."

"Peralta, Diaz, Boyle, briefing room. Now," rings Terry's voice, snapping Jake out of the daydreaming he's been doing over his slice of pizza. It's been nearly twenty minutes since Amy vanished into the Captain's office and he's getting more nervous with every passing second. He can't decide what to panic about first: Holt leaving, the kiss, or Amy vanishing. None of them seem like things he wants to dwell on but no matter how much he represses, there's only so much he can push down at once. He's tried to distract himself by getting a pizza and coffee in the break room, but it's been useless. He's one step away from begging Scully to blast live opera in his ears.

He can still picture the expression on Amy's face when he'd kissed her – the look in her eyes was something he's hoped to see for over a year now. No nerves, no stress, just pure bliss for a matter of seconds when it had only been two of them existing. But what does it mean? She's made it very clear she doesn't want to date cops. She's made it extremely clear that the past few hours have been weird and she wants things to go back to the way they were. What is he supposed to do? Pretend it never happened? He could do that when he'd been Johnny but this is Jake kissing Amy. He can't pretend that had never happened. And, damn it, he needs to know what her expression signified - bated breath, wide doe eyes, trembling lips and all.

Dragging himself out of the break room, he enters the briefing room. The moment he's in, Terry closes the door and the blinds.

"What's going on?" Jake asks, sitting on the first table, his coffee still in his hand.

"What I say now doesn't leave this room," Terry says, sighing deeply as he crosses his arms. "I know all of us are upset about Holt leaving, but we've got bigger things to concentrate on."

"What's going on?" Diaz repeats what Jake had asked.

"We're going to be working with the FBI again. Strictly need to know basis. This is an operation they've had running for over a year and we cannot screw it up by leaking information."

"What kind of operation?" Jake asks, mentally cheering. Yes, this is what he needs. Work, cases, catching criminals, fake identities, the return of Rex Buckingham, anything to take his mind off of everything happening. It's like Holt's mind reset exercise all over again.

"Operations on the Herrera cartel. I'm sure we all know who they are – we've all made arrests of their hit men at some point but never been able to have the charges hold."

"I know some of those guys," Jake frowns. "They used to provide some arms and ammo to the Ianucci family. Do I need to go undercover again?"

"No dice," Terry shakes his head. "If they didn't suspect you as the mole before, then they will if you go into the Herrera cartel, too. No, we're strictly running surveillance and standing as backup."

"Backup for who?" Boyle asks, looking around.

"Santiago," Terry says, and Jake feels like his heart is dropping into his stomach. All his initial excitement at a new case – a federal level case – is vanishing into thin air. This has to be a joke. "She's going undercover."

"For how long?" Diaz asks the question Jake wants to, but his voice doesn't seem to be cooperating with him at the moment. Of all the rotten – how did the FBI find it in themselves to butt into his and Amy's movie-worthy plot twist moments and split them up? They couldn't be that good? Federal Shmederal, he thinks, fingers curling over the edge of the table he's seated on. He wants to punch something, but the only thing in front of him is Terry and he doesn't think getting his entire arm fractured is the solution right now.

"We don't know yet. But she's one of us, and we've got to have her back. So, without asking, I'm assuming you're all in."

But Jake can barely concentrate. Whatever panic he'd been repressing before, all of it vanishes just by the simple briefing he's just received. This is a lot worse than any of it, and it engulfs him, drowning him before he can keep it at bay.

Amy's throat is starting to close up later that night as she drives home. The past few hours feel like she's been running on autopilot – which, to be fair, she has. All she's had to do is shut off the part of her that freaks out and focus solely on the detective mode of things. She'd accepted the offer without hesitation – going undercover and by personal request of the FBI is a dream come true. If she succeeds, this would go on the resume that would push her towards captaincy in the coming years. By the time she'd agreed and then followed Heuvel to the FBI office, she hadn't even run into any of her work mates. They'd all been missing from their desks, and the Captain had informed her that they were being briefed on the operation. After that, it had been hours of instruction, background information, and study material to go over before she went undercover.

But now that she's out of the office and on her way home, her fingers are tightly wound over the steering wheel, her heart is thudding fast, and she's sweating bullets. The realization that tomorrow she'll have to slip on a new identity – for who knows how long – is daunting. She'll be inside a cartel – the Herrera, to boot. Although she doesn't suspect she'd ever go native on the NYPD, she can't imagine coming out the other end the same person she'll go in as. The thought of this being the last night as herself is suddenly terrifying. For a second, she thinks she's going into anaphylactic shock, her hands reaching for the EpiPen she keeps in her glove compartment in case she comes near any dogs. Well, no, that's complete bullshit because dogs are completely avoidable. But that's the excuse she runs with inside her head, or when anyone asks, because it's easier than explaining why she panics at the idea of Jake – so deeply allergic of bees and wasps Jake – catching a ride with her and getting accidentally stung.

