ABOUT
FACE

Copyright

Copyright © 2026 by Rapinder “Rob” Singh Sidhu
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

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Scion Press Inc.
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Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data
Sidhu, Rob
About Face: The Betrayal by Saints, Syndicates and Self/ Sidhu, Rapinder
ISBN 978-1-990801-03-7 (Paperback) 978-1-990801-04-4 (ePub)

ABOUT
FACE

The Betrayal by Saints,

Syndicates and Self

Rapinder “Rob” Singh Sidhu

Dedication

For Ray Gill — my dearest friend, my chosen brother, whose spirit walks beside me still.

You knew me before the uniforms, before the masks and the walls I built to survive.

You saw the man beneath the armour and stayed, even when I no longer knew my own reflection.

When the world turned cold and loyalty grew scarce, you held the line with nothing but heart and faith.

While I was caged behind concrete and consequences, you bore invisible burdens and fought silent wars, slipping beyond this world before I could speak the words that mattered most. The weight of that silence has never left me.

Your absence echoes a hollow note throughout my day—a reminder of where love once stood unguarded. Yet I still feel you— in the truth that awakens me, in the long journey back from darkness, and in every breath taken from the wreckage of who I was.

I pray you’ve found the peace that life couldn’t give you — the kind that asks for nothing, forgives everything, and finally allows you to rest.

This book belongs to you as much as it belongs to me. Your light shines within these pages, steady and unwavering. And I will carry it through every story, every season, every lifetime — until we meet again.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Note from Jack Barsky – Former KGB Illegal

Foreword

Part One – Wearing the Mask

Prologue – The Abyss and the Heart

Chapter 1 – I Heard the Silence Before it Spoke.

Chapter 2 – My Father’s Journey

Chapter 3 – The Choice — A Path Beyond the Fields

Chapter 4 – Surrey Detachment: Carved in Scars, Crowned in Steel

Chapter 5 – Operational Undercover Training Course 69

Chapter 6 – The Cost of the Mask

Chapter 7 – Not That Guy Anymore

Chapter 8 – Project O-Pass

Chapter 9 – Appetite for Deception

Chapter 10 – The Wire Screamed

Chapter 11 – Runway 66

Chapter 12 – When the System Fears Its Own

Part Two – The Devil’s Ledger

Chapter 13 – A Patch to Bury the Past

Chapter 14 – Blueprint for an Empire of Ashes

Chapter 15 – The Pharmakon and the Gatekeeper

Chapter 16 – A Tarp that Covered the Chief

Chapter 17 – Nothing to Declare

Chapter 18 – Feds and Choirboys: Ballads of Betrayal

Chapter 19 – A Greek Tragedy

Chapter 20 – Cryptic Pings and a Penguin’s Sting

Chapter 21 – All Bets Are Off

Chapter 22 – A Voice and the Sudden Silence

Part Three – Scars to Scripture

Chapter 23 – The Long Road Ahead

Chapter 24 – The Shot Caller’s Blessing

Chapter 25 – Terms of Surrender

Chapter 26 – Iron Sharpens Iron

Chapter 27 – You Always Have a Second Chance and It’s Now

Epilogue – This Too Shall Pass

About the Author

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To those who stood beside me — who endured the fallout of my choices, who waited in silence while I disappeared into darkness, who never stopped believing a different ending was possible — this book is for you. You carried the weight when I couldn’t, and you held a mirror up when I refused to look.

To my family, past and present — you shaped the man I was, and you bore the consequences of the man I became. Your sacrifices built the foundation I betrayed, and your scars are etched between every line of this story. Without the foundation you built, I would have had nothing to rebuild from. I carry that truth with humility, knowing damage can’t be undone, only acknowledged. Family has always been my compass, and within it, three uncles shaped me in different but equally lasting ways.

To my uncle, Nirbhaye Singh Bhuller — you were a presence of quiet dignity and wisdom in my life. As a boy, I often didn’t fully grasp the burdens you carried, but I felt your steady guidance shaping me. You lived with discipline and strength, showing me that true resilience doesn’t announce itself; it simply endures. Your influence is woven into the man I became, and though I stumbled, I carry lasting gratitude for the way you anchored our family. You were our rock — steady when storms raged, unshaken when others faltered. For me, that anchor was more than stability; it was proof that even in my darkest moments, I came from something unbreakable. I miss you deeply, and I often wonder if I might not have stumbled so far if you had still been here to steady me. Thank you for your quiet strength, your guidance, and the pride you showed in me — I carry them with reverence.

To my uncle, Sohan Singh Sidhu — I don’t have enough words to thank you, but I’ll try. You answered every call while I was in prison, no matter the hour or silence on the other end. You never judged. You listened. And when I doubted whether this story was worth telling, your voice reminded me of who I am and where I came from. Your encouragement was never loud, but it was steady, kind, and unwavering. You gave me dignity when I felt stripped of it and hope when I was lost. I remain profoundly grateful for the grace you showed me, and I miss the comfort of your words every day.

To my uncle, Gurmail Singh Sidhu — your strength was never just physical; it was a strength of character, loyalty, and love. I remember the lessons I learned on the farm beside you — long days in the fields, the first time you trusted me to drive a tractor, the quiet pride in your eyes when I managed to keep it steady. Those weren’t just lessons in work; they became lessons in life, teaching me discipline, patience, and the value of earning every inch of ground. You were the backbone of both the farm and the family — a constant reminder that showing up is what defines loyalty. The respect and love I hold for you run deep, and I remain profoundly grateful for the example you set. This book carries a piece of you in every chapter, shaped by hard work, resilience, and survival.

To Billy Woo — I still hear your voice in the silences, in the space between memory and regret. You had a presence that couldn’t be faked and a code that didn’t bend. While others wore their values like uniforms, yours were stitched into your soul. You never needed the spotlight, but I saw you. Your loyalty ran deeper than blood, and your friendship was a steady anchor in the chaos. Your murder left a wound that time cannot close, and I carry the weight of that loss with respect as much as sorrow. A piece of this book belongs to you — not out of guilt, but gratitude for the loyalty and integrity you lived by. Men like you don’t just pass through — they leave a legacy that endures.

To Julian Sher — you assisted me through this project and challenged me to face truths I’d spent a lifetime avoiding. Your guidance wasn’t about smoothing the edges but keeping them sharp enough to cut through the bullshit. You helped me find the voice behind the façade and reminded me that telling the truth doesn’t erase pain — it means owning it.

To Paul Derry — following Julian’s challenge to face the truth, your raw, unfiltered honesty showed me what living it looks like. You taught me redemption isn’t a destination; it’s a daily decision. It’s not about erasing the past but owning it with courage. You reminded me healing isn’t clean or easy, but it’s possible — and worth it.

To my lawyers — G. Jack Harris, Russ Chamberlain, Matthew Nathanson, Loris Cavaliere, Mike Nance, and Amarjit Singh Dhindsa — your names deserve more than a line. You walked beside me through the fire, and when I couldn’t walk, some of you carried me. You fought battles no one else would touch, stood firm when the ground shifted, and believed in my humanity when most had stopped looking for it. That kind of loyalty doesn’t fade. It lives in these pages — and in the fact that this book exists at all.

To Julie Chester — you didn’t just edit this book, you elevated it. You walked through the wreckage with me, holding me to the fire when the truth got uncomfortable. You saw the story inside the chaos and demanded I meet it head-on. Somehow, you did it with grace, grit, and authority. Thank you for your clarity, your craft, and your belief in this work. You reminded me that the truth, even when painful, is the only thing strong enough to carry forward.

To the RCMP — not the badge, not the mission, but the institution that devours its own and calls it discipline. You taught me loyalty is disposable and silence is currency. Behind the slogans and polished ceremonies, I saw how protectionism rules over truth, how the system shields itself at any cost while discarding those who bleed for it. Discipline was never about building stronger members — it was about breaking them down to preserve the image. The institution survives not by honour, but by consuming the very people who once believed in it.

To those who tried to bury me — thank you. You gave me a shovel and a mirror, thinking I’d dig my own grave. Instead, I clawed my way back to daylight and came out stronger. You tried to write my ending, but I rewrote it with resilience and resolve. This is me cashing out.

To the good ones, the broken ones, and the ones who sold their souls to climb a crooked ladder: I carry the weight of what I became, especially in the eyes of those who wore the uniform with honour. To the men and women who showed up every day with integrity, who believed in something bigger than themselves — I see you. I betrayed that honour, and I own it. My greatest regret is failing to be worthy among you. Yet my respect for your courage, sacrifice, and quiet resilience runs deep.

To the Game — you gave me the illusion of control, the weight of fear-based respect, and just enough money to stay hungry. You fed my greed, stroked my ego, and made me believe I was untouchable — until I wasn’t. You gave me everything I thought I wanted, just long enough to destroy what I truly needed. This isn’t your monument — it’s your indictment. You’ll keep whispering to the next broken soul who thinks they can win. I was that soul once. I know better now. I’ve paid — with blood, with time, with truth — and paid in full.

To anyone still fighting their way out of a cell, a system, or the wreckage of their own choices— hear me. Surviving isn’t the same as being redeemed. You’ve got to fight for it: every step, every word, every choice. Even when you’re crawling, even when every step feels like it breaks you, you don’t owe the world your silence. You owe yourself a voice.

Write it—using scars as your ink and truth as your compass. Your story bears witness to your survival, and your voice is the key that unlocks it. Silence is the last prison—breaking free from it is the weight you carry and the freedom you claim. And it’s never too late.

Finally, while I appreciate the support and assistance from all the people who contributed to writing this book, any mistakes or omissions are mine.

Note from Jack Barsky

Former KGB Illegal

There are stories that entertain. There are stories that educate.

And then there are true stories that haunt. This is one of them.

About Face is not just a book about crime, justice, or betrayal. It is the anatomy of a human soul under siege—first in the line of duty then when betrayed by his own institution and finally the ultimate betrayal, the betrayal by the self.

As an illegal agent for the KGB, I lived a double life for so long to lose awareness of the face beneath the mask. And I still feel the pain that resulted when I finally ripped off that mask.

But what Rob Sidhu went through transcends my own trials and tribulations by far. He didn’t just live a double life. He lived a life split into fragments—husband, father, undercover police officer, criminal, convict, and survivor.

This story begins with ideals: family, service, honor. Rob rose through the ranks of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police force by mastering deception. What he didn’t know—what no training could prepare him for—was how easily that deception can turn inward.

The RCMP asked him to become a ghost. Then punished him when he forgot how to be a man.

What follows is a descent so steep it leaves you breathless: from trusted officer to drug lord, from protector to predator, from self-assured to self-erased. But what makes About Face truly unforgettable isn’t the fall—it’s the brutal honesty of what follows.

This is not a redemption arc dressed in marketing polish. There is no neat closure here. What Rob offers is far more rare and far more valuable: accountability without excuse. Shame without self-pity. Pain without the morphine.

He doesn’t ask for your forgiveness. He earns your attention.

Because in his truth, many of us will find a reflection of our selves: the parts we hide, the betrayals we’ve endured or inflicted—and the lingering question of whether a second chance is ever truly deserved.

I believe for Rob it is.

And this book is a damn good start.

— Jack Barsky
Former KGB Illegal
Author of Deep Undercover

Foreword

“Every moment is a time of choice, and every hour destiny.” — James Allen

We usually do not achieve wisdom by accident. Most of us, I suspect, drift through vast portions of our lives in a state of waking sleep — an endless cycle of doing, reacting, chasing, and surviving — rarely pausing long enough to ask the most essential existential question of all:

Why?

Why am I here?

Why am I doing this?

Why do I keep returning to the same patterns of thought, making the same mistakes, suffering the same losses, encountering the same ghosts?

As I reflect on the wreckage and redemptions in my life, I can say with utmost certainty that many of the choices I made were not guided by wisdom, clarity, or even conscious intention. They were forged in the fires of basic survival, shaped by my changing environment, my trauma, my rebellion, and perhaps most of all, my blindness to myself.

Our world is constantly evolving, moving at an ever-increasing pace. We forfeit presence for distraction, mistaking activity for purpose. Gradually, often unnoticed, we lose touch with the inner compass that directs us toward greater meaning.

Life, after consulting with Karma and Destiny, has a way of intervening.

For me, the wake-up call arrived wrapped in iron bars, concrete walls, and the unyielding solitude of a United States prison cell. It was not the environment I would have selected for reflection, but it was the one I required.

Often, what we perceive in the shadows has a greater impact than what we observe in the light. My cell became my therapy centre and my classroom.

It was there — in the stark silence, stripped of status, distraction, and ego — that I confronted the raw truth of my existence: I was neither a victim nor a monster, nor merely the sum of my past crimes, failures, or accomplishments.

I have always been — and continue to be — a man with the power to choose. To choose how I respond, which paths to travel, or battles to champion.

To choose who I become.

To choose what story I will tell others, and more importantly, myself.

Writing has always been the tool that helped me navigate the complicated terrain of my mind. Even as a young boy, scribbling notes was not just about recording facts; it was a lifeline. It externalized my thoughts, helped me organize chaos into coherence, and grounded me in moments that might have otherwise overwhelmed me.

Later, as a police officer, this process was even more necessary. It became second nature to observe, document, and discern what was significant and why. Ironically, I spent years recording the lives and tragedies of others, all the while avoiding the most challenging notes of all: those concerning myself.

This book is my attempt to change that. About Face: The Betrayal by Saints, Syndicates and Self is neither a blueprint nor a sermon, and it is definitely not a guide for living your life. It is merely an offering, a confession — a deeply personal exploration of one man’s struggle with identity, failure, consequences, and, ultimately, the journey for redemption.

If you discover reflections of your own story in these pages — whether in my missteps or moments of grace — then perhaps we have occasionally been walking the same path.

To my family and friends who stood by me through my darkest moments, loved me when I was at my most unlovable, and waited — sometimes with frustration, sometimes with heartbreak, but always with a glimmer of hope — this is for you.

To my mother and father — the very heart of my story — whose love never wavered, whose prayers never ceased, and whose belief in me carried me when I could not believe in myself — this is dedicated to you most of all. You showed me what unconditional love is, what sacrifice looks like, and what it means to never give up on someone, even when the world suggests you should.

This is my truth.

This is my apology.

This is my thank you.

Part One

Wearing the Mask

Prologue

The Abyss and the Heart

“He who fights with monsters should see to it that he does not become a monster in the process. For when you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.”

— Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil, §146

“I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.”

— Ezekiel 36:26 (ESV)

There was an arrogance to me that came from believing I could walk through darkness and not be changed by it. I once wore that conceit like armour — a badge of purpose, a justification of the lies, and a shield against conscience. When Nietzsche warned, “He who fights with monsters should see to it that he does not become a monster,” I didn’t hear it as a warning, but as a challenge. And so I waged my wars — against criminals, against the system itself and more importantly, against myself— never realizing that the line separating me from them was eroding piece by piece until the distinction blurred and no longer mattered. The monster wasn’t out there anymore. It was in the mirror.

For me, the abyss isn’t a place, it’s a process. It started as a duty, evolved into an obsession, and concluded in the silence of a prison cell. The longer I stared into it, the more it became familiar with my contours, fears, weaknesses, and my price. Undercover work demanded that I bury compassion beneath calculation, morality beneath mission. And when the mask became the man, I told myself it was for the greater good. That’s how the abyss took control of me. It convinced me that my descent was noble, that survival was virtue, and that betrayal was necessity. There was no way of walking out unscathed. I had become what I was chasing, and in the process, lost what made me human.

Ezekiel spoke of a promise — a heart of flesh to replace the heart of stone. For me, that promise came only after everything else had been stripped away: the uniform, the reputation, the marriage, the lies. Redemption didn’t arrive as light breaking through the darkness, it came as the slow acceptance of it. My new heart wasn’t gifted — it was rebuilt, scar by scar, truth by truth.

Where once there was calculation, there is now conscience. Where once there was silence, there is now a voice.

This story isn’t about monsters or saints — it’s about the space between them, where identity fractures and truth emerges. It’s about the cost of becoming someone else and the miracle of remembering who you were. It’s about the abyss that consumed me, and the heart, fragile, flawed, but real, that is trying to find its way back.

Chapter 1

I Heard the Silence Before it Spoke.

“Well, I want you to notice

To notice when I’m not around

I know that your eyes see straight through me And speak to me without a sound

And I want to hold you

Protect you from all of the things I’ve already endured.”

-Staind, Zoe Jane, 14 Shades of Grey (2003)

Those lyrics were never just a song to me. They reflected everything I wanted to give my daughter, but failed to protect her from. They set the tone for this day when love, fear, and consequence collided.

When you truly know something, it doesn’t speak to you in words. It hums beneath your skin, thumps in your chest, and tightens somewhere deep in your gut long before your mind catches up. A silent echo that comes from experiences carved into your bones.

On August 29, 2012, I awoke to a resonance vibrating inside me — an unshakable uneasiness I could neither name nor ignore. It wasn’t fear, that particular emotion had long since burned away after years of surviving the unpredictable chaos of organized crime. This was something else.

This was intuition, because in that life, there were never true surprises — only moments when the storm clouds you thought you’d been outrunning inevitably broke overhead.

I woke earlier than usual that morning. My nine-year-old daughter, Kaelyn, was beginning her first day at a new school — yet another ripple in a year of turmoil. We had left behind the shadows of Abbotsford for Montreal, trailing a path of fractured routines and whispered promises to improve. This day mattered. She mattered. And that was enough to steady my hands as I brushed her long, golden hair, the soft strands slipping through my fingers like delicate threads tethering me to something pure.

