ABOUT
Lincoln Dalton | 38 | Civilian | Ben Barnes
Law and order. The words that had been taught to the youngest Dalton from a young age, the pinnacle of life, the summit of purpose, to uphold the values of their family who had all taken their places easily and willingly. Policemen, investigators, detectives, all obsessed with truth, all devoted to morality. What was right and wrong had never been clearer; those who followed the laws, and those who didnāt. Lincoln was precocious, paying special attention to right and wrong at an early age, exemplified when a peer in school had stolen money from the school nurse and Lincoln had promptly ground the poor boyās face into dirt of the schoolyard.Ā
It seemed a natural choice to seek employment with law enforcement, and he made his way through training programs easily. Slipping into the comfort of that life, taking his cases and slowly rising up the ranks, he found solace in knowing that he was doing the right thing.
It wasnāt until an assignment came along that things were called into question. Chicago had always been a warm, welcoming home but Lincoln was always aware of its dangerous underside; the drugs, the trafficking, the loose morals and lack of law abidance. And the mafias. They always knew about their existence, and there lied a fragile rule, a peace that could shatter at any moment. He was wary of that fragile peace, and with the assignment sliding across his desk, the implication was clear. The peace was ending, the reign of the mafias was ending.
Their way in was a name, a woman who had her connections, who would be high up enough to give relevant information, but not prominent enough to arouse suspicion. He always took his assignments seriously. But what he hadnāt countered on was her fire, her tenacity, her ability to upheave everything he had ever thought about life, what was right and what was so incredibly wrong. When the gun was pulled on him, he knew the tentative cover he had created for himself had been ripped off, the fake name, the fake life, the fake persona, it had all been ripped away and he was Lincoln, bleeding out and gasping for his final breaths. Her face was seared into his mind, that final moment, an expression he couldnāt comprehend as he closed his eyes.
What followed wasnāt death, which he would have preferred. No, it was far worse. It was a sense of disconnect, with his entire paradigm shifted, his entire life changing so slowly that he hadnāt noticed. It wasnāt so clear any more, the line between right and wrong had been smeared and he wondered if the dark haired woman who now haunted his dreams knew that too.
It was easy slipping into another disguise, the one of death, driving out of the city in the middle of night, never to return. But of course life never worked out that way, and of course it was first a text message, and then a phone call, and a car driving onto the small secluded property, seeking his return to Chicago. He wasnāt Lincoln Dalton anymore, in fact, he barely knew who he was, but the request from the Turkish was clear, unavoidable, and his denial fell on deaf ears. Keeping her photo folded up and tucked in his wallet was his first mistake. The second was not killing the Turkish men when he had the chance. But he knew what he had to do. He had to return to Chicago, if only to make sure she was safe, or to confirm her safety with his own eyes. At least that what he told himself.Ā