She has to take a few deep breaths to remind herself that it is panic, and not a reaction, and that stabbing herself with epinephrine isn't going to do anything to keep her fear at bay. Plus, it'll be a waste of an EpiPen.

As she pulls up outside her building, she feels like her throat is going to never open up again. It's only once she's climbed up the stairs and turned the corner into her hallway that she feels a switch snap and some semblance of sane thought enter her brain.

And there he is, leather jacket despite the no longer cold weather, neatly done tie but untucked shirt, scruffy boots, and a sheepish expression on his face. His eyes are trained on hers, and there are a million words hanging in the air between them but all she can do is raise her hand in a tiny wave.

"Hey," Jake says. He's leaning against her door, holding up a bag of take out. His expression is blank.

"Jake," she whispers, walking towards him as she takes out her keys. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, you finally got the assignment you were so jealous over so I figured, why not celebrate with some fortune cookies and cheap wine."

She smiles a tired smile, letting them in and turning on the lights. Amy quickly takes off her jacket, hanging it from the hooks near the foyer. She frowns as Jake simply tosses his over the kitchen counter he's making his way to.

"So, I got you chop suey and some fried rice. Figured we could mix it up a little. Who knows when you'll get to eat authentic, Americanized Chinese food again," he says, pulling out containers.

"Jake –"

"Although, if your fortune is better than mine, I'm claiming it. Dibs on the cookies – I bought them so your fortune is still officially mine."

"Jake –" she tries again, stepping into the kitchen. She's starting to feel that numbing feeling again, the kind that quickly alternates between pins and needles over her neck and chest and arms and lips and every inch of her body she pretends she doesn't want him touching. Only now, it's also clawing at her throat, where words are bubbling but making little sense. She wants his attention but she doesn't know what she wants to say.

"And don't worry about the wine – I know you go undercover tomorrow. We're not knocking on five drink Amy's door tonight," he laughs, ignoring her, but it sounds empty.

"Jake, stop –"

"No, no, I can't stop," he says, putting down the chopsticks he's holding and turning to her, effectively shutting her up. "I have to do this Amy, because if I don't then I have to talk about how our jobs will always get in our way. And tonight is not the night to deal with that."

She doesn't have anything to say to that. Instead she just purses her lips, giving him a look she's too used to giving him. In all honesty, she doesn't even know what it conveys anymore. Sadness? Pity? Concern? Affection? Who knows? She's never dared to question it, and now that they finally have a reason to, she's being ripped away from him for an indefinite amount of time.

How had they become the people who want to talk but life refuses to let them?

Instead, she just takes her container of take out, the chop sticks, and walks back to the dining room. She sits down idly – because she isn't barbaric enough, yet, to eat on the couch no matter how tired and lazy she wants to be tonight…and oh, lord, the crumbs that would spread. Jake sits down across from her, stabbing his rice with a fork. They eat in silence for a few minutes before she chuckles. The chuckles turn into a laugh, and before she knows it, she can't eat for fear of choking.

"The fact that you're turning hysterical before we've even touched the wine worries me," Jake says, staring at her with concern and amusement.

"How does this always happen to us?" she laughs. "Whenever some big pronouncement of emotion takes place, going undercover gets in the way."

"Because we're cops. It's what we do."

"But why now?" she says, sadly, all signs of laughter gone. "Why today? Why right after we – we –"

"Kissed?" Jake supplies, pushing aside his container and reaching out to touch her hand. She hesitates before letting him take it. They both inhale sharply, as if neither of them accepted the other to be so cooperative about the gesture. They simply stare at their interlinked hands as if they can't truly believe it's happening.

"This isn't how it was supposed to be," she whispers.

"What was it supposed to be like?" he asks.

"You were supposed to ask me if I finally liked you, and I was supposed to tell you that I had always liked you, and I was too scared to admit it. And then you were supposed to ask me out in some comedic manner and we were supposed to go on a date, and then talk about us, and it was supposed to be normal, Jake. Not like this – eating takeout knowing there's a chance I might never see you again."

"Don't say that," he warns her. "It's an undercover job. You'll be back before you know it."

"If you truly believed that, you never would've told me how you felt before you went undercover. You know things can go the wrong way. And you would be pissed too if we never got a chance – "

"I am pissed. But I'm also hella proud –"

"Hella?" she snorts.