I forced a smile, concealing my unnamed anxiety, as I helped her gather her things. She was so excited, her blue eyes bright with the unspoiled optimism only a child can possess. She deserved a day free from the ghosts of my past, but as we stepped out into the morning air, a thought gnawed at the edge of my mind: pay attention to everything she says, it might be the last time you hear her voice.

That’s what happens when you’ve lived too long in a world where later today, much less tomorrow, isn’t guaranteed. I wasn’t entirely familiar with the area around her new school. I’d only been there once — meet-the-teacher night — a week prior. This new landscape inadvertently revealed my first indication that there was a genuine reason for my edginess that morning. I took a wrong turn, an innocent mistake that became a tripwire. When I swung into a mall parking lot to correct my course, I checked my rearview mirror, a reflex as natural as breathing.

Two vehicles made the same abrupt maneuver.

Tell-tale signs of surveillance.

The male driver and female passenger wore their ball caps low, both focusing intently on nothing in particular. I recognized that look. I’d worn it myself in another life as a road supervisor with the Vancouver Drug Section. Surveillance becomes sloppy when they imitate moves they didn’t anticipate.

Without hesitation, I pulled out my phone and began photographing them, the simplest and most effective way to burn a team. Once burned, they’re compromised. Their vehicles were flagged, and their faces marked; they now knew their presence was embarrassingly obvious.

“Who are you taking pictures of, Dad?”

I turned to look at Kaelyn, innocence embodied, or so I hoped. “Ah, nobody, princess… just testing the camera.”

Meanwhile, every nerve in my body was buzzing with this new situation.

We arrived at the school a few minutes early. I backed into a parking spot, positioning myself to observe every approach like a soldier scanning the tree line. There it was again — that green Dodge Sebring creeping past, the male and female still wearing the tell-tale ball caps.

A strange calm settles over you in those moments when fear gives way to clarity, when you have a reason why, a daughter with sky-blue eyes and a heart too big for this world—the how is rooted in instinct.

I walked Kaelyn to the school entrance, absorbing every word she said as if it were scripture. Her excitement was painted across her face and jingled in her voice, unspoiled by the world I had dragged us through. I knelt, kissed her soft cheek, and whispered a simple prayer disguised as a farewell.

“Have a wonderful day, princess.”

I turned back toward my vehicle, and the soldier within me took the wheel. I drove away, weaving an erratic path designed to shake off or expose any tails. I found myself in a cul-de-sac, accelerating hard through a U-turn, forcing any pursuit into the open. As if on cue, three units appeared in my mirror. They weren’t attempting to conceal themselves any longer; they understood that the jig was up.

I slowed, making it clear that this game of shadows was over for the morning. As each surveillance vehicle passed, I captured its images. One driver raised his hands in mock surrender, a silent acknowledgment between predator and prey that the chase was not over, but postponed.

Returning home, I grappled with the harsh reality. Yes, I had been indicted in the United States a year prior, but I had convinced myself that extradition was years away, a distant storm cloud.

Today proved otherwise.

Later that afternoon, driving westbound on Highway 40 toward Vaudreuil-Dorion to pick up Kaelyn, I tested them again, slipping onto an off-ramp without warning. My rearview mirror revealed everything: three vehicles jostling awkwardly to follow, including that damn green Sebring.

At the school, Kaelyn burst through the doors like sunlight through storm clouds. Her long hair danced across her face in the breeze, and as she brushed it away to reveal her radiant smile — for a moment — nothing else existed.

She climbed into the car, bubbling with stories from her first day in Grade 4. Then her tone shifted. She had learned that one of her new friends was diagnosed with cancer. Life is cruel that way, I thought, but of course didn’t say.

The most important lessons don’t just come from the streets or the shadows. They also stem from the quiet heartbreaks of childhood — the moments that teach us how fragile and precious life truly is.

As I turned into the familiar parking lot of our condo complex, the late summer sun hung low, casting long shadows across the pavement. I sensed a heaviness in the air, a suffocating density that I recognized all too well. It was the same weight I had felt in back alleys before making undercover drug buys, in the final seconds before a door was kicked in, and during my violent confrontation with “Sajhad.”

Kaelyn sat beside me, clutching the card she had made in the car for her friend fighting cancer. The innocence of her small hands holding that delicate creation made everything inside me ache, as if I were standing in two worlds, neither of which I belonged to anymore.

I stepped out of my car and instinctively scanned the area, noticing movement where it shouldn’t be. A reflection in a window. A glimpse of a tactical boot peeking out from behind a parked car. The orchestra of the inevitable had begun its opening notes, and I felt an unexpected calm settle over me. I was ready to surrender — not with defiance, not with bravado, but with the exhausted relief of a man who had been running too long. I wanted to meet it head-on. I wanted it to be over.

“Come on, princess,” I whispered, reaching for her small hand. Her fingers slipped into mine without hesitation — warm, trusting, and perfect. As we neared the building entrance, our world shattered.

“Police! Don’t move!”

The words pierced the air, sharp and ruthless. Two plainclothes officers stepped out from the shadows, badges visible, one pointing a taser directly at me, the bright yellow prongs glowing like vipers ready to strike. Behind them, the black Suburban’s doors swung open — members of the Emergency Response Team pouring out like an invading force, automatic rifles raised, faces masked, eyes devoid of mercy or emotion.

Instinct took over. I stepped in front of Kaelyn, shielding her the only way I knew how — not as a criminal, nor as an ex-cop — but as a father.

One of the officers reached for her gently, but to her, it must have felt as though her world was being torn apart. I felt her hand in mine, her tiny fingers stretching, desperate, until they slipped away completely.

I turned, locking eyes with her as chaos unfolded around us.

Time slowed. It felt as though the universe had taken a deep breath, with everything suspended in that delicate moment between heartbeats. Her big blue eyes — those same eyes I kissed goodnight a thousand times — stared back at me, wide and glistening with confusion and terror. Her lips trembled, but no sound escaped. Just a single nod, brave beyond her years, a solemn promise from daughter to father. “I will be fine, Dad.”

The cold steel of the handcuffs dug into my wrists, a final punctuation mark at the end of a life I could never return to. The clicks resonated in my mind like nails in a coffin.

I heard one of the officers behind me mutter my name as if it were an afterthought, as though I were a ghost of who I had once been.

Frank Ducrois. A relic from my past life. “Frank,” I said softly, my voice empty, “you’re frightening my daughter; you can lower your weapons now.” He looked at me, disgust etched into every line of his face, but there was also something else: recognition. Of what we once were and what I had become.

The rifles slowly lowered, but the damage had already been done. Kaelyn stood there, small, delicate, yet unbroken. Her world had just changed forever, but she held her ground. She was braver than I had ever been.

I was led over to a police vehicle, away from her and the life I had been trying to reconstruct for her, but it was a life built on lies, blood, and quiet desperation. I caught one last glimpse of her standing in the fading light, clutching that handmade card to her chest as if it were the only thing anchoring her to a world that had just been tipped upside down and drained of all its colour.

That was the day my life in organized crime came to an end, but more than that, it was the day my daughter saw me for everything I was.

The door of the unmarked cruiser slammed shut beside me. One of the officers slid into the back seat next to me, his presence a reminder of both custody and caution. He couldn’t resist his glee, smirking as though he’d just claimed a prize, and took every opportunity to comment — little barbs meant to remind me how far I’d fallen. I had worn the badge. I had commanded operations. I had lived with power and deception in equal measure. I had climbed higher than I ever imagined when I first put on that uniform. Now, I sat in the back of a police car, reduced to a file number, a liability of my own making.

As the engine rumbled to life and the vehicle pulled away, I felt the crushing weight of every decision, every betrayal, every illusion of control collapse onto my shoulders. The cruiser merged onto the highway, its destination hidden from me, the road ahead stretched like a suffocating tunnel, dragging me forward with a force I could not fight — a dark corridor into the unknown, pulling me toward the reckoning I had been outrunning for years. The shadows pressed in on all sides, and with every mile I sank deeper into helplessness, gripped by the cold realization that fear — the kind I thought I had burned out of me years ago had returned to claim its debt.

My wrists were cuffed tightly behind me, the metal biting into my skin. The position forced my shoulders back against the seat, every bump in the road driving the steel deeper, sending dull aches up my arms. It was a posture of complete vulnerability — no control, no authority, only restraint as I stared out the tinted glass at a world that once bent beneath my authority.

My thoughts turned inward, examining my soul. Was the rise worth it, as intoxicating as it was? Was the fall meant to be this absolute, this ruthless? Sitting there, Kaelyn’s blue eyes burned into my memory — unbroken, forgiving in a way I didn’t deserve — I felt their weight more than the steel on my wrists. She had looked at me with confusion, terror, and something else I could barely understand — love. In that quiet space between who I had been and who I might become, I wrestled with the only question remaining: could I ever become a man worthy of that love, or was I destined to stay a shadow of myself? There was only silence — and in that silence, for the first time, I truly heard God speaking to my soul. And beneath it all, a single question cut through everything: how did I ever let it come to this?

Chapter 2

My Father’s Journey

One day in the Spring of 1985, my father called me out to the back deck of our farmhouse. It was early in the season — the air still had a bite in it from winter, but the sun was hanging longer in the sky, warming the Abbotsford soil just enough to wake it from its slumber. From that deck, we could see it all — ten acres of raspberries, neat rows stretching out like the lines on a graph, veins of green just beginning to push through the brown canes, glistening wet with dew. To most people, it might’ve just looked like farmland — but to my father, this was survival, sacrifice, and legacy all rolled into one.

He didn’t say much, he rarely did, but that day, he peered at me with a gravity I didn’t often see, and gestured out toward those rows.

“You can either go to school,” he said, “or you can look after all this.”

There was no anger in his voice. No subtle threat or indication of how he hoped I might answer—just a simple, unvarnished truth. I was being given options and answered without hesitation.

“School,” I said.

Looking back, I know what that moment was. It wasn’t a test. It wasn’t a trap. It was love — the kind of love immigrant fathers show their sons when words fail them. It was his way of saying: I’ve carried this load, so you don’t have to. I broke my back so you can stand taller. My dad was not an educated man, at least not in the way the scholastic world measures it, but he understood some things about life that no textbook could teach. He recognized the value of hard work and what it meant to keep your head down and labour, even when nobody was watching.

He desired something more for me.

Simon Fraser University wasn’t just a school to him — it was a doorway. A way out. A way up. It was a promise that his sacrifices — all those dawn-to-dusk days in the fields, all those years living in bunkhouses and sending every extra dollar back home to Punjab — might result in something more for me.

By that time, I wasn’t walking that road alone. I was dating Coreen, who would later become my wife. We were young, inseparable, and deeply in love. The kind of love that wraps itself around you like ivy, pulling you close, clinging tenaciously, creeping into every moment.

She came from a different world than I — a different kind of family, with different expectations. None of that mattered to us. We were kids chasing something bigger than ourselves, dreaming of futures we couldn’t quite see but could feel in our bones.

Springtime has a way of making everything seem possible. The fields were waking up. The world was opening up. For the first time in my life, I could see a path forward that didn’t involve back-breaking physical labour and dirt under my fingernails.

Even now, all these years later, when I look back on that spring day in 1985, I don’t just envision farmland.

I see a father’s love, the choice he offered, and far off in the distance, I see the line I would have to cross to become who I wanted to be.

My father, Ajmer Singh Sidhu, came to this country with nothing but his name, pride, and determination to outwork anyone. He never expected an easy life — he didn’t think one existed. Dad arrived in Canada in the late 1950s, as part of the first wave of men from Punjab who left everything behind for a chance at a better life, not just for themselves but for the families they left behind. He was sponsored by his two uncles, Inder Singh Sidhu and Pal Singh Sidhu, who had already established a foothold in this new, cold country.

He went to work at Herman Sawmills — a rough, hard-edged lumber operation that chewed up men as well as trees for a living. He lived in a bunkhouse with the other mill workers — single men from Punjab and other parts of India — packed into basic accommodations that were designed more for shelter than comfort.

The work was gruelling — long days of physical labour, sawdust clinging to sweat-soaked skin, hands torn and calloused from handling rough wood day after day. My father never complained; that wasn’t in him. He had goals, but more importantly, responsibilities — an extended family back in India depending on him. There was no room for weakness, no space for self-pity; these were options that never even occurred to him.

Most of his earnings made their way across the ocean to South Asia. Every dollar that wasn’t spent on survival was sent to his family. He lived by this code: work hard, provide, and endure.

That steadfast mindset and commitment to duty would serve as the blueprint for how he raised his children.

Finding My Mother

After several years in Canada, my father returned to India to find a bride — a search guided by tradition and family ties. His betrothal was arranged, as was customary, and he married my mother, Surjit Kaur Sidhu — the sister of his Uncle Inder’s wife, Raminder Kaur Sidhu. It was a union rooted in family trust and connection — values that meant everything to men like my father.

My mother followed him back to Canada, leaving behind everything familiar — her family, her country, her language — to build a life in this cold, foreign land. She would not have an easy journey.

A Mother’s Sacrifice

Shortly after I was born, my mother was diagnosed with tuberculosis — a terrifying illness at the time. Treatment options were limited, and the path to recovery was long and uncertain. My uncle, Nirbhaye Singh Bhuller, who lived in Quebec, knew a specialist at the Royal Victoria Hospital. Arrangements were quickly made, and my mother left almost immediately for treatment in Montreal, resulting in the unfortunate circumstance of being separated almost from birth.

It could be traumatic for a child to grow up without the presence of their mother during those earliest, most formative days, but I was never unloved.

In my mother’s absence, two extraordinary women stepped in to fill the void. They cared for and nurtured me, leaving loving imprints on my heart that have never faded.

The first was my mother’s sister, Raminder Kaur Sidhu — the woman I call my “vhuddy mah” in Punjabi — “my older mother”. She was more than an aunt to me. She was the gentle, steady presence who stepped in when illness took my mother far away to the other side of the country. She filled the space with a kind of unconditional love that asked for nothing in return, offering up patience, warmth, and a soft place for a child to land.

It still breaks something deep inside me when I think of how I wasn’t there when she took her last breath. I was locked away in prison when the news reached me of her passing. I’ve experienced many losses in this life, but not being able to hold her hand, whisper thank you, or say goodbye in person — that’s a grief I carry quietly, every single day.

The second is my father’s younger sister — Gurmail Kaur Dhaliwal — my beloved “bhuaji.” She was fierce, loving, and protective in a way only an aunt could be. She had the ability to make you feel both safe and small at the same time — like you mattered more than anything. However, there were lines you’d better not cross. I learned that lesson the hard way one afternoon when we were still living in Mission. I thought I was so slick — hanging around under the bleachers at the local park, puffing on a cigarette I had managed to get my hands on, passing it around with a few of my friends. I didn’t hear her coming, but suddenly, there she was — looming over me like a storm cloud ready to break. She didn’t yell. She didn’t have to. She grabbed my face — not hard enough to hurt, just enough to let me know I was caught — and pulled me in close. She sniffed me like a bloodhound as if confirming what she already knew. Then came the slap — sharp, stinging, yet somehow still full of love. It wasn’t about my punishment — it was about her disappointment.

“Ghar jaa — hun.”

Go home — now.

That was it. She never told my parents. That was bhuaji. She handled it herself, teaching me the lesson, preserving my dignity, and keeping the secret between us. Looking back, I know that slap stung less than the fact that I let her down. Years later, she would help take care of my children when my parents were on trips to India.

These women — my “vhuddy mah” and my “bhuaji” — were my world. They didn’t just care for me. They shaped me. They taught me what family meant beyond blood, what sacrifice looked like beyond words. They didn’t just raise me; they anchored me.

The Valley That Raised Me

By the time I was 8 years old, we had moved from my birth city of Mission, B.C., to the Fraser Valley — a long, flat stretch of fertile farmland nestled between the jagged peaks of the Coast Mountains and the invisible line dividing Canada from the United States. Abbotsford was home. Not the Abbotsford people know today, with its subdivisions, big box stores, and coffee shops on every corner, nor the city referred to as the murder capital of Canada in 2008. This was the old Abbotsford — a patchwork of fields and country roads, home to working-class families who understood the value of hard work and lessons. It was a small town, the kind where stories travelled faster than pickups down an old gravel road. Everyone knew everyone, especially in the South Asian community. We were woven together by bloodlines, friendships, and memories that spanned generations. In a place like that, there were no secrets for long. Reputations mattered.

Your word mattered. Loyalty mattered. And far too often, the optics mattered most of all. People paid attention to whom you were seen with, how you carried yourself, and how hard you worked. Pride was stitched into everything. The Fraser Valley was a place of quiet intensity, where beauty coexisted with burden. To this day, the Fraser Valley remains undeniably beautiful. On clear mornings, the sun rises from behind Mount Baker, illuminating the sky in hues of pink and gold, with its snow-covered peak standing vigilant over the borderlands.

Summers In The Fields

My father was, and remains to this day, a hard-working man — the kind of guy who believed that if you could stand, you could work. I learned early on how to pick delicate berries in the scorching sun until my back ached mercilessly and my fingers were stained a deep red. When I wasn’t bent over the plants, I was waist-deep in mud, helping him drag 30-foot lengths of aluminum irrigation pipe through the muck — pipe that felt twice my weight and five times my size.

I hated every second of it.

I watched cars filled with families driving past on their way to the beaches of Cultus Lake or a cabin in the Okanagan, wondering what that kind of life felt like. I envied it. I even resented it. Deep down, I understood that my experience was something different, harder, more relevant. While the summer seasons of my peers were redolent with the scents of sunscreen, campfire smoke, and backyard barbeques, mine were pungent with the bouquet of dirt, sweat, and diesel fumes.

Those fields taught me discipline, respect for the grind, and a work ethic that would carry me through every challenge I would face later in life. I was shown what responsibility looks like — not the kind you talk about, but the kind you show up for every day without needing applause.

High School Years

W.J. Mouat Secondary was where I first found my escape. It was where I discovered girls, forged friendships with my two best friends, and met my first wife. It was also where I discovered how to get away with just enough to feel alive but not enough to get myself completely derailed.

There were parties on the gravel backroads — tailgates down, engines idling, Def Leppard and Bryan Adams spilling out of cassette decks, and Kokanee and Moosehead beer circulating like currency. We gathered in the countryside, at someone’s uncle’s farm or a clearing deep in the fields, where there was usually a bonfire, flames licking up into the night sky and casting long shadows across faces we’d known since grade school. There were Friday night hockey games at MSA Arena — the whole town packed in tight, bundled in Canucks jackets, banging on the glass, chasing that shared communal rush only small-town hockey could elicit.

We’d cruise down the backroads with friends, windows rolled down, gravel kicking up behind us, talking about dreams that felt a thousand miles away—dreams of fast cars, better jobs, bigger cities, or simply escaping the watchful eyes of a community that never missed a mistake. It wasn’t much, but it was ours. The faces were familiar, and the stories well-worn, yet every night still felt as if it held some promise. And yeah, there were more girls now. Older girls, younger girls, girls we didn’t know from school but had seen around—leaning on cars, laughing with their friends, mysterious and untouchable until they weren’t. That was the thing about small towns—everybody knew everybody, but sometimes, if the vibe was right, you could be someone else for a little while.

The Valley’s Legacy

The Fraser Valley wasn’t just farmland — it was a threshold, a line in the dirt separating two worlds: Canada to the north, the United States to the south. However, for those of us raised in the in-between, lines on a map didn’t mean much.

As a kid, I was already unconsciously learning the unspoken rules of border life. Rules that nobody wrote down, yet everyone implicitly understood. The fields stretched endlessly — rows of strawberries, raspberries, and blueberries — crops that provided food for our table and coins for our pockets. But they were more than that. They were corridors. Routes. Open-air lessons in logistics.

I gradually realized that what mattered most wasn’t who owned the land; it was who knew how to move through it unnoticed. My father didn’t talk about such things. Quiet. Disciplined. Head down like every other immigrant man who had clawed his way up from nothing, driven by a sense of responsibility to family, both here and back in the old country. There were other men too. Men who moved differently, laughed louder, and drove nicer trucks. They told stories in hushed, conspiratorial tones about border runs and American cash. They were nothing like my father — but they were there, in the same fields and backroads.

I didn’t know it then, but those early days were teaching me about lanes of power. About the invisible lines that separated the hard-working from the risk-takers who’d figured out how to turn proximity into profit.

When I was a kid in Abbotsford, the border was just a ditch at the edge of the field. I’d park my dirt bike at that ditch sometimes, staring south, wondering what it would feel like to step over.

Most importantly, it gave me a way of seeing the world that would stay with me long after I left those fields behind.

It reminded me that some lines are meant to serve as a guardrail, while others you can’t help but cross.

Chapter 3

The Choice — A Path Beyond the Fields

Simon Fraser University.

My departure from the farm never felt absolute. When you grow up tied to the land, even when you move physically, part of you remains behind, buried in the soil and tangled in the roots.

The spring of 1985 marked a shift. I had made my choice, and true to his word, my father never stood in my way after that. He didn’t have much advice to give me about university life. What could he tell me about lecture halls and professors when his classroom had been a sawmill and a berry field? But he gave me something better- permission—encouragement to chase something more significant.

Less than an hour’s drive from Abbotsford, Simon Fraser University stands like a fortress on Burnaby Mountain, its cold concrete and glass jutting out against the grey Pacific sky. It felt worlds apart from the Sidhu family homestead. The distance was what I needed to make a clean break from the familiar, daily routines.

I threw myself into my studies, not because I aimed for academic excellence, but because I understood the cost of failure. I knew exactly what would happen if I faltered: the disappointment of my father and ten acres of raspberries that didn’t care how tired, bored, or hungover you were.

SFU wasn’t just about academics for me.

It was where I started to learn who I was and, maybe more importantly, who I wasn’t.

Young Love — Coreen and the Spaces Between Our Worlds

Coreen was by my side through it all, bringing a quietly different approach to the world we lived in. She navigated life with a kind of ease that was foreign to me. Her world was designed to meet her halfway. Where I braced for struggle, she anticipated grace. Where I prepared for judgment, she expected acceptance.

We were an interracial couple at a time and place where our differences still made most people look twice. Not necessarily in anger, often in obvious curiosity, and sometimes in grim silence heavy enough to convey more than words ever could. We came from two very different backgrounds. She didn’t grow up with aunties whispering about the shame of marrying outside our culture, or feel the invisible thread of family honour tugging at her every choice. In her world, love was something unbound, free of borders, bloodlines, colour, and obligation. I had been raised to understand love was work, duty, and a lifelong promise tied to family, history, and sacrifice.

Coreen never suggested I should abandon my world; she simply asked me to make space for hers. Perhaps that’s the most profound lesson she taught me about love. True love isn’t about losing your identity; it’s about creating room for two histories to coexist, even when society says they don’t belong together.

We didn’t fit any mould, but we fit each other, and that was enough. As young love often does, filling the gaps created by inexperience with intensity, we were absolutely inseparable. Wherever I went, she followed, and vice versa. We’d drive the long, winding roads from Burnaby Mountain back to Abbotsford late at night, music low, sometimes discussing our day in the classrooms, or what the future might look like, sometimes saying nothing at all, sitting in comfortable silence.

She saw parts of me nobody else did back then- the ambition, the frustration, the deep pull of responsibility that never really let go of me.

Being with Coreen was like standing in two worlds at once. That of my father, with respect earned through sweat and loyalty paid in labour, and the world of SFU abounds with ideas, debate, and possibility.

Reflecting on the past, I now recognize that that tension impacted me more than I understood at the time. I never felt entirely at ease in either world; too rugged for the university crowd and too unsettled for the tranquil farm life. Coreen didn’t care about any of that. She was with me for me.

We scraped by, like many young couples do. Money was tight and the future uncertain, but we were building something, or at least trying to. A life outside the lines drawn for us. Sometimes I think about how easy it would’ve been to stay on the farm. To take over those ten acres. To live small and safe.

To be fair, that was never really an option for me. Not after standing on that deck with my father, looking out over the rows he had carved out of nothing. He wanted me to stand taller, and I was going to do exactly that.

Love, Fatherhood, and the First Glimpses into the Unknown

By the time I graduated from Simon Fraser with a BA in Economics and Political Science, Coreen and I got married. Marriage didn’t slow me down; it provided fuel for my fire, the one deep in my gut that wouldn’t quit. An immigrant son’s obsession with proving himself, standing tall, and only moving forward. It wasn’t long after that that I stepped into the wonderful mystery of fatherhood. Becoming a father transformed me, affecting me in ways I hadn’t anticipated. Suddenly, choices mattered more, and the stakes were higher. It was no longer just about Coreen and me; there was now another life in the equation - a fragile, dependent, trusting little life.

I wanted to give my children the world, but I didn’t just want them to have things; I wanted them to know things. I needed to teach them about grit and resilience, and where they came from.

University taught me about systems, economics, politics, and criminology. With it came an understanding of the machinery of power, yet they don’t teach you in classrooms how the real world operates, especially when nobody’s watching. How rules can be bent, how people might break, and how the shadows can offer opportunities more profitable than the spotlight.

Graduating wasn’t just a personal achievement- it was a family milestone. It was the payoff of every long day toiling on the farm and every sacrifice my parents had made by coming to this country with nothing but an incredible work ethic and eternal hope.

Standing on the other side of that stage, degree in hand, I had one burning question.

Now what?

For me, the answer came in the shape of a red serge uniform.

The Road Narrows

I had applied to the RCMP one year before graduating, drawn to the promise of a career that combined structure, service, and maybe even a shot at something bigger. I didn’t know exactly what I was chasing, but I knew I didn’t want to be standing still.

I was accepted in October of 1991.

I remember turning that impressively official envelope over in my hands, heavy with the opportunity it contained. There’s a weight to moments like that, a pull in your chest when you realize that a door has just swung open for you. A door that could lead almost anywhere.

I knew my life was about to change forever.

I also knew it wasn’t just my life. My daughter was just eight months old and still in that stage where every little sound or movement from her felt like a miracle. She had begun to recognize my voice, her tiny hands reaching for me when I walked into a room. And yet here I was, preparing to leave for six months.

It wasn’t lost on me how much this meant for my father either. His son, the same kid he once gave the choice of farm or school, was now about to wear the regalia of Canada’s national police force. A uniform stitched with history and duty, and for this man, a distinct paternal pride wrapped in maple leaf red.

This was the sort of boastful stories immigrant fathers shared with friends and family back home.

They didn’t always understand the details of my job. They might not know what depot training involved, nor how policing could break a man if he wasn’t careful, but they understood the importance of symbols and perseverance. They understood what it meant that the kid who used to pick berries in the summer heat was now headed east to Regina, Saskatchewan, to march in formation with strangers and return as a Mountie.

The Uniform and the Farewell

Before I left, I had to be officially sworn in at the Abbotsford RCMP Detachment. That day is preserved in my memory like a photograph —a ceremony as meaningful to my family as it is to me. My father came dressed as he always did when the occasion mattered — pressed slacks, polished shoes, his turban tied sharply. My mother wore her best suit — nothing flashy, just a simple elegance that spoke volumes about who she was. My siblings came too, along with a few extended family members — uncles and aunts who had watched me grow up. The weight of their presence filled that small detachment room, and I remember looking at my father as I raised my right hand to swear the Oath of Allegiance. His eyes glistened with quiet pride, which made my heart swell.

After the ceremony, there were handshakes from the detachment staff and a few polite photos. The real send-off was still to come. Later that same afternoon, we packed into our cars and headed to Vancouver International Airport. It was still the old terminal without the sleek modern architecture of today. My family came out in full force. My parents and siblings. My wife, holding our baby daughter. Even a couple of cousins made the trip, along with my aunt, Raminder Kaur, the kind of woman who never missed a family moment, big or small.

Saying goodbye at an airport is different. It strips away the tough exterior that we often try to present to our family. There’s something disarmingly raw about standing there, bags packed, ticket in hand, knowing that once you step past the security gate, you’re gone for a long time. I hugged my father first. No words, just that firm embrace that men of his generation give — strong, abrupt, filled with things left unsaid.

My mother cried quietly as she handed me a one-hundred-dollar bill and whispered in Punjabi, “avda khiyal rakhi”- take care of yourself. She wasn’t sobbing; there was just the steady stream of tears of a mother watching her son leave.

The hardest moment was bidding farewell to my daughter. She was too young to understand, of course; however, I knew I was leaving my little girl at a time when fathers matter most. That cut deeper than any fear I had about Depot training. There’s no preparation for that moment, knowing I wouldn’t be there for her first steps, words, and other magically significant moments. Realizing that whatever solace my young wife would find in my absence would have to come from a strength she didn’t ask to discover.

As I turned to leave, I caught one last glimpse of my family; all standing together, this family that had weathered so much for me to arrive at this moment. I saw my father place a hand gently on my mother’s shoulder. It was an act of reassurance more for her than for me. In that moment, I realized that while I was stepping forward into a new life, I was also carrying generations of hope and hard-won pride with me.

What none of us could see then —neither me, Coreen, nor my family—was that this wasn’t just a career.

This was the beginning of a long descent.

The RCMP opened doors for me, and not all led to clean, well-lit rooms.

The shadows were calling.

The farm kid from Abbotsford, the university graduate, the young husband and father, was about to cross another line.

Depot Bound

I boarded that plane like a thousand recruits before me, full of ambition, nerves, and the quiet ache of leaving home.

We landed in Depot to discover Regina’s cold was very different. It cut through you in a way the damp Fraser Valley winters never did; a sharp prairie cold, piercing and bitterly unforgiving.

I disembarked, my duffle bag slung over my shoulder, my heart pounding harder than I realized possible. It was the kind of nervous energy you try to bury deep and find difficult to contain.

In the small terminal, I was met by a recruit in uniform, starched, pressed, every thread in place. The “duty driver” assigned to transport the new batch of would-be Mounties. He wasn’t much older than me, but he carried himself like a ten-year veteran. His handshake was quick and business-like before we made our way to the marked RCMP van waiting outside.

At first, the drive to Depot Division was filled with that uncomfortable, loaded silence of two strangers who both know that something’s coming but aren’t quite ready to talk about it. He soon found his voice; anecdotes about the training, the grind, the failures, and the ones who showed up full of swagger and left a few weeks later, broken and humiliated. He told me about the “Depot ghosts”; the recruits who vanished overnight, rooms left bare except for a single set of boots neatly placed at the door, a silent resignation.

It wasn’t just a conversation; it was a test. I could tell that every word was calculated. He was watching me out of the corner of his eye, gauging my reactions, searching for the slightest crack in my armour, but I’d learned long ago to keep my cards close. I didn’t give him much other than a few nods and a polite chuckle at a joke that wasn’t really a joke. I just listened, letting him talk and think whatever he wanted.

I was sizing him up just as much as he was me, wondering how many others had sat in that passenger seat before me and listened to his bullshit. How many he might have rattled with his fear-mongering dressed as wisdom and intimidation disguised as expertise.

I would later discover something else about that duty driver and members of the RCMP in general. They love to gossip. I soon realized it’s practically a sport in the Force. Stories get told and retold. Details get twisted, exaggerated, and stretched until they barely resemble the truth.

My solemn, tight-lipped ride from the airport didn’t shield me from becoming part of the conversation. I heard through the grapevine- because you always do eventually- that the duty driver had returned to the barracks and told anyone who would listen that I had “the look of fear” written all over my face. Apparently, I’d already been measured up and fitted for failure.

Was it true? Probably. In part at least. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared. You’d have to be a fool not to be. I didn’t know what awaited me behind those walls, or if I had what it took to make it through, but I never forgot that moment. Not because it embarrassed me or stung my pride. It sticks in my memory because it taught me something about this organization I was about to devote my life to: members talk, they always have and always will.

It’s often said that it’s not a good day if you haven’t heard the latest rumours by the start of your shift.

With every action, glance, and word, someone is watching, assessing, and tucking it away to share over coffee or beers later. They will do it with a straight face or a snide grin; it’s just part of the culture. If you’re smart, you’ll learn to live with it. If you’re smarter, you’ll learn how to use it.

Depot wasn’t merely about polishing boots or memorizing Criminal Code sections. It involved learning how to navigate the twisted, shadowy branches of the grapevine. It was about knowing when to speak up and when to remain silent. It taught you how to let others believe they’ve got you figured out while keeping the best parts of yourself tucked far out of reach.

When I arrived at Depot, the first thing I saw was the old brick buildings, which stood like sentinels. Generations of recruits had passed through here; men and women who believed they were ready to be broken down and rebuilt. I wasn’t so sure I was one of them.

When I found my empty dorm room, I stepped inside and saw the crisp, folded military-style bedroll sitting on top of the mattress. I stood surrounded by the acrid aromas of industrial cleaner and decades of sweat and fear baked into the walls, and I wasn’t ashamed to admit it:

I was scared.

And I was lonely. Lonelier than I had ever been in my life.

I sat on the edge of that bed and stared at the waxed shine on the floor for a long time before I finally stood and went to find the pay phone outside my dorm. I called my father.

When I heard his voice, I could barely hold it together. My voice cracked, and I could feel the words catching in my throat.

“Dad… I want to come home.” There was silence, not because he didn’t care, but because he understood.

When he replied, his voice was firm and steady. “I felt the same way when I left Punjab,” he said. “I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t know the language. I didn’t know if I would make it.” He paused so I could let it sink in. “But I knew it was something I had to do to build a better life for my family. We worked hard so you and your brothers and sister could have an easier life than me and your mom.”

Then he hit me with the words that would anchor me for the rest of my time at Depot. “You have a wife and a young daughter. This is something you’ve wanted. You have dreamed of this opportunity. Do not be afraid. Take care of your responsibilities like your mother and I have done for you.”

He didn’t say I love you, but he didn’t need to.

I hung up the phone that night still scared, still lonely, but I stayed.

Because leaving was never really an option.

Stay On Your Grind

For a guy like me, accustomed to hard work and long hours, the physical grind wasn’t what broke me; it was the mental games, the constant pressure, the second-guessing, the knowledge That one mistake could send you packing and brand you as someone who couldn’t cut it.

I learned fast that everything mattered; from how tightly your bedroll was tucked, or brightly your kit was polished, to how you carried yourself on parade.

And I adapted, because that’s what I had always done. As the routine became more familiar, I started to appreciate the discipline, the need for precision, and the relentless pursuit of excellence. I later came to recognize how the smallest details could save your life.

The loneliness never truly left. Every night, I would think about Coreen being at home alone with our baby girl. I wondered if my daughter would remember me. I worried that Coreen would resent me for leaving.

Letters served as lifelines. There were no cell phones, no text messages, no FaceTime. Calls made from the dorm pay phones were brief and infrequent.