"Hella proud and hella happy for you," he continues. "This is an amazing assignment, Amy. You've wanted this for so long."

"But I didn't want it right now," she childishly protests, although she knows that's not true either.

She does want it. She's always wanted a high profile case like this, one with so much action and hands getting dirty. What she isn't willing to admit is that she wants two things at once and maybe, just maybe, Amy Santiago is not willing to admit that putting her career before personal life isn't always the easiest choice to make. Sure, it's the choice she's making without regrets, but it still hurts like a bitch.

Jake gets up from his seat, coming to sit on the chair beside her. The whole time, he doesn't let go of her hand, and she's genuinely scared that there will come a time when he will have to. She squeezes his fingers tighter as he sits down beside her, pulling their chairs closer.

"Listen to me," he says, and his voice shakes as if he has zero confidence in what he's saying. "What happened in the evidence locker is something I can't forget. And I know you won't, either. But this assignment doesn't mean we have to end it – whatever it is. It's just pressing pause for a while before we can continue –"

"Continue to what? What happens if something goes wrong?"

"We've all got your back. We'll do everything we can to bring you home, and I know that it won't even be half the effort you'll put into this. You're the second best detective at the nine-nine, and I know you can do this. Just promise me something."

"What?" she asks, ignoring the jibe about their irrelevant competition.

"Promise me when you come back, it'll be you coming back. Don't – don't lose yourself there, Amy."

She bites her lip, eyes squeezing shut. She feels tears well up and before she knows it she's falling forwards into his arms and he's hugging her tight. It's not fair. She's the one who is supposed to worry about losing herself and the trauma and the PTSD and the aftermath because she's Amy fucking Santiago and it's her job to blow things out of proportion. But him saying it makes it too real. He doesn't get to say it, because the day that Jake Peralta worries about her losing herself is the day she knows she just might. She lets her head rest on his chest, curling her fingers in his flannel shirt as she calms herself down to the rhythm of his heart. Amy can feel his chin resting on her head and she sighs deeply.

"Let's make a pact," she mumbles.

"You know, for two cops, our relationship depends far too heavily on gambling and pacts," he says, then adds. "I love it. Hit me."

"Until I get back, we hit pause. I don't know how long I'll be gone, so in the mean time, if you – if you move on, then it's okay. But when we come back together, and if we still feel the same, we do what we were supposed to do. Cheesy date, and all."

"Amy," he laughs. "As much as I would love to agree to that, you've got a few snags in your plan."

"What?" she asks, pulling away to look at him, mind already reassessing her words.

"I'm not going to move on while you're gone," he says, giving her a look along the lines of – what was it he said – girlfriend, please.

"You did the last time," Amy whispers, turning a bit red at how jealous and completely let down she sounds.

"That was after I convinced myself you'd found your one true love, and we had no chance. But we have a chance now, and I'm not letting go of that. I've waited too long for this to throw it out the window."

"You don't have to do that for me, " she bites her lip, shaking her head, knowing she doesn't mean one word of that because she hopes he'll wait for her like he always has. Guilt rips through her, even more so when he remains silent before giving her a solemn look.

"You Don't Have To Do That For Me: title of your sex tape," he grins. He should give her lessons at some point on how to suppress emotion.

"What if it's our sex tape?" she blurts out, unwilling to let him have the last word.

"Well," he clears his throat. "Then you don't have to do that for me."

She blinks.

"Aha, made a sex tape joke and came off as a gentleman in the same sentence. Nailed it…title of my sex tape."

He's grinning but she's already so close to him, and the talk of sex tapes and doing things has left images in her mind that refuse to vanish until they're thoroughly acted out. She feels the same tension coil in her body that she'd felt in the evidence locker when he'd leaned into her, and this time, it's she who closes her eyes and captures his lips.

Eyes closed, head first, can't lose. That expression seems to hold good only in this situation because even as she wants to move closer, she already feels his arms go around and pulling her towards him. He deepens the kiss, and she makes a sound somewhere between a moan and a gasp as he nibbles on her lower lip. Her fingers are digging into his shirt, tugging at his tie, and she wants to feel more.

"No -" he says between rough, haphazard kisses. "Wait – mmph – Amy, stop."

"What?" she huskily says, lips close to his jaw.

"We're not doing this like this. We're not having goodbye sex. We're not having goodbye anything."

"What if it's more along the lines of I'm going to rock your world so hard it gives you a reason to come back to me as soon as possible?" she mumbles, trailing kisses down his jaw, her teeth finding his ear lobe.

He doesn't need to be told twice, because either her actions or her words get through to him and he's standing up, yanking her body up along his, fingers tearing at her blouse. The buttons pop and she'll make him pay for that later but right now all she can think of is how to eliminate every molecule of space between them.