We were Troop 10 (1991), a group of misfits and dreamers from every corner of the country, affectionately referred to as the “United Nations Troop” because we were as multicultural as the nation we vowed to serve. South Asians, Chinese, Lebanese, and Indigenous. We were men and women who spoke with different accents, and followed different faiths, but were all pursuing the same dream. A badge. A uniform. A place in something bigger than ourselves.

We weren’t the polished cadets featured in recruiting brochures. None of us came from privilege. We were the sons and daughters of immigrants, farmers, labourers, and single mothers, raised in rough neighbourhoods, with English as a second language. Some of us grew up on reservations or in small towns that nobody had ever heard of. Some of us barely made it through the front doors, carrying just enough courage to bluff our way past our self-doubt.

Mornings arrived even earlier than on the farm. Before the sun. Before your body was ready. The days were structured down to the minute, with uniform inspections, physical training, firearms training, foot drill, and law classes. March here. Stand there. Speak only when spoken to. Everything you thought you knew about yourself was stripped away, and that was the point. Depot was designed to erase the civilian in you; to grind down the farm kid, the university graduate, the young father until all that was left was a blank slate ready to wear the uniform.

Its purpose was to break you down mentally, physically, and emotionally. It wasn’t enough to be fit. It wasn’t enough to be smart. You had to suffer. Depot wasn’t simply training; it was a crucible.

Morning runs turned into punishing wind sprints, driving our bodies through the freezing Saskatchewan air until our sweat became an icy mask. The prairie wind sliced through our running outfits like glass. I remember the Force doctor pulling the instructors aside one morning and warning them that if we continued, we risked developing frostbite and bronchitis in our lungs.

It didn’t stop them from rerunning us the next morning.

In the pool, they had a special kind of punishment reserved for us referred to as “ins and outs.” It sounded simple enough until you experienced it. You’d begin in the deep end, ordered to plunge beneath the surface, push yourself back up, and explode out of the water with sufficient upper body strength to clear the edge and haul yourself up to stand at rigid attention on the pool deck.

Dripping wet, heart hammering, muscles burning, waiting for the next command.

Down, submerge, struggle, climb, stand.

Over and over again.

It wasn’t about swimming or fitness, it was about control and obedience, and breaking the will of anyone soft enough to believe this job had room for mercy.

We did it until our arms were jelly and we couldn’t feel our fingers on the edge of the pool. Until the sharp taste of bile crawled up our throats, and some of us puked right there on the tiles.

Nobody flinched. Nobody stopped.

I learned to hate that pool, but I learned to hate quitting even more.

Self-defence training was its own battleground. It was raw, unforgiving, and indifferent to pain. The mats were stained with sweat, and the air was thick with adrenaline and fear. It wasn’t uncommon to hear the sharp pop of a dislocated shoulder or the sickening crunch of a broken finger caught the wrong way in a takedown drill. In those moments, there was no whistle to stop the fight, no sympathetic glance from an instructor. The only option was to fight through the pain. You gritted your teeth, reset what you could, and maintained your footing. Staying down wasn’t just failure, it was weakness, and weakness didn’t survive long at Depot.

Every so often, someone disappeared. “Depot ghosts,” the duty driver had tried to spook me with that first day, gone without ceremony, packed up in the middle of the night. No speeches. No second chances. Just gone. Some bowed out with stress fractures, torn ligaments, and dislocated shoulders that would never heal properly. Others left mentally defeated, their spirits crushed by the grind, the isolation, or the simple realization that this life wasn’t for them. Some were “backtrooped,” sent back to start all over again with strangers, forced to watch their old troop push forward without them.

But for the ones who remained? The ones who limped through injuries, fought through exhaustion, and stared down doubt in the mirror every morning?

We got harder.

We got meaner.

We got closer.

Every empty bed in the dorm was a poignant reminder of departed comrades, serving to strengthen the bond between those of us who remained. We learned to watch each other’s backs because nobody else was going to.

And with every loss, our troop evolved into something else. Fewer in number and tougher in spirit. Bound by sweat, blood, bruises, and the unspoken vow that we would not be the next to go. We could see it in each other’s eyes: hard, sharp, and unforgiving.

We didn’t just survive Depot, we earned it.

The ones who made it to graduation weren’t the same people who showed up on Day One. By the end, only ten of the original 26 remained. Ten tired, scarred, half-starved souls standing on that parade square.

Graduation Day

Coreen flew out for my graduation, with our baby daughter, but my dad and brother Andy made the long drive across the endless prairies in my dad’s car. Somewhere along that flat, open stretch of highway, they were pulled over for speeding, but when the RCMP officer learned they were on their way to Depot for my graduation, he let them go with a smile and a handshake, telling them to pass along his congratulations.

Graduation day at Depot was a strange blur of polished boots, starched tunics, forced smiles for photos, and the quiet hum of nerves. We had worked so hard to get to that moment —to stand on the parade square, to hear our name called, and walk forward to receive the badge that represented the six hellish months we had survived.

One moment that stands out to me is when my name was called, and I marched up to receive my badge. I instinctively looked over to where my family was seated. There was my father, the man who had worked his entire life without complaint or luxury, a man with a heart as wide as the Fraser Valley itself. I took in the glassy sheen in his eyes, the way he tightened his jaw, and the slight nod of approval he didn’t even realize he was giving.

At that moment, I understood something simple yet profound: my father was unequivocally proud of me.

It wasn’t about the badge or the uniform.

It was about his eldest son’s success. Not wealth or status, but the achievement I had earned. For the first time in my life, I understood he saw me not just as his son but as a man in my own right.

That moment has never left me.

When I graduated, standing in my red serge, proud but hollowed out in places I didn’t yet understand, I knew this was only the beginning of my journey as a member of the RCMP.

The man I had become was no longer that country kid from Abby.

Moreover, the man I had become at Depot wasn’t the same man Coreen married.

This life I chose, with its promise of honour and service, came at a price. Soon, I would find myself paying in ways no young man could ever truly prepare for.

Chapter 4

Surrey Detachment: Carved in Scars, Crowned in Steel

When I graduated from Depot in Regina, I was assigned close to home to the RCMP Detachment in Surrey, B.C. It was exactly what I had hoped for. I wanted to be near my family, near the Fraser Valley roots that shaped me, and yet I was stepping into a world that couldn’t have been further from the berry fields of Abbotsford.

Surrey Detachment wasn’t just big, it was the RCMP’s largest operational detachment in the country, with over 350 members when I joined them. A machine built for front-line city policing, this was no rural outpost. It was a high-volume, high-pressure urban grind, where you either learned fast or got left behind.

General Duty in Surrey meant you were tethered to your radio, which was both a lifeline and a leash. Dispatch ran our lives: twelve-hour shifts, two days, two nights, then four days off, with every shift seeing about three hundred calls for service. Assaults, domestics, overdoses, stabbings, property crimes; an unrelenting maelstrom of human misery, violence, and often absurdity.

For my first six months as a probationary constable, I was a rookie thrust into one of the busiest detachments in the country. Somehow, I found myself exactly where I needed to be for my Recruit Field Training — under the watchful eye of Constable Phil Graham. I had first met Phil at Depot, and he was nothing like the rest of the recruits of Troop 10—not even close.

Phil had left the Force for a time to pursue a different kind of adrenaline and joined the ranks of an elite category, becoming a fighter pilot with the Canadian Armed Forces. However, when that chapter ended and he returned to the RCMP, policy required him to complete a re-entry course, which meant going back in with the recruits, at least on paper.

Phil wasn’t required to march like the rest of us. While we pounded the drill square in formation-boots in unison, voices sharp- Phil walked the sidewalks. Hands in his pockets, alone, moving at his own pace. He had a natural swagger that wasn’t cocky or forced but earned—a quiet message: Don’t waste my time. Don’t test me.

I sat across from him one day in the chow hall, and a conversation began without formalities or small talk. When I learned that he was to be posted at Surrey Detachment, my attention was piqued. I had heard the stories of the volume and violence, and the frantic pace of front-line policing in a city like Surrey. I was young, curious, and full of questions. As Phil answered them all straightforwardly and without hesitation, I detected something within the tone of his voice. Not anger or bitterness, just experience. A hard-earned clarity about how the organization truly operated, conveying a subtle message about his attitude toward the politics, the games, and the costs.

Phil wasn’t trying to impress me, nor was he trying to intimidate. He was speaking the truth, whether I was ready to hear it or not. Phil Graham wasn’t just another street cop; he was the street itself. Hard-nosed and battle-tested, he carved out a reputation not in boardrooms or briefing sessions but in back alleys, emergency response unit call-outs, and bar fights where backup had not yet arrived. Phil was everything I didn’t realize I needed in a field trainer.

Uninterested in politics or climbing the “corporate ladder,” only two things mattered: doing the job well and returning home alive.

Phil didn’t sugarcoat the reality of the street. If you made a mistake, he ensured that you knew it and owned it, but when things went sideways, which they often did in Surrey, there wasn’t a man or woman in that detachment who wouldn’t want Phil Graham standing beside them. He was fearless, direct, and unapologetic, and taught me what Depot couldn’t; that policy and procedure were fine until they met concrete and chaos. Phil understood that respect on the street wasn’t handed out; it was earned, one call at a time.

He taught me to defend myself, and as a member of the Emergency Response Team (ERT), officer safety was always a priority. His approach was never about ego or show; it focused on precision, purpose, and control. He taught me to write well because, in police work, your pen can often provide better protection than your pistol. Above all else, Phil instilled in me his personal code of conduct: Never back down when you’re right. Never compromise for appearances.

Never trade your integrity for convenience.

Phil was old-school, not in a caricatured, hard-drinking cop way, but because he understood his environment. He knew that if you were out there doing real police work — answering calls, chasing bad guys, putting hands on people who needed it — the complaints would inevitably come. They were part of the territory. I was told more than once, “If you’re not catching complaints once in a while, you’re not doing enough out there.”

We caught a few. Aggressive arrests, usually. Nothing shockingly over the line, certainly not by the standards of the day, or of any street cop who knew what it meant to go head-to-head with violent, unpredictable people. Most of those complaints didn’t survive first contact with the facts and were dismissed as unfounded, filed away, and forgotten.

Except for one, an event that happened while Phil was off training with ERT. The cell block was a bare concrete space that could turn into a cage fight arena in the blink of an eye, and the suspect was drunk, combative, and easily twice my size. Things went sideways quickly in that tight space. Verbal commands meant nothing, options for force were limited, and I had no baton or OC spray. It was just me, him, and whatever instincts I could summon.

I grabbed his hair. Not exactly an accepted example of technique from the RCMP defensive tactics manual, but when you’re looking up at a drunken giant who’s trying to ragdoll you around a cinderblock cube, your priorities and options come into focus quickly. It worked, I gained the upper hand, and the situation ended without serious injury.

But this was the RCMP. An internal investigation followed, triggered not by my actions but by their audience. A guard had stood by, watching the whole incident unfold in silence, and later chose to report it. Not out of principle, or concern for professionalism or integrity, but because in this organization, loyalty can shift to self-interest the moment it serves someone’s agenda.

What had happened wasn’t particularly egregious, and certainly didn’t shatter some sacred code of conduct. It wasn’t about right or wrong; it never was. It was about optics. In the RCMP, it wasn’t the worst acts that got you in trouble; it was the ones done in poor lighting, in front of the wrong set of eyes. It wasn’t about what happened but rather who saw it, who talked, who heard, and how it looked as it made its way up the chain of command.

This wasn’t about justice; it was and always is about the optics with the RCMP. It is a world where the guard who once stood shoulder to shoulder with you could just as easily become the one ratting you out. It wasn’t because he believed I had crossed the line, but because he thought reporting me kept him on the right side of it. I would later learn that this individual was an applicant to the Force and thought it would enhance his chances of being hired. In his mind, throwing me under the bus was merely part of the job interview.

I wore a verbal reprimand for that one, but it wasn’t the dressing down that stuck with me the most; it was what Phil remarked afterward. He didn’t pull any punches.

“Rob, if you haven’t already learned ..The RCMP eats its own.”

That line landed like a cold slap across the face because I understood exactly what he meant. This was a job where the uniform didn’t always protect you, and where the system you served could turn on you in an instant. The biggest threat wasn’t always on the street; sometimes it sat in the next office over, wearing the same red serge, waiting for its opportunity to climb over your back.

Phil’s words stayed with me, serving as a warning... and as a prophecy.

The RCMP eats its own.

God help you if they’re still hungry once they’re done.

It was during these early days of my probationary Field Training that I began to notice the cracks in the RCMP’s polished image. The brass touted their brochures on public accountability, which explained how anyone could file a complaint against us. What they weren’t as enthusiastic about was supporting their members when the job got dirty, which, in Surrey, was every single day.

I worked in Zone 3, Newton, the heart of Surrey’s South Asian community. My ability to speak Punjabi made me an asset, especially during domestic calls, which were often marked by a constant flow of volatility, emotion, and angst. I became known for handling them well, writing detailed reports, and consistently delivering results, and my performance evaluations reflected that hard work. Word eventually filtered down from “E” Division Headquarters that the Commanding Officer himself had sent a letter to the Officer in Charge of Surrey Detachment.

During my first six months in General Duty, I completed the RCMP’s Recruit Field Training Program excellently. My performance wasn’t just acceptable, it had surpassed the standard. I had scored over 80%, a benchmark recognized by “E” Division Training as worthy of official commendation.

The letter ended with a simple instruction: “Please convey my congratulations to Constable Sidhu for his achievement.”¹

It was a small thing in the grand scheme of my career, but it indicated that somewhere in the Force’s machinery, someone had noticed my efforts. After eleven months on the job, my supervisor wrote that I “work at the level of a more senior member.” “His files and notebook detail continue to be exemplary,” identifying me as being “an extremely hard worker and rates very high on the Watch for self-generated files.”² I was described as “a mature, reliable member... supports his supervisors... hard worker...” and importantly, “his self-generated work is surpassed by none on the Watch.”³

Being recognized for my performance in Surrey didn’t mean that I thought I was better than anyone else, but that the work ethic instilled in me on my father’s farm carried over. I showed up with my boots on and my head down. That’s how I was raised. That’s how I policed.

Hard work. No shortcuts. No excuses.

That’s what being recognized meant to me. It wasn’t about the praise, it was about knowing that I hadn’t lost myself in the uniform. Not yet.

Drug Section - Lessons Never Taught at Depot.

Eventually, I did what most aspiring General Duty members did — I set my sights on the plainclothes divisions. The Drug Section was where I wanted to be, and in 1996, I got my chance. I was assigned to a one-year rotational position that changed everything. It was meant to be an opportunity to gain plainclothes experience and sharpen my investigative skills, but I didn’t treat it like a temporary assignment. True to form, I went all in.

The Drug Section was a world apart from the starched uniforms and spit-shined boots of General Duty. It had its unique code. It’s own swagger. It has its own set of rules. In my first meeting with the Staff Sergeant who ran the unit, he fixed his eyes on me from across the desk and calmly stated, “What happens in Drug Section stays in Drug Section.”

I discovered that we weren’t constrained by parade-square discipline or the empty rituals of chain-of-command politics. Our uniform consisted of jeans, hoodies, and leather jackets. We wore earrings and let our hair grow.

Some of us sported goatees before they became fashion statements. It wasn’t rule-breaking for the sake of rebellion; it was adaptation for the sake of survival. You didn’t walk into a crack shack in Whalley looking like a Mountie and expect to come out with anything useful. The street demanded something else. Something edgier.

Something real.

We bent the rules not out of disrespect for the job, but out of respect for the work. The real work. The dirty work that left your hands filthy, your boots scuffed, and your name whispered by the shit-rats in back alleys and pool halls.

That’s when I started to feel something form inside me, something I hadn’t felt before. It wasn’t arrogance or false bravado. It was confidence.

I was assigned to the Surrey Street Crew Drug Section. The bottom of the food chain in the RCMP’s drug game, but exactly where I wanted to be. The job wasn’t glamorous. We weren’t chasing cartel players or working long-term wire projects. We were in the trenches hunting street-level dealers, making dirty hand-to-hand buys, flipping junkies, and turning prostitutes into sources. It was raw, thankless vice work.

The Street Crew maintained a high-profile, highly visible presence in the most troubled areas of Surrey.

Most officers had very different aspirations. This wasn’t the type of work that enhanced your resume or caught the attention of the higher-ups. This was street policing stripped down to its bare, ugly bones. We patrolled the King George Highway — a grim stretch of concrete lined with dilapidated motels, derelict drug houses, and working girls wandering the sidewalks.

We stopped beaten-up cars reeking of burnt drugs, interrogated users for scraps of information, and ventured into the alleys and shadows most officers avoided. SkyTrain stations were crawling with dealers and rip-off crews, and bar fights erupted like clockwork. We weren’t there to hand out tickets; we were there to disrupt, arrest, and infiltrate.

For me, this was where the real work took place, where you truly learned the game. We didn’t arrest prostitutes for the statistics; we cultivated friendships with them. We didn’t buy drugs for evidence; we did deals to gain trust. Everything was transactional and came with a price. If you listened closely enough, invested time and effort, and sometimes even allowed them to keep their dope, the street would open up to you. It would reveal things no briefing room ever could, if you were able to discern the wisdom of the moment.

We worked off street tips, Crime Stoppers call-ins, and information culled from the desperate and the damned. I found I had a knack for it — for working with people others wouldn’t touch. I treated informants like human beings, not commodities. I listened more than I talked, and the street responded to that. My supervisor noted it plainly in my file: Cst. SIDHU has a natural ability to develop and work with these individuals.”⁴ It wasn’t because I coddled them, but because I understood them.

In less than a year, I’d developed a solid working relationship with eight sources, most of whom provided solid intel that led to real charges and convictions. Handling these people wasn’t glamorous; it was a paperwork-heavy, methodical task, where every detail had to be recorded and every payout tracked. I took pride in writing clean, tight reports that held up in court and evidenced my understanding of the process.

My supervisor saw that too: “Cst. SIDHU organizes himself to prepare and complete well-written, thorough but concise reports.”⁵ It mattered. The paper was just as important as the arrest.

My work didn’t go unnoticed. In the words of the Street Crew supervisors, “As a result of his dedication, work ethic, and effort towards his self-improvement, his rotation on the unit has been extended.”⁶ I would be there for another six months.

By 1997, I was sent to the Drug Investigative Techniques Course and later selected for the Interviewing and Interrogation Techniques Course, one of the most sought-after courses in the province. I wasn’t there to warm a chair, I was there to learn how to extract the truth.

I was also seconded to the Serious Crime Section on numerous occasions because I spoke fluent Punjabi. It put me in the thick of three murder investigations, multiple home invasion sexual assaults, and a suspicious death file involving South Asian victims and suspects.

The Serious Crime Section didn’t care about my rank; they cared that I could get people talking and kept calling me back. My file noted: “Supervisors in the Serious Crime Section have been very impressed with the effort he has put forth in his work, and they continue to call on his expertise.”⁷

Surrey was a violent, multicultural city. Being able to bridge that gap wasn’t just helpful, it was necessary. I discovered early that language was power. My time with Street Crew refined my skills and compelled me to think quickly, adapt, and ultimately succeed.

My supervisors noted this bluntly: “For a member relatively junior in service, he analyzes problems effectively, makes good decisions, and is not afraid to take appropriate action.”⁸

They finally handed me a major file: Project E-WISECRACK, an undercover operation at the multi-kilo level. I jumped right in, taking on file coordinator duties, drafting operational plans, and managing thirty-day reports.

“He once again impressed his supervisors with his organizational skills and acceptance of responsibilities.”⁹

I understood how to delegate and how to lead. Quietly, without pretense, focusing on getting the job done.

For the first time in my career, I felt a sense of freedom. Free from the suffocating grip of management and the robotic call-and-response of General Duty dispatch. Free to trust my instincts over a policy manual.

I was learning to operate on the fringes of society. Here, you need to speak several languages. I’m not referring to foreign dialects, but the languages of the street; the street slang, body language, the rhythm and pattern of words. You had to understand the code: know when to push, when to retreat, when to bluff, and when to confront someone directly.

I was becoming proficient in all those languages; the clean discourse of the courtroom, the sharp, clipped commands of the uniform, and the slow, deliberate menace of the streets. I thrived in that environment.

My supervisors noted this in my evaluations, writing that I “analyzed problems effectively” and that I was “not afraid to take appropriate action.”¹⁰ I was starting to make a name for myself by taking on responsibility, coordinating complex undercover projects, and managing informants that other members didn’t have the patience or stomach to deal with.

A major turning point came in January 1998 when I was informed I’d been selected for Operational Undercover Training (OUT). It was the obvious next step. I’d already been actively involved in “buy and bust” operations, working alongside trained operators, developing cover stories, setting up street-level deals for drugs, stolen rifles, and sex trade transactions. I wasn’t formally trained yet, but the streets didn’t ask to see your qualifications.

My assignments had already taught me the importance of forgetting certain aspects of my daily grind, of numbing myself just enough to rise and do it all over again. You can’t spend your days in the gutters of Surrey, trading in human misery, and expect to walk away unchanged. Nobody ever did.

We drank to take the edge off, but more than that, we drank to flush the stench of the streets from our skin. The blood, the dope, the lies; it all clung to you long after the shift ended. A six-pack was routine, as was a sixty-pounder of Crown Royal, affectionately referred to as “Khuday Wali” in Punjabi, translated as the “one with the handle”. It sat tucked under the desk like a trusted tool of the trade. We’d crack it open while finishing our reports, letting the burn chase away the grime. Then we’d slide behind the wheel of an unmarked police vehicle, pistols strapped to our waists, and drive home through empty streets. Half-drunk, fully numb, flaunting the authority we weren’t aligned with.

A part of me that had been buried under years of duty, expectation, and legacy began to emerge. A persona. A character who could move through that world without feeling out of place.

Unchained from the politics. Untethered from the optics. Answerable only to the mission and to the men and women I worked beside.

That was the Drug Section. We didn’t care.

We belonged to the street. And the street, in all of its brutality, belonged to us.

Return to General Duty- Their Uniform My Rules

When I returned to General Duty, I was edgier, harder, less tolerant of bullshit. My uniform didn’t fit the way it used to; it now felt restrictive and uncomfortable. I wasn’t the same Mountie who walked into the Surrey Detachment straight out of Depot. The street had worked its way into my blood and showed no indication of fading away.

I had grown my hair while in the Drug Section and wore it in a ponytail. When I returned to General Duty, I argued that it was for undercover work, citing my recent experience in the Drug Section. I framed it as a professional necessity, which wasn’t untrue. Still, it came to represent something much more important to me personally: a subtle signal that I was no longer fully bound by the rigid, paramilitary uniform culture.

I had tasted freedom. Not merely physical autonomy, but the opportunity to become someone else. To think independently. To navigate the world without constantly fretting about management, memos, or the politics of rank.

I had begun a quiet personal rebellion against a system I was starting to see more clearly. The RCMP was many things: proud, historic, and steeped in tradition. However, it was also rigid, stifling, and obsessed with optics.

Above all, it was obsessed with control over how you dressed, how you thought, who you were, your demeanour, and appearance.

They repeatedly told me to cut it, but it wasn’t just hair anymore. It was a statement. Management hated it. Someone would pull me aside every few weeks and remind me that it wasn’t regulation, that appearances mattered, that the RCMP had an image to uphold.

I didn’t care, I had no desire to stay inside their box anymore. So, I refused. A refusal that wasn’t loud or confrontational, but it was deliberate. That ponytail, scruffy and much maligned, became more than just hair. It was a silent promise to myself that I wasn’t going to live and die by rules I didn’t believe in. It was the first sign, even if I didn’t fully recognize it at the time, that I was already living in two worlds.

General Duty now felt like a cage. Not the kind with bars, the type you build around yourself without even realizing it. Every call-out, every fight, every lie told in a report to make all the facts fit - it was training for a different sort of incarceration—a slow apprenticeship in confinement. I didn’t know it then, but I was already learning how to live caged. How to survive stripped of trust, freedom, or control. Surrey wasn’t just breaking me in as a cop. It was conditioning me for the cell I’d one day call home.

The calls seemed identical. The faces merged into a blur. Drunks in the cellblock. Domestic disputes. Stolen cars. The relentless grind of front-line policing. I worked harder than ever, pushed myself further, stayed longer, and took the calls no one wanted. I recruited informants and cultivated sources in places most members wouldn’t even drive past.

I was still the hard-working cop, albeit one with a non-regulation ponytail, doing the job the way I had been trained. Even when I returned to general duty, my evaluations reflected this.

“Constable Sidhu is a hardworking and enthusiastic member who performs his duties professionally and meets the high standards expected by the public.”¹¹

“Above average performance. Demonstrates initiative. Handles investigations thoroughly and effectively.”¹²

On paper, I was exactly what they wanted, but paper doesn’t tell the whole story.

There was something about existing on the outskirts that stayed with me long after I left Drug Section: Once you learn to think outside the box, you never entirely go back.

That ponytail, rough and imperfect, represented a path I would follow deeper and deeper into a world few understood.

It was the beginning of the double life I would eventually lead, not just undercover, but inside myself.

Whispers in the Shadows

The “Duty Driver” at Depot had been the first to show me how fast gossip moved in this organization, but Surrey was where I first truly sensed how internal politics could be weaponized; how whispers filled with fiction could travel faster than facts, and how deeply rumours could wound.

One day, while doing a CPIC ( Canadian Police Information Centre) check on a known sex trade worker, I discovered there was a notation attached to her name: “Forward all particulars to Sgt. Mel Trekofski, Surrey Serious Crimes Section. As I was inputting her details into my notebook to forward to Trekofski, she looked me dead in the eye and said

“You know they’re looking into you, right? You’re the reason they’re asking questions.” That moment hit me like a punch to the gut.

A complaint had been lodged against me by an anonymous member. The brass refused to tell me who when I asked; however, the message filtered down soon enough: apparently, I was being overly friendly with the street-level sex trade workers along King George Hwy. The implication wasn’t subtle - it suggested that I was crossing a line, maybe fraternizing. Maybe worse.

I was blindsided. Not because I was naïve, I knew the RCMP could turn against its own when it suited them, I had witnessed it happen often enough. From day one, I operated with a simple code: treat people with respect. Especially those who the rest of society marginalized. The women working the stroll on the “George” weren’t trying to draw me over to the dark side; they were sources, eyes and ears on the street, people who survived in a world nobody else wanted to see. If I treated them with dignity, they often reciprocated with intelligence.

However, that kind of street rapport didn’t resonate in the corner office or the boardroom, where traditional management prioritized control over connection.

I also took exception to how I discovered the investigation. Not from Professional Standards or a supervisor. No sit-down with the brass in the corner office.

I was furious and I wasn’t going to let it go, that’s never been in my nature. After learning more about this shadow inquiry sparked by baseless allegations regarding my conduct with street-level sex trade workers, I drove straight to the District 3 office in Newton, and with no hesitation, called Sergeant Trekofski at home. I wanted answers directly from the source. When he answered, I confronted him directly, without regard for rank or protocol. I told him exactly what I had learned: an internal investigation had been launched against me, based on nothing more than whispers and innuendo. I demanded to know why I had to find out from a prostitute on the street rather than through my chain of command. I made it clear that I wasn’t going to stand for it and required answers.

Trekofski’s response was typical mid-management, a hollow reassurance. “You’ve got nothing to worry about,” he told me.

Nothing to worry about?

I was livid. Furious at the cowardice of it. Enraged at how this job and this organization could gut you from behind while smiling to your face.

I told him I would voluntarily submit to a polygraph the very next day, but Trekofski downplayed it, stating that the situation didn’t warrant such action.

To me, there was a big problem. The investigation had already been opened, and my name was being whispered in backrooms and briefing rooms. I didn’t need management to tell me not to worry. I needed them to have the courage to handle their business like men, face-to-face and with integrity.

The next day, I confronted Superintendent Al MacIntyre, the Officer in Charge of the Surrey Detachment. I wasn’t about to let this situation play out. Once again, I demanded a polygraph, telling him outright that I wanted to clear my name, publicly and permanently.

His response? “Don’t worry about it.”

Easy for him to say.

The investigation ultimately went nowhere. It was ruled unfounded. No evidence, no misconduct, and no substance to the allegation, but the damage was already done. That night changed something in me, and it cut deep. It was another reminder that, behind the polished badge and mission statements, the real power lay in whispered accusations, quiet investigations, and manipulation by management who couldn’t look a man in the eye.

It was a lesson I wouldn’t forget. The RCMP didn’t want facts; their only priority was control. It’s not about what they know but what they think they know. Moreover, I had just learned how easily they could turn their own against each other from behind closed doors. Surrey taught me more than how to police the street; it taught me how to survive the organization.

1 Rapinder “Rob” Singh Sidhu. RCMP Personnel File. Memo to OIC Surrey Detachment from J.D. Farrell D/Commr. Commanding Officer “E” Division British Columbia 1993/12/03.

2 Rapinder “Rob” Singh Sidhu. RCMP Personnel File. Performance Evaluation And Review Report. R.J. Bamford, Cpl Surrey Detachment “A” Watch 1994/04/14.

3 Ibid.

4 Rapinder “Rob” Singh Sidhu RCMP Personnel File. Performance Evaluation and Review Report. Cathy Robertson, Cpl. Surrey RCMP Street Crew Drug Section 1997-11-13.

5 Ibid.

6 Ibid.

7 Ibid.

8 Ibid.

9 Ibid.

10 Ibid.

11 Rapinder ”Rob” Sidhu RCMP Personnel File Performance Review and Evaluation Report L.V. Lundman, Cpl. Surrey RCMP District 3 “C” Watch 1999/12/05.

12 Ibid.

Chapter 5

Operational Undercover Training Course 69

“I thought to myself, with what means, with what deceptions, with how many varied arts, with what industry, a man sharpens his wits to deceive another, and through these variations, the world is made more beautiful. “

-Francesco Vettori, 1474-1539

The RCMP Operational Undercover Training Course, or OUT as it is commonly referred to, is not just another of their programs. It is the RCMP’s crown jewel, the finishing school for would-be Operators and Cover-men who would one day lurk in the shadows.

Getting there wasn’t about merit alone; it was about access, sponsorship, and politics. There were two categories of applicants: those who had a hand on their shoulder guiding them through the process and those left to claw their way in, anticipating the possibility that someone might try to slip a knife between their ribs. I was firmly in the latter category.

If you played hockey with the right people, drank with the right crowd, or were connected to the Undercover Coordinator’s office, your chances improved dramatically. It was an uphill battle of attrition and a masterclass in surviving RCMP internal politics for the rest of us.

I was sitting at my desk in the Surrey Drug Section when I got the call. Cpl. Guss Goudan from the RCMP “O” Division Headquarters in Ottawa instructed me to meet him at the Sheraton Hotel in Surrey. He gave me the date, time, and his pager number, which I was to call upon my arrival in the lobby.

On the day of my interview, I was approached in the lobby of the Sheraton by an individual I had never seen before.

“You Sidhu?” It was a question wrapped in authority.

Instinctively, I began reaching for my badge to confirm my identity, but quickly repressed the reflex. This wasn’t traditional policing, I reminded myself. Whoever this individual was would be registered under an assumed identity. Displaying my badge in a public lobby could compromise him. Worse, it would give him an easy excuse to terminate the process and disqualify me.

“I am,” I replied.

“Good. Follow me.”

I had passed the first of many tests. We stepped into the elevator, and as the doors closed, the real interview began. He stood too close, eyes locked on mine. The air between us was thick with tension. He definitely wasn’t looking for conversation, but it felt like he was looking to read my soul. I stared back, unflinching and silent. This wasn’t about rank or training. This was about presence, will, and control.

We rode the elevator in absolute silence, locked in a primitive stare-down. When the doors opened, we stepped out without a word. Inside the room, two other men sat—one behind a desk, the other casually on a sofa. The man on the couch was Goudan. I recognized him immediately from Depot. He had been a firearms instructor assigned there, not because he belonged in the regimented halls of training, but because the Force needed to hide him after a Quebec biker gang had put out a hit on him.

He stood and shook my hand. “Hi, Gus Goudan.”

“Yes, I remember you from Depot. You were my firearms instructor for a brief period. I once asked you what it was like to do undercover work.”

He smiled. “Here’s your chance to find out.”

The interview began without ceremony, with no introductions to the other men present or exchange of names. Of course, I didn’t ask. Goudan asked me why I wanted to become an undercover operator, and I reminded him of our earlier conversation at Depot.

“I want to find out what it takes to do real police work.”

He chuckled. The men sitting at the desk scribbled furiously in their notebooks, attempting to capture every word I said verbatim. Goudan pressed further.

“You’re working at the Shack¹³, and you observe a colleague snorting cocaine. What do you do?”

I didn’t hesitate. “I would speak to my colleague about his conduct and then immediately report the incident up the chain of command.”

“Excellent,” Goudan replied. “There is zero tolerance in the Undercover Program for drug use or even condoning drug use. I’m glad you gave that response.”

That was the answer the RCMP wanted to hear. But in my head, I knew what I’d really say. “Buddy, I understand the work is difficult, but snorting coke isn’t going to help. Let’s grab a coffee and have a chat.”

Unfortunately, there was the right way, the wrong way, and the RCMP way. The RCMP didn’t care about your humanity; their priority was the optics. Appearances ruled everything, and no one was indispensable. “Maintiens le Droit” may have been the official motto of the RCMP, but it should have read “Maintiens l’Apparence” - maintain the appearance.

Baptized in Deception

I successfully passed the interview, and on January 16, 1998, I received a call from Staff Sergeant Pete Marsh, who was in charge of the “E” Division Undercover Coordinator’s office. He informed me that I had been selected for the RCMP Operational Undercover Training Course— OUT 69. Marsh congratulated me and mentioned that he had already spoken with Staff Sergeant Stu Brown at the Surrey Drug Section to obtain his approval. The date was significant for two reasons: it was my eldest son’s birthday, and it marked the day everything in my life would begin to shift violently and irreversibly.

The course was scheduled to be headquartered at the Sheraton Hotel in Surrey. Typically, OUT rotated among various metropolitan locations across Canada — Vancouver, Montreal, and Toronto — wherever operational security and anonymity could be maintained. Candidates from different law enforcement agencies across the country, along with some foreign observers, would gather at the designated hotel, also known in undercover jargon as the “safe house,” under false names and assumed identities.

The hotel staff were strictly prohibited from accessing any of the conference rooms we used, and our rooms were regularly inspected for electronic surveillance devices. The Force took every measure to ensure that the integrity of the course remained intact. The present-day version includes even more rigorous safeguards; however, at that time, the message was still clear: secrecy above all else.