And eventually, they do figure out how to do that.

They figure it out when he's slamming her body against the bedroom door she kicks shut, fingers digging under the band of her trousers, teeth scraping along her collar bone, chanting her name like a prayer against her skin. They figure it out when she pushes him down and climbs on top of him, head thrown back, the ends of her hair tickling her spine as his fingers run down her ribs, hooking into her hips. They figure it out when he's got her spread across her sensible sheets, her sensible pillows tossed aside, as he makes her lose that very sense, using his fingers and mouth to pull his name and screams out of her swollen, bitten lips. They figure it out when they lie on top of each other, limbs tangled, sweat trailing between them and pushing them each time to just have that moment once more. And when he's finally on the verge of passing out, and she's on the verge of so much pleasure she'll cry, and they've both turned their throats hoarse from the grunting and screaming and oh god, yes, and lost count of how many times they made each other come, and the clock reads 4:00 am, she finally allows herself to realize that this is it. This could be it. The final moments she ever shares with him.

Sleep will not come to her now.

She doesn't bother grabbing a sheet as she showers in the outside bathroom to avoid waking him up. When she's done, and steam curls all over the tiles, she stares at her reflection and reminds herself that this assignment is the best thing that has happened to her career in a long time. By the time she's finished cleaning up, and thrown away the food cartons, and straightened up whatever they knocked over in their whirlwind to get to her bed, it's five thirty in the morning. She has to leave soon to get her finalized cover information from the FBI office before she checks out her new apartment that she will call home for the upcoming weeks – or months, or whatever. She inhales deeply the scent of the vanilla coffee she keeps in her kitchen, taking a mental picture of her living room before heading back to her bedroom.

She isn't taking anything with her because the idea is to be a whole other person and there is nothing she wishes to take with her but memories. She's just that thorough in terms of leaving no trail for the cartel to trace her back with. Jake remains asleep diagonally across her bed and she tucks a sheet around him, turning down the temperature on the thermostat by a degree or two to counteract how heated the room has become with their activity and the night slowly turning into day.

When there's nothing more she can do, she kneels beside the bed, brushing back a few stray hairs she's no doubt tugged out of place before. Amy presses a gentle kiss to his forehead and whispers, "Bye, Jake. I'll see you soon."

But even as she walks out the door, leaving a note on where to find items and utensils should he wish to make breakfast once he wakes up, she knows she's really thinking Goodbye.

Two days later, as she applies one more layer of lip-gloss, she's come to terms with just how serious this mission is. Her new apartment is a sorry affair in downtown Manhattan. Her boots hurt her heels. Her forearm itches because the FBI injected her with a tracker - apparently, after a few of their agents had gone MIA over the years doing undercover work, they've found ways to keep track of them without any of the enemies finding out. Her shiny as hell purse sits on her modest table, holding a fake ID, a metro card, a wallet with spare change, the keys to this dump, a garish lipstick, and of course, her two phones. One is a scratched up, old model of an iPhone – she's not sure whether it's 4 or 4S. The other, tucked into a false bottom of fabric, is a flip Motorola, which acts as a burner should she need to make any emergency contact.

She's already been briefed on what she has to do to get the attention of her first target – Vinay Datta. He's not exactly one of the Herrera family by blood, but he's second in command to Cisco Herrera, the heir to the empire. The best shot she has is to get close to Vinay, and if Cisco is anything like the reputation that precedes him, he'll be vying for her in no time.

Be sexy, she reminds herself as she pulls on the uniform she's supposed to be wearing for her new job as bartender. It's at a nightclub – not quite in the skeevy territory, but not classy enough for her to require thorough background check at this stage – a few streets down. The usual girl whom she's displaced has been conveniently occupied with family matters in Montana. She's thankful that she doesn't have to bust out the sleazy wardrobe yet, because that's not her cup of tea, she dreads wearing that on the subway, and she's keeping it as a last resort if her wily charms don't work. No, for work, she's just got on a tight ensemble of dark skinny jeans and a figure-hugging tank.

So, a few hours later, when she's wiping down the counter and constantly eyeing the Indian man sitting on the stool across from her, she knows it works because he sends her a smirk and asks her for the name behind the pretty face.

"Valentina Sanchez," she smiles through dark pink lips, snapping gum between her teeth. "And what's your name, Mister Another Scotch Neat with a Twist?"

He laughs, leaning forward, and Amy tries not to gag at the overwhelming smell of cologne. It's a nice scent, but overused.

"Vinay. What time do you get off work?"