Training was led by Goudan, supported by a group of seasoned operators known as “syndicate leaders.” These individuals had not only experienced the lifestyle but also survived it long enough to teach others how to navigate it. The course lasted for three weeks, during which time, participants were required to stay at the safe house unless explicitly authorized to leave. The rules of conduct were absolute, with two main principles governing the behaviour of every candidate: truthfulness and obedience.

In this context, truthfulness was not necessarily about honesty; it centred on controlled deception, the art of insinuation, and required the skill to say just enough to guide someone toward a desired direction without ever fully committing to the lie. This method focused on establishing credibility while maintaining a certain level of ambiguity. The reality of undercover work was that it was an illusion built upon a lie.

Obedience was equally important. Regardless of how absurd or humiliating the instructions might have been, participants were expected to comply without hesitation. The objective was to break down the individual — dismantling ego, inhibition, and resistance — and rebuild them as instruments of the investigation. Undercover operators were not conventional police; they were considered tools, assets to be deployed. Success depended entirely on their willingness to follow orders without questioning the logic or morality.

Success in the course hinged on mastering deception, all of which was built upon a foundational lie. As I recount the scenarios that followed, it will become clear: the true aim of the training was never to cultivate a moral compass. It was to initiate us into a world where calculated deceit wasn’t just expected — it was vital.

The purpose of this is twofold. Firstly, to uncover and enhance each participant’s psychological limits. It allows the instructors to evaluate participants’ willingness to engage in behaviours outside their typical character traits. Secondly, instructors gain insight into the degree to which a participant is willing to follow the instructions required to meet the “objectives” of an investigation.

By definition, an undercover operator is nothing more than an investigative tool used to meet the objectives of an investigation. The success of this investigative tool depends entirely on their willingness to follow instructions without questioning the validity of the directions provided.

On the first day of the course, we introduced ourselves to each other. The group was made up of candidates from various law enforcement agencies across Canada; some I recognized, but most were new to me. I was glad to see a familiar face — Sanjaya Wijayakoon, better known as “Wij.” We had attended Depot around the same time; he was a troop ahead of me and had been posted to the Richmond Detachment after graduation. I knew Wij was highly respected within the Force, seen as professional, competent, and, most importantly, likable. Having him in the course gave me some reassurance.

Goudan reiterated the rules governing our conduct, then pointed to a table at the back of the room. “Pass by each morning and have a look to see if there is a plane ticket with your name on it,” he said.

There were no second chances.

The curriculum included Canadian case law, RCMP policy regarding undercover operations, undercover techniques, note-taking, simulation exercises, role-playing, and nighttime street scenarios. One of the most memorable lectures was delivered by Sergeant Al Haslett — a veteran operator who, along with Pete Marsh, was acknowledged as one of the architects of the techniques and policies we were studying.

Haslett was charismatic and enthralling. He recounted his experiences in high-profile investigations with the fervour of someone not merely teaching but reliving his finest moments. He often slipped into the legendary crime boss persona known as “Mr. Big,” having mastered the role.

Max Weber, a German sociologist, coined the term “charismatic authority”¹⁴ — power derived not from tradition or legal position but from the personal magnetism of the individual. Followers of such a person are confident that their leader possesses almost supernatural qualities. They obey not because they must, but because they believe. That was Haslett. That was the essence of the Mr. Big technique.

Whether or not he intended it, the psychological depth of Haslett’s lecture was profound, and understanding that depth was arguably the most critical aspect of the course. He told us that people are often undone not by their mistakes, but by their inability to recover from them.

Human weaknesses can make an individual susceptible. The undercover operator’s role is to identify and exploit that vulnerability with words and actions that invite interpretations beyond their surface meaning.

From Haslett’s lecture, I grasped two critical points:

1. The operator becomes a focal point — someone who offers escape, resolution, or safety. Human gullibility usually means that individuals become “willing targets” by unconsciously providing signals about their fears and what is lacking in their lives. The rigours of daily life can be overwhelming, and people are seeking an escape from their problems. Credibility is established through ritual, through actions that reward participation and gradually create dependence. Simultaneously, the undercover operator presents himself as this vague and somewhat ethereal entity that invites interpretation beyond what is on the surface. When a target believes that the operator has the power to eliminate their fear of criminal prosecution, the bond becomes unbreakable.

2. Undercover work is a game of intention and attention, presenting targets with options that favour the investigation’s desired outcomes. It involves creating distractions and misdirection while guiding the target toward the desired result. The most skilled operators act with remarkable audacity, crafting cover stories so bold and outrageous that inconsistencies go unnoticed. The operators who succeed in this world are masters of the art of deception and controlled reality.

Concrete and Chaos

Most of the scenarios we participated in took place in Vancouver’s East Side — the city’s most crime-ridden and impoverished area, and a training ground like no other. East Hastings, Carrall Street, and a small triangular plot known as Pigeon Park served as the backdrop for our nighttime operations. The residents of this area were among the poorest in Canada, a community plagued by drugs, prostitution, mental illness, and decades of systemic failure. Perfect for undercover training, these streets offered no sanctuary or shelter, only the raw, unforgiving reality of survival.

Each evening, participants were divided into groups led by one or more syndicate leaders. We received objectives or tasks to complete, all designed to push us beyond our comfort zones and into unfamiliar psychological spaces.

On my first night of field exercises, I was paired with Corporal Keith Pierce, who served as my syndicate leader, and assigned a cover man, who acted as a liaison out in the field. Pierce was a legend in the undercover world- the type of operator that guys like me had only heard about in whispered stories passed around briefing rooms. He was hard-edged, no-nonsense, and old school, with that seasoned, weather-beaten appearance of a man who had faced everything the street could throw at him and somehow found a way to hurl it right back, twice as hard. He was a monster.

Pierce didn’t believe in theory or classroom discussions; his teaching methods centred around pressure, chaos, and stripping away any nerves you might try to hide behind. He made it clear from the start: this course had absolutely nothing to do with comfort zones.

That first night, he briefed me on my assignment with a deadpan expression and monotone voice that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Go to the bar at the Patricia Hotel on Hastings Street. Get up on stage. Sing “Like a Virgin” by Madonna. Do not leave until you achieve your objective. No excuses. No outs.

This wasn’t about humiliation and definitely had nothing to do with my singing skills. It was about vulnerability. It was about stepping into a hostile environment- a dilapidated old dive bar on one of the roughest stretches in Vancouver- and embracing whatever identity you were told to, no matter how absurd.

Pierce sat back with a knowing look, arms crossed, and waited for my response. He already knew what I had yet to discover; the real test wasn’t getting up on that stage, it was having the nerve to stay up there. I laughed briefly, waiting for the punchline, but there wasn’t one. He wasn’t joking.

“Are you serious?” I gasped.

“Very.”

He left my cover man and me to devise a strategy. We discussed our approach, identified potential safety risks, and outlined contingency plans. One thing was clear: I wasn’t leaving that bar until I got up there and paid tribute to the Material Girl.

We arrived at the Patricia Hotel, and I entered alone ahead of my cover man. The bar was filling up quickly, but it was easy to spot the regulars, hardened by life and circumstance. I ordered a bottle of Canadian from the bartender, unaware that this mistake would mark me as an outsider. In that world, draft beer was the drink of choice; bottles were expensive, a luxury few could afford. This small, unconsidered detail would prove to be my undoing that night.

Standing at the bar, I noticed Pierce seated near the stage. Calm. Observing.

Then I felt the eyes of others on me. A young Indigenous man glared, intoxicated and hostile. As he spoke with several older men seated nearby, they all took turns glancing in my direction, and it didn’t take long before the young man staggered over to me.

“You’re one of those cops who come down here to learn how to be a narc,” he said, slurring his words but clear in his accusation.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I snapped back, “I just stopped by for a beer and maybe sing with the band. I’m no fucking narc — so kick fucking rocks.”

He wasn’t backing down and waved a grubby finger in my face. “You’re drinking out of a fucking bottle - only narcs do that shit. You better get the fuck out of here before you get your head beat in.”

The tension was becoming palpable. My cover man had risen from his seat, moving into position. Pierce, oozing indifference, sat quietly, sipping his drink and taking in the scene. The young man was becoming increasingly agitated. Other patrons attempted to calm him, but it only added fuel to his fire.

“Hey everyone — this guy is one of those fucking narcs in training. Let’s roll this motherfucker!”

Things were escalating rapidly. I caught Pierce’s eye and he gave me a subtle nod toward the exit. I had to leave or risk the entire bar turning against me.

Ending the exercise without completing my objective felt like a failure. Would I be permitted to continue the course? Success was contingent on reading the room.

I left the bar and waited around the corner for my cover man and Pierce. We walked along Hastings Street, the weight of disappointment heavy on my shoulders. Pierce instructed me to return to the safe house. “Take a shower and put on your real clothes. Become yourself again before you write your notes.” It was more than hygiene; it was a reset to prevent the street from following you home. The truth is that I was never good at that last part. No matter how many showers I took or how often I changed back into my civilian clothes, I carried it with me: the lies, the adrenaline, the hard edge, and the bullshit, buzzing under my skin long after the mission was completed.

Back at the safe house, Pierce entered the room where I was preparing my notes. The expected reprimand didn’t materialize.

“How are you?” he asked.

“I’m good.”

“You’ll get another chance tomorrow,” he said.

He went on to emphasize that officer safety always takes priority. “I could see you were determined to stay, but it was starting to get ugly, and I couldn’t risk you getting hurt. Going home to your family takes precedence over the job.”

That stuck with me. This wasn’t just about completing objectives. It was about understanding the competing interests of survival versus mission and making the right decision in real-time.

The following morning, the debrief revealed that Wij had been attacked at the Astoria Hotel the night before. He had been accused of being a cop and assaulted, signifying a complete failure on the part of his cover man and the syndicate leader, who did not step in to protect him.

Wij didn’t blame them. He didn’t speak ill of them. That was the type of man he was.

Goudan concluded the debrief by looking directly at me.

“Sidhu, you’re going to the Astoria tonight.”

The message was clear; it was an opportunity for redemption. I’d be ordering a draft this time.

Later that afternoon, I met with Pierce and the same cover man who had accompanied me the previous night. Pierce looked at me with that dry smile, “It’s karaoke night at the Astoria,” he said flatly. “You’re going to sing ‘Like a Virgin.’” Once again, he wasn’t joking. The instructions were clear, and the stakes were understood. The Astoria was my last chance saloon.

Complicating the situation was the update Pierce had received from surveillance: two of the individuals involved in the assault on Wij the night before were confirmed to be inside the bar. This was not going to be easy, but there was no negotiation or opt-out clause.

The street outside of the Astoria felt heavy with the kind of uneasy tension that had lingered over Vancouver’s East Side for decades. The rules remained unchanged from the night before: stay focused on your objective. Failure was not an option. I walked into the bar, scanning the room. The two aggressors were easily identifiable, sitting at a table directly in front of the karaoke machine. They were loud, animated, and already in a state of drunkenness that indicated they were looking for trouble.

I casually made my way to the DJ. “I want to sing Like a Virgin by Madonna,” I told him.

The DJ looked at me like I was crazy. “You serious?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” I replied.

“Alright, boss — you’re up next,” he said, shaking his head.

As I waited, I could feel the weight of the room settling on me. The two men who had jumped Wij were leaning toward each other, laughing and whispering conspiratorily as they gestured in my direction. When my turn came, I stepped onto the stage and took the microphone. There was no room for nerves, no space for hesitation. Boldness was the only currency that mattered here.

I sang. Badly and off-key. I butchered the song in what could only be described as a Leonard Cohen-inspired massacre of a Madonna classic. My voice wasn’t what was being evaluated; my ability to rise to the challenge was. The absurdity of it all served as its own kind of camouflage, drawing the audience’s attention away from who I was and placing it squarely on what I was doing. The bolder the act, the less scrutiny my person would receive. As I stepped down from the stage, one of the two men shouted after me, “Hey man — you sound like fucking Bob Dylan singing that fucking song!” It had worked. I had defused them without a single act of aggression. They must’ve been Dylan fans.

I approached the bar and ordered a draft beer - I’d learned my lesson from the Patricia Hotel the night before - and sat quietly in a corner, waiting for my signal to leave. When the time came, I slipped out of the Astoria without incident. Later that night, Pierce debriefed me. He didn’t offer praise freely, so when he did, it mattered.

“You did well,” he said. “You stayed within your limits. You accomplished the mission.” That was the lesson; in undercover work, success wasn’t necessarily achieved with bravado or force. It also involved manipulating perception, controlling the narrative, and owning the space you occupied, even when everything about you should have screamed that you didn’t belong there.

The next day, we faced an entirely different challenge, one designed to push us even further outside of our comfort zones. We were instructed to leave all identification, money, and personal belongings at the safe house. The objective was to survive on the mean streets of Vancouver until the following morning. A believable cover story needed to be invented, one capable of eliciting enough sympathy from strangers to secure food and shelter for ourselves and our assigned cover person.

My subterfuge was simple; I was from Seattle and had taken my family to Stanley Park for a day trip. My vehicle had been stolen, along with my wallet and phone, but most importantly, the baby bag my wife had filled with essentials for the day. I needed help buying baby formula and getting my family home. What I quickly discovered was that not everyone was willing to lend a hand. Although some people listened patiently, most regarded me with skepticism, searching for any crack in my story, any hesitation that might betray me. If I stammered or faltered, the interaction would come to an end.

For hours, I wandered through the downtown core, approaching strangers with growing desperation. Then I remembered a scenario from the night before - a female operator had faked a menstrual accident using toilet paper and ketchup to elicit empathy. She had created a situation that resonated with other women who rushed to offer her assistance and save her from embarrassment. This exercise wasn’t solely about deception; it was also an exercise in understanding human empathy. People are naturally inclined to help those they identify with.

From that moment on, I focused exclusively on engaging every person of Indian descent I could find, speaking only in Punjabi. That’s when I met them: a young couple in their mid-twenties, clearly part of the janitorial staff, pushing a cart filled with cleaning supplies as they exited a downtown office building. They listened attentively as I shared my story. The husband paused for just a moment, then reached for his wallet. He opened it, revealing that he had only two bills — a fifty and a five.

“We have come to Canada to build a better life for ourselves,” he said, offering me both the red and blue bills. “We know what it’s like to struggle. We don’t want you or your family to suffer. Take whatever you need.” His generosity struck me more profoundly than any blow I had ever received. This man, with so little, was willing to give me everything. I took the five. “Thank you,” I said. “This is more than enough.” I shook his hand and walked away, feeling a weight settle over me that I would carry for years.

That night, I scraped together just enough for the food and shelter I had been tasked with procuring for my cover man and myself. I had taken money from working people who were barely eking out an honest living, making them collateral damage in the game we were playing. We ate at McDonald’s, the fluorescent glare and empty calories our only grim, late-night option, then set out to find accommodation. A filthy motel room that stank of body odour, stale cigarettes, and desperation provided a roof over our heads for the night. It was a place that didn’t care who you were, only that you paid cash. We crashed hard, boots half-off, heads pounding, the stink of the street still clinging to our skin, into a restless sleep. The following day, they came for us as if nothing had happened.

It was a sombre ride back to the safe house; everyone looked wrecked, with hollow eyes, jittery hands, and nervous exhaustion settling deep in our bones. Beneath it all, I felt something deeper than hunger, fatigue, and filth. It was anger. Slow-burning, ugly, and gathering force. Anger at being disposable, used, and forced to take advantage of people who didn’t deserve to be caught in our world. We had crossed lines, and the people writing our paychecks didn’t care.

Some of the others were also grappling with their emotions. One of the female participants put Goudan on blast. The weight of what we had done finally broke through whatever thin shred of detachment she had left. The guilt spilled out of her as she sat shaking, her voice trembling yet loud enough for everyone to hear. She condemned the Force as a machine that exploited the kindness of good, innocent people under the deceptive banner of training.

She shared how taking money from an elderly couple, who reminded her of her grandparents, people who likely didn’t have much to give, made her feel physically ill. She described it as feeling dirty, as if she were a criminal. She no longer cared about cover stories or operational objectives. She wanted answers. “I don’t care if you kick me off this course. What we did to these people was absolute bullshit.”

The energy in the room took on a low, angry buzz as she called out the Force for exploiting the kindness of strangers for a training exercise. “Where is the extra money going!?” she demanded.

Goudan deflected, trying to bulldoze through the debriefing after a vague mumble about charity. She wasn’t having it. “Which charity!?”

Silence. There was no charity. Rumours circulated that Goudan wanted her removed from the course due to her outburst. Still, the syndicate leaders pushed back, saying that the optics wouldn’t favour him, as was the RCMP’s way: image over substance, perception over truth.

Still, the exercise had served its purpose. It stripped away our uniforms, badges, and pretenses, revealing who we truly were when left alone in the dark.

On the final day of the course, each participant was scheduled to meet privately with Goudan and two of the syndicate leaders to receive their course evaluations. The process was, as always, straightforward with no ceremony or preamble. Just a seat across from the men who had put you through hell over the past three weeks, and then assessed your reaction, dissecting every failure and success.

I sat down across from Goudan. He fixed me with that now familiar, measured stare that rarely revealed anything, and asked a simple question: “How do you think you did?”

I didn’t try to be clever or impress. “I think I did okay,” I replied.

“Where do you think you stand compared to the other operators in this course?”

My answer was equally straightforward: “Average.”

That was when Goudan chuckled sarcastically. “You and Wijayakoon are among the top two in this course,” he said. “I’m not going to tell you who’s number one.” It didn’t matter; the message was clear enough. I had secured my place. Keith Pierce spoke next. “Rob, you are in an elite class of operators. Keep up the excellent work.” The interview concluded with Goudan informing me that both Wij and I would be travelling to Kelowna, British Columbia, to assist with street-level drug investigations throughout the province’s interior.

It affirmed everything I had worked towards. My efforts in the course were not driven by ego or personal glory; they were motivated by the understanding that these skills — this training — would become crucial assets in my career. In the world of undercover operations, the law of scarcity applied in full force: the rarer the skill set, the greater its value. Completing OUT 69 would position me in a way that few other assignments could. Not only was I being trained to infiltrate the shadows, but I was becoming fluent in their language. These techniques and tactics of deception and manipulation weren’t just tools of law enforcement; they were transferable.

Over time, they would become the very same skills I’d leverage one day, not in service of the law, but against it. What I didn’t realize then was that every persona I created, every lie I perfected, and every instinct I sharpened for performance on the job would ultimately serve a different master.

Operational Status: Mask Intact

I began to form a deeper understanding of what this course had revealed about myself, the RCMP, and the world I was entering. We received an hour-long lecture from a psychologist who introduced basic stress management techniques, including breathing exercises and meditation. It was a superficial nod toward mental health- the kind of box-checking for which the RCMP was known long before it acknowledged the reality of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).

After each undercover operation, the Force required operators to undergo psychological debriefings. In theory, these were meant to safeguard our mental and emotional well-being, but in reality, they were merely a formality. As someone who has participated in numerous debriefings over the years, they were never about truth, but optics. The psychologist would ask, “How do you feel after completing your last assignment?” and the most crucial question of all: “Is there anything preventing you from continuing in the Undercover Program?”

It was an imperfect process, with three glaring problems. First, the psychologist interviewed individuals trained in deception. Second, no operator wishing to remain in the program would jeopardize their career aspirations by admitting to psychological distress. Third, the psychologist was required to submit their findings to the Health Services Officer, who eventually sent the report to the Undercover Coordinator’s office. The very people responsible for safeguarding our mental health worked in tandem with those who acted as gatekeepers for operational deployment and, by extension, the RCMP.

Most operators believed that the system was created not to support them, but to shield the organization from liability. The findings of these reports were analyzed by untrained individuals in the Undercover Coordinator’s office, acting as the first line of defence against any potential legal or reputational consequences. It was a process that prioritized containment. Say the right things, get cleared, and move on. Speak your truth and risk jeopardizing your career.

The debriefing procedure continues to be fraught with flaws and systemic shortcomings. Its capacity to function as a proper safeguard for member well-being is significantly hindered by an organization that prioritizes reputation over humanity.

I no longer consider my success in OUT 69 a badge of honour. If anything, I should have recognized that I crossed into a world I could never return from. Long before the course, I was already living a double life; I had learned how to lie without blinking, slip into character without thinking, and wear the mask long enough to get what I needed. Then the course refined those skills into something sharper, something more weaponized. The deeper you went, the better you became at burying the parts of yourself that didn’t serve the job.

When the course was over, I wasn’t the same; I don’t think I was supposed to be. That’s the part they never tell you. You walk in thinking it’s just training; you walk out knowing the mask fits better than your skin.

13 The Shack is a term used to describe the full time undercover unit. At the time there were two full time undercover units situated in Vancouver and Montreal.

14 Conger, J.A. (1993). Max Weber’s conceptualization of charismatic authority: Its influence on organizational research. The Leadership Quarterly, 4(3-4), 277-288

Chapter 6

The Cost of the Mask

From the outside, our life in Abbotsford appeared picture-perfect: a young family, a new house we had built together, three beautiful kids, and the serene rhythm of small-town life. Coreen was the foundation — steady and strong — managing the household, the kids, and the chaos of daily life without complaint. While she was at home keeping everything together, I was fading away. By 1996, I had transitioned into the Drug Section rotation in Surrey. It was a different kind of work—erratic and unpredictable. Long days merged into even longer nights, with no one monitoring my hours, giving me all the space I needed to drift. I told Coreen I was working overtime, that I didn’t have a choice, and she believed me—because she didn’t know she had every reason not to.

The truth is, my double life began long before then. Even back in university, I was already having affairs, convincing myself that I was entitled and could handle it. As my career advanced and responsibilities mounted, I didn’t stop; instead, I just became better at hiding it. I blurred the line between work and everything else, and somewhere in that unstable place, I was losing myself.

There was no target, no covert assignment, no shadowy figure pulling the strings behind the curtain. It was all me — crumbling from the inside out, one selfish choice at a time. I was squandering money and hemorrhaging our finances to keep a second life afloat. I told myself I needed an escape, that the double life was part of the job, but these were all rationalized lies I was telling myself. The truth was, I used the badge to justify being a coward. I didn’t cheat because of what was missing at home, but because I was too broken to face what I already had. Whenever I slid my credit card across a bar counter or paid for a room I’d never bring my wife to, it wasn’t just money I was wasting; it was trust, love, and integrity. Coreen gave me her loyalty, belief in me, and her partnership, and I ignored it all as if it meant nothing, realizing far too late that it was everything. I could not rewind to a time before the lies, before the guilt and before the empty excuses. I was the architect of my collapse. The shame of dragging her down with me, when she never asked for any of this, is what still stings the most.

As a result of my actions, our finances were a disaster. When I asked for help from the bank and credit institutions, I encountered closed doors. I had already taken out a $15,000 loan that remained unpaid. Coreen and I had co-signed a substantial $550,000 refinance to assist the extended family. However, I needed more. I needed it to maintain appearances and to uphold the lie I was living.

One day at Walmart, I ran into someone I knew from the community—a guy working at a TD Bank kiosk selling credit lines. We started talking, and eventually, I shared my financial situation with him. He offered a solution: a workaround. A line of credit, not in my name but in someone else’s. Someone close, all I had to do was sign for them. I did it without hesitation, using my brother Andy’s name first, telling myself it was temporary. I would pay it back, he’d never know, nobody would, but once I crossed that line, it became easier to do it again. I forged my other brother Jessie’s name, and then my father’s. Three lines of credit. $65,000. All fraud. All concealed beneath the same rationale: I’ll fix it before anyone finds out... but I didn’t.

When Andy applied to refinance his home, my house of cards came crashing down. The bank flagged a line of credit he didn’t even know existed. When I was caught, I lied again, inventing a sob story that I was undergoing treatment for multiple sclerosis in the States, and layering on imaginary debts related to the RCMP. I offered every story except the one that mattered—the truth. I realized I was in over my head, had lied, and had committed fraud.

The confrontation was brutal. My father just seemed stunned, but my brothers were furious, shocked, humiliated, and betrayed. I had entangled them in a criminal act without their knowledge and jeopardized their financial futures because I couldn’t stop my selfish behaviour. They cut me off, not just for a while. Forever. To this day, they don’t speak to me, the wounds I inflicted never healed, and I have to live with that. I repaid Andy after receiving a large tax refund, and Jessie’s line of credit was caught by the bank and reversed before it took effect. I eventually repaid my father as well, years later. By then, the damage was not simply financial; it was personal and spiritual. I had turned family into collateral.

There’s no repair manual for something like that, no set of instructions to piece a life back together when you’re the one who shattered it. You can’t simply flip to a page that explains how to rebuild trust, how to mend a heart you broke, or how to face your children without drowning in shame. I must admit, I didn’t try very hard to do any of those things, continuing down my path of self-destruction.

One night in a bar, I met someone named Lianna. She was everything Coreen wasn’t—loud, carefree, and uninhibited. While Coreen carried the weight of our family, Lianna floated through life untethered by responsibility. She didn’t care about the uniform, the reputation, or the image I had worked so hard to maintain. With her, I didn’t have to be a father, husband, or Mountie. I could exist in the moment, reckless, selfish, and unburdened.

Late nights in Vancouver became our playground. Strip clubs, dive bars, and back alleys, places where nobody asked questions and no one cared who you were as long as you paid your tab and left without incident. The Paradise Club became our favourite haunt: dark, loud, and anonymous. We’d sit in the back, far from the bouncers and the regulars, tucked away in the shadows like cowards. This wasn’t just cheating. It wasn’t some drunken mistake or a one-time slip. This was the type of betrayal that was raw, deliberate, planned, and repeated. I wasn’t just lying to my wife. I was lying to myself, and worst of all, I did it with intention. I did it because, in those moments, in those dark corners of the city, I cared more about escape than about my love for my family.

I tried to hide my betrayal with performance. I still came home professing to be exhausted from work, and I still kissed my children goodnight. All the while, I was utterly immersed in this parallel life. I always believed that I could compartmentalize, that I could keep the two worlds separate, but I couldn’t.

One night, I was approached in the bathroom of the Paradise Club by a man I had never met. He was older, jittery, and agitated about something. He looked me over with a strange familiarity and said, “You look like someone who can help me.”

Several scenarios ran through my head. What the fuck? But I played along. “Oh yeah? Help you how?”

Looking around nervously, he raised his hand in the shape of a pistol and leaned in.

“I need a gun,” he said. “I need to kill my wife.”

At that moment, instinct took over, and I slid into my covert persona. I nodded, feigned curiosity, and asked the right questions. I promised I could help him, but I needed a few days to get ready. We exchanged numbers, and just like that, I was playing a different game. I’d walked in as an adulterous bar patron but had reverted to an undercover cop by the time I left.

The next day, I reported the interaction to my supervisor. The file was promptly transferred to the E Division’s Serious Crimes Section. We wired up a car, mapped out a controlled operation, and began setting the stage. I met with him repeatedly, steering the conversation and tightening the noose with every meeting. It took two weeks of patient, deliberate work. Eventually, he crossed the line, handing me a down payment on the price we had negotiated and providing me with a photo of his wife, along with her home address. When I asked how he wanted it done, his response was cold and direct: “Knock on her front door and shoot her between the eyes.” That was all we needed. He was arrested and charged.

What lingered in my mind long after the arrest and the paperwork was what it revealed about me: that I could sit across from a man like that, look him in the eye, match his coldness, speak his language, and guide him there without flinching. It was my job. It was the mask I wore, but the line between playing the part and becoming it is never as clearly defined as you might think.

Lianna was present that night. She witnessed the exchange and understood the setup, the role I was playing, and the false promise I had made to that man. When it came time to testify, she was called to court as a witness. She took the stand, gave her statement, and attempted to conceal our affair. However, court records are public, and transcripts are not subject to interpretation. Our secret nearly exploded in open court.

It should have served as a wake-up call, but the truth is, I had become so comfortable in the mask that I could no longer feel its edges. The job shielded me. The RCMP didn’t question Lianna, nor did they ask why a civilian woman was present during a covert operation. They didn’t care that my affair had been dragged into a murder-for-hire trial. They had their file, arrest, and conviction. That was their metric for success.

I told myself that I was too smart, careful, and experienced ever to get caught. What I didn’t understand, or rather what I was too arrogant to see, was that I already was caught, not by the Force or the courts, but by the only people who ever really mattered. They just hadn’t figured it out yet, but they would.

That was the pattern. I’d sink deeper and deeper, but somehow the job kept pulling me forward. Promotions. Praise. More access and autonomy. More rope. All the while, inside, I was fraying.

From 1998 to 2003, I lived in fragments. There was the father at home, the hardworking member of the Force, and the man running from his realities. I deceived my wife, my family, my co-workers, and myself. There are moments when I look back and wonder who that man was. I try to tell myself I don’t recognize him, yet I know him too well. He was desperate, proud, and wounded. He didn’t know how to admit his transgressions and ask for help, so he took what he needed and justified it all in the name of survival.

The hardest part of all this isn’t owning the self-destruction or reflecting on the promotions that passed me by. It’s knowing how much I hurt people along the way; the family whose trust I betrayed, my kids who watched their father fall apart, learning far too early that even heroes have shadows. And Coreen, the woman who gave me everything and thought she had built a life based on love and loyalty. If I could start over, it wouldn’t be to spare myself the consequences, but to prevent the damage before it ever began. I want to be the kind of man they can believe in without hesitation, not the one they had to learn to forgive.

Chapter 7

Not That Guy Anymore

There were nights I’d sit in my car outside the house and wonder how I had become this man: a fraud, a liar, a husband and father in name only, a cop who used the badge not to protect others but to shield himself from accountability. I would stare at the front door, knowing my wife was inside doing what she had always done—holding the family together and protecting the kids from the storm I had become.

Coreen stopped asking me where I was going. She stopped waiting up and believing the lies I told myself before I even told them to her. When she finally said those fatal words, that she didn’t know if she could do this anymore, I didn’t argue. How could I? She wasn’t abandoning me; I had already abandoned her long before.

A certain kind of loneliness comes when you find yourself in a prison of your construction. It’s colder, darker, and more intimate than any cell with bars. There’s no warden to curse, no system to rage against. That was my life from 2000 onward. The collapse wasn’t loud or dramatic; it was slow and suffocating. Those invisible walls kept creeping in closer, narrowing daily until there was no room left to move or breathe. As it would turn out, they were just a prelude to the real prison that was awaiting me: cold steel, concrete floors, a number in place of a name.

Throughout it all, I continued to report to work. I still wore the uniform, handled the cases, and walked into courtrooms, pretending to be someone worthy of respect. But it was all hollow.

Every handshake, every file closed, every arrest made; none of it mattered.

The man I used to be was gone; the man I had become was facing the inevitable. The collapse wasn’t finished; it had only just started.

By now, I had seven years of service under my belt. Seven years of figuring out how to stay alive in this job, not just physically but also mentally and emotionally. Seven years of learning how the RCMP truly operated behind the polished uniform and public-facing image, and like everything else in the organization, advancement wasn’t solely about how well you did the job. Timing, politics, and knowing how to maneuver through a system that rewarded obedience more than competence also held sway.

At this point, I returned to General Duty but didn’t stay there long. My operational experience and street sense made me a natural fit for something bigger. I was quickly transferred to a plainclothes section within District 3, where our job was to step in and take over or assist uniformed members with serious crime cases. Robberies, stabbings, and shootings — the major files that demanded more experience, finesse, and the ability to operate in that gray area between reactive policing and proactive investigation.

My heart was still in the Drug Section. That was the work I craved; the tempo, the street-level investigations, the game within the game. I had already submitted my application to return, and eventually, the call came. It was Inspector Reg Reeves, the Operations Officer at Surrey Detachment, calling to congratulate me on my selection to rejoin the Surrey Drug Section. I saw an opportunity.

At that time, there was a vacant Corporal position in the Drug Section. Since I was already scheduled to return to the unit, it made perfect sense—at least to me—to revisit the idea of stepping into the role on an over-rank basis. I wasn’t trying to leapfrog anyone or engage in politics. I was only interested in positioning myself strategically, pointing out that it was a logical fit given my operational experience and the fact that I was already promotable. Reeves didn’t shut me down; in fact, he encouraged me to speak directly with Sgt Gord Friesen, who headed the Drug Section at the time.

In RCMP culture, “over-ranking” refers to a member occupying a higher position of responsibility or leadership without holding the corresponding rank. It’s unofficial and temporary, seen as a developmental opportunity, but only available when management allows it. When you are in good standing, it serves as a stepping stone. When you’re not, it’s ammunition against you. That’s when I learned once again what the RCMP truly valued. Not hard work, operational experience, or performance. Blind, unquestioning obedience was top of the list for the system I was working for. A Constable in a Corporal’s world, but only when it suited them.

I did just that. I approached Friesen and laid it out for him. My argument was clear, respectful, and operationally logical. I could tell right away that he wasn’t open to it; his body language conveyed everything: stiff and guarded, exhibiting the kind of passive-aggressive energy I had learned to recognize in supervisors who viewed ambition as a threat rather than an asset.

The following day, I was ordered to report to Inspector Reeves’ office immediately. When I arrived, the writing was already on the wall. Sergeant Friesen and Corporals John Karlovec and John Furac, two supervisors within the Drug Section, were waiting for me. This wasn’t a meeting; it was confirmation that the Force was beginning to see me for who I really was.

Friesen lit into me as if I had attempted some backroom coup. He accused me of going over his head and trying to orchestrate my own promotion. His voice rose, sharp and cutting, each word dripping with contempt. It didn’t matter that it was Reeves who had told me to speak to him. It didn’t matter that I was already slated to return to the Section. None of that mattered.

Friesen was an old-school RCMP officer, the type of supervisor who valued loyalty over ability and submission over initiative, with the chain of command being what mattered most. I had dared to break his golden rule and think for myself. The message was crystal clear when he finished dressing me down. The door to the Drug Section wasn’t just closed —it was deadbolted. There would be no over-ranking, no return, no promotion within that unit, not on his watch.

It was becoming clear to me that the real danger in the RCMP didn’t just come from the criminals we pursued, but also from within. From supervisors with petty jealousies and insecurities who considered initiative a personal threat and ambition a punishable offence. I told myself it was politics, or perhaps racism.

This was the same man who later made the following comments while reflecting on my time in the Surrey Drug Section: “Sgt. FRIESEN noted that Cst, Rob Sidhu was “vigilant” and “successful” in cultivating informants. He was described as a “very good” operator who was able to climb the ladder when dealing with the criminal element. It was noted that Cst. SIDHU was “diligent” and showed lots of “enthusiasm” while on street crew for 18 months. Sgt. FRIESEN also indicated that this member was utilized by both GIS [General Investigation Section] and other drug sections in his undercover capacity. When Cpl. ROMAN asked Sgt. FRIESEN if he would be receptive to having Cst. SIDHU return to “street crew” or drug section? The immediate response was “in a minute”. This itself reflects on the solid work that was done by this member while working with “Street Crew Drugs”¹⁵

The RCMP don’t confront you directly when they suspect you are slipping. Instead, they let you twist, allowing the rumours to spread and permitting isolation to work its magic. I could feel it happening — the subtle shifts in how people spoke to me, the glances that lingered a bit too long, the meetings I was no longer invited to, the nods that transformed into dismissive shrugs when my name came up. It wasn’t just the door slammed in my face; it was the cold realization that I wasn’t who I thought I was anymore. The reputation I had clung to and the respect I assumed I still had were all starting to slip, and I was the last to notice. I walked out of that room with my pride bruised and my ego bleeding, forced to confront a truth I had been avoiding; I wasn’t trusted. Not fully.

I was no longer a man; I was merely a collection of mistakes held together by arrogance and fear. The Force I once loved observed my unravelling with quiet satisfaction. The RCMP doesn’t save its broken men and women; it buries them and waits them out. The Force didn’t need to discipline you to destroy you; it only had to stop believing in you and watch you bleed out slowly, and that was already happening.

Being resilient is part of my nature, and in this organization, survival meant enduring setbacks, absorbing them, and discovering alternative paths through obstacles. However, I could no longer depend on the performance reviews reflecting who I thought I was in the Force; instead, I had to face the reality of who I had become. I had to accept that people were starting to see through me, that my reputation was no longer as solid as I believed.

Surrey was no longer my refuge, not even close. On March 6, 2002, I was promoted to Corporal and transferred from the Surrey Detachment to “E” Division Headquarters in Vancouver—a move that should have felt like progress, a new chapter, but it didn’t feel like anything. I was numb, going through the motions. I had the rank, the files, and the freedom, yet I felt empty. I was now operating on automatic, like a man who has outlived his usefulness but didn’t know how to move on.

I was assigned to the Greater Vancouver Drug Section (GVDS), specifically within the Outlaw Motorcycle Gang Unit—an ironic twist considering my life’s direction. The unit was led by Staff Sergeant Pete Woods, with Sergeant Greg Kalanchy as his second-in-command. Together, they gave new meaning to “smoke-break leadership.”

Their absence from actual police work was a running joke in the building, and most days they could be found outside, leaning against the same wall, chain-smoking like they were waiting for retirement to find them. Seemingly unconcerned by the lack of respect they garnered, they were hangers-on, content to ride out the clock with their paycheques, their choice of unmarked fleet vehicles, and their inflated sense of relevance as part of the “Queen’s Cowboys.”

On my first day, Woods pulled me aside in the cafeteria and shared some words of wisdom: “Work hard, keep your nose clean, and you’ll do fine. Just don’t ever get caught driving your unmarked car after drinking.” That comment landed sideways for me. I wasn’t sure if he was warning me or projecting. Maybe both. I later witnessed and came to understand that Woods was known for heavy drinking at the NCO’s Mess, and there were occasions when his judgment behind the wheel afterward raised concerns.

The hypocrisy was staggering, and I found it completely demoralizing. His version of leadership was performative at best and reckless at worst. Until then, I had worked under supervisors who knew how to lead from the front—men and women who understood operational nuances and weren’t afraid to get their hands dirty. Woods was part of that entrenched, old-guard NCO culture where leadership meant barking orders, dodging accountability, and clinging to power as if it were owed, not earned.

Those first words from Woods stayed with me, not because I felt welcomed or valued, but because they reiterated with brutal clarity that the institution I had once believed in had rotted from the inside out. Once again, I witnessed how far the RCMP had drifted from its core purpose. Rank no longer symbolized competence or integrity—it was merely an insignia displayed on slumping shoulders, worn by men like Pete Woods who confused seniority for leadership and avoidance for wisdom.

Woods embodied everything wrong with the organization’s upper ranks. He didn’t lead; he loitered. He didn’t inspire, he deflected. His authority stemmed not from experience or moral clarity, but from tenure, entitlement, and the support of an old boys’ network. His mere association diminished the weight of the badge.

It didn’t take long for me to discover that my opinions aligned with those of my fellow unit members. Woods wasn’t just a bad leader—he was a liability. I made a quiet promise to myself: I’d never follow a man like that, and I’d never let him forget I was watching. Pete Woods and I would quickly become nemeses.

In the only real police work he’d done in decades, Pete Woods executed a search warrant on my office desk and seized the loan documents tied to the fraudulent lines of credit. The irony was suffocating. A man who had coasted for years on smoke breaks and empty bravado suddenly found his spine when it came to burying someone else. The hypocrisy was staggering—he’d spent a career dodging accountability, yet now postured like a crusader for integrity.

There was no question about it; I was guilty, but I despised Pete Woods for pretending he wasn’t, for acting as if he stood on some moral high ground, untouched by the very rot he helped spread. He wasn’t there to uphold justice. He was there to watch me fall and parade his righteousness while ignoring the skeletons rattling in his closet.

15 Rapinder”Rob” Sidhu RCMP Personnel File Performance Evaluation and Review Report T.J. Roman, Cpl Surrey RCMP District 3 1999/02/16

Chapter 8

Project O-Pass

In late July 2002, I received a call from Cpl. Kevin Mann at the “E” Division Undercover Coordinator’s office. He asked if I could come by to discuss a potential “job” in Toronto. Since we worked in the same building at headquarters, I was there within minutes. Mann explained that “O” Division Customs and Excise was running an operation— Project O-Pass—investigating missing passports from the Mississauga Immigration and Passport Office. The Americans had initiated the request, so this wasn’t just some run-of-the-mill contraband case. According to U.S. intelligence, a female employee had been smuggling passports to a suspected terrorist cell within Toronto’s Pakistani community. The stolen documents were believed to have been then funnelled to Al-Qaeda operatives across the globe.

It was the post-9/11 era, and everything had shifted. The climate in law enforcement circles was paranoid, reactionary, and in some cases, downright hysterical. Borders were tightening, intelligence-sharing was ramping up, and political pressure was bleeding into operational decisions at every level. American Attorney General John Ashcroft had written directly to his Canadian counterpart, demanding a sweeping investigation into potential national security vulnerabilities, one of them being the suspected theft and trafficking of Canadian passports in the Greater Toronto Area. That kind of demand doesn’t trickle down; it drops like a hammer.

At the RCMP National Headquarters in Ottawa, a chain reaction was initiated. The senior executive sought to be perceived not only as effective but also as responsive, cooperative, and aligned with American priorities. Behind closed doors, operational assignments were not always given to the most suitable person. They focused on optics, politics, and bureaucratic manoeuvring disguised as national security planning.

The Undercover Coordinator’s Office requests members who can tick the right boxes — language, culture, and background. Fluency in Punjabi, that’s where I came in. Not only because I spoke the language, but also because I had already established a reputation for navigating cultural undercurrents in operations that other members couldn’t or wouldn’t touch. I wasn’t the safest choice, but I was valuable. And at Headquarters, utility often outweighed conformity... until it didn’t.

“Your handler out there will be Cpl. Kevin Gibson,” Mann told me. “He works out of Toronto HQ. Give him a call for further details.”

I barely knew Kevin Mann before this encounter, but I had heard enough. He was a company man to the core. He bled Mountie red and lived and died by the code. Everything about him screamed institutional loyalty. You didn’t get the sense that he would ever question a directive, no matter how misguided. I kept the conversation short, thanked him, and left to call Gibson.

Gibson confirmed everything Mann had said. They had a wiretap operating under a Part VI Judicial Authorization, and Special O—the RCMP’s elite surveillance unit—had been following the targets. “This is a high-profile investigation,” he said. “Hope you’re up for the challenge.” His tone was cavalier, almost rehearsed, as if he were trying too hard to sound in control.

We discussed timelines, and I informed him that I’d need to obtain clearance from my chain of command. That meant dealing with Pete Woods, the last person I ever wanted to ask for anything. Just the thought of seeking his permission made my stomach turn. Instead, I bypassed Woods and went straight to Inspector Murray Doak. “Hey, Murray,” I said, leaning on his office door, “I can’t find Pete, and I need to confirm availability for a terrorism file in Toronto. They need me out there as soon as possible.”

Doak didn’t even blink. “Ya, Pete’s probably out having a smoke,” he chuckled, eyes rolling. “No problem. Go do your thing. I’ll let Pete know. Just be careful.”

Safe House - Unsafe Hands

I flew to Toronto under my undercover alias, Ricco Singh Braich. At the airport, I rented a Ford Expedition—big, expensive, and luxurious, the type of vehicle that makes an impression. While I was en route to the safe house, I called Gibson and we arranged to meet at a secure location outside the city the next day.

When I arrived, Gibson was already parked in an unmarked vehicle. He walked up, and the first thing out of his mouth was, “You rented this thing? How much did it cost?” There was no greeting or welcome, just a mention of a budget concern. I didn’t say anything, but the message was clear, his priorities weren’t aligned with the operational realities. The Expedition wasn’t just a mode of transport; it was an extension of my character, a statement meant to sell the story. Gibson didn’t get that, and what’s worse, he didn’t ask.

Before parting ways, he told me, “Come up with a good cover story. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” That alone indicated to me that he was in over his head. Backstopping a solid cover story is the handler’s job, especially when the operator is from out of province. I recalled my first operation with Wij, during which our handler flew us to Edmonton on the RCMP jet just to obtain authentic driver’s licenses. The “K” Division (Alberta) Drug Section members walked us through our new identities, introduced us to local intel, and even showed us around the neighbourhood listed on our identification. That’s what real backstopping looked like: meticulous, immersive, and professional. In contrast, Gibson’s approach wasn’t just half-assed; it was lazy, reckless, and dangerous.

The next day, he pulled up in a faded blue Lincoln Town Car—boxy, oversized, and entirely tone-deaf for the image I was trying to cultivate. It wasn’t just the wrong vehicle; it was the kind of car my father would’ve driven to a retirement dinner, not something you show up in when you’re supposed to be selling yourself as a street-level player with edge. “This is much cheaper,” he said, gesturing to the boat of a car like he was proud of the downgrade. “We’re going to return the Expedition.”

I didn’t argue. I just started seething quietly.

“Did you come up with a cover story?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied.

“Great, let’s head to HQ and I’ll introduce you to the team.”

At RCMP Toronto HQ, I met Inspector Steve Martin, the officer in charge of Customs and Excise. The meeting was brief and chilly. “You from E-Div?” he asked. “Yes, HQ Drugs,” I replied. “Ya, I worked North Van,” he smirked, then turned and closed his office door. Gibson looked embarrassed. “He’s a very busy guy,” he said, trying to save face.

We moved into a boardroom. “So, the cover story?” Gibson asked. “I tell them I’m from Vancouver, chasing a girl who ripped me off for a key of coke,” I said. “I heard she’s hiding out with her Pakistani boyfriend. I want to flash her picture around and see what surfaces.” Gibson liked it. “Great. I’ll get you the pictures.” I reminded him he’d need approval from the Undercover Coordinator’s office. “They’ve got files with pre-approved images. Also, I’m going to need a 604 area code cell.”

We drove out to East York—Toronto’s Little Pakistan. I sat in the rear of a blacked-out minivan while Gibson narrated stories about his work within the Force. There was a theatrical edge to his speech, as if he were performing rather than informing. His voice was animated, with details exaggerated enough to feel rehearsed. Beneath the bravado lay a desperation, a need for validation that clashed with the tough guy image he was trying to project. The more he talked, the more I realized he was attempting to sell me a version of himself he didn’t fully believe in.

I asked to walk around the area. “Fill your boots, man,” Gibson said. I wandered through the district, stepping into corner shops, making small talk with vendors, and deliberately leaving the impression that I didn’t belong. That was the goal—stir curiosity, get noticed, be remembered. But as I moved through the neighbourhood, something deep within me began to stir. The smell of incense and masala hung thick in the air, earthy and sweet, curling around my senses like a familiar moment from my past. Bright fabrics spilled out from storefronts, catching the light in bursts of colour—turquoise, crimson, saffron—while the cadence of Punjabi and Urdu drifted in the background.

At that moment, I was gone—not in body, but in spirit, completely untethered from the here and now. I was a child again, no older than five, walking hand in hand with my Baba (grandfather) through the bustling markets of our ancestral village. His grip around my tiny fingers was everything I needed back then—firm, reassuring, unshakable. The kind of hold that told me no harm could touch me as long as he was near. I could feel the dry warmth of his palm, the worn calluses from a lifetime of labour, and the way he gently guided me through the narrow, chaotic lanes where life pulsed with noise and colour. Vendors shouted over one another, their voices colliding in harmony. Barefoot children darted between carts and cattle, and men on bicycles swerved past without warning, balancing sacks of grain or bundles of sugarcane.

The scent of spice and earth lingered in the air, thick and familiar. Sunlight streamed down in golden shafts, striking the bolts of fabric hanging from storefronts, just as it did all those years ago. It hit me with the force of a memory I didn’t know I still carried—undisturbed, untouched, until now. There was no warning. No buildup. Just a sudden collision between past and present. It wasn’t nostalgia but a raw ache that cracked me open in a place I thought had long since gone quiet.

For the first time in what felt like years, I experienced a sense of peace. Not freedom, not forgiveness, just the briefest exhale from the weight I carried. It didn’t last, but for a few minutes, I wasn’t merely playing a role; I was that boy again, standing beside the man who made me feel safe. I forgot about the prison I had built within those few minutes.

The next day, Gibson arrived carrying a plain manila folder, its surface creased and stained as if it had been passed around too many times. He dropped it on the table with a thud and slid it toward me without saying a word. Inside was the target profile: Sajhad, thirty-two years old, Pakistani, flagged as violent and known to multiple police agencies across Ontario and beyond. He was no small-time player; his name was firmly connected with narcotics, passport fraud, and gun trafficking.

I had seen dozens of target profile sheets in the past: faces, names, charges, associations. Most of the time, I barely gave them a second thought, just another player in the game, but this one was different; something in me shifted the moment I flipped through his file. Call it instinct or conditioning, but my senses locked onto something I couldn’t shake. It was just beneath the ink, a hidden threat, coiled and quiet.

He was buried deep in the heart of Little Pakistan; the kind of man who moved in the shadows, unnoticed by most unless they were desperate. I understood the risks. I knew that approaching him could spark something I might not be able to contain, but playing it safe wasn’t an option.

The folder also contained glossy photographs, which were clearly staged but amateurishly executed. They showed a young, white female perched on the edge of a motel bed, her legs crossed and her face half-turned to the camera. She was dressed provocatively, making it clear what Gibson intended her to represent. I flipped through the prints slowly, “This is the girl who ripped me off for the blow?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he replied with a crooked grin, “not bad, eh?”

By noon, I was back in Little Pakistan, flashing the photo, speaking Punjabi, and weaving my story. Within a few hours, the entire neighbourhood was abuzz with whispers about the mysterious Punjabi man from Vancouver searching for a white woman with a price on her head. I told Gibson that I was ready to make a cold approach.

When we learned that Sajhad was on the move and at a local Beer Store, Gibson nearly drove his minivan straight into the target. I stopped him before he made that mistake, “You want them to see me getting out of this thing?”

He snapped out of it. “For fuck’s sake, I’m not thinking.”

I entered the building and spotted Sajhad in the refrigerator section, scanning the shelves to decide which brand of beer to buy. I casually joined him, pretending to do the same. A moment passed before I asked in Punjabi, “Do you know if they sell Kokanee beer in this province?”

He looked over. “What beer?”

“Kokanee. It comes in a blue case with a picture of a sasquatch on it.”

He laughed. “Never heard of it.”

“I’m from Vancouver. It’s the only beer I drink.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Are you Pakistani?”

“No. I’m Punjabi,” I answered.

“You here on vacation with your family?”

“No. I’m here on business.”

“What kind of business?”

I smirked. “I’m involved in several businesses. Would you mind if I asked you something?”

“Sure. What is it?”

I pulled out the photo of the female member and held it up. “This girl ripped me off. She owes me a lot of money. I was told she’s living around here with her Pakistani boyfriend. You seen her?”

He studied the photo for a few moments. “No. I’ve never seen her. How much did she steal from you?”

“A key.”

That got his attention. “Oh yeah! That’s a lot of money. I’ll definitely let you know if I see her.

How can I get in touch with you?”

I didn’t have a burner phone with a 604 area code yet. “I’ll be around until I find her,” I said. “You’ll see me.”

I grabbed a six-pack from the cooler and turned toward him. He was holding a six-pack, too. “Let me get that for you.”

“You sure? You don’t have to.”

“I’m sure. I appreciate you keeping an eye out.”

I paid for both, and we walked out together, still talking. As we approached his vehicle, I noticed two men inside, both of whom were watching me closely. “Thanks for the beers,” he said. “We’ll see you around.”

I waited until they left before heading to the pay phone to call Gibson.

“What’s the beer for?” he asked.

“Prop purchase. I bought myself and Sajhad a six-pack.”

“You bought him a six-pack?” His tone had that same bewildered edge I’d heard when speaking about the Expedition rental.

“Yes. Is there a problem? Don’t worry, I’ll submit the expense report. I’ve got the receipt.” I made no effort to hide the frustration in my voice.

The art of insinuation, or what psychologists refer to as introjection, is the unconscious adoption of the attitudes or ideas of others. An operator’s success often relies on how effectively they can leverage this psychological tool. A cold approach is the most challenging type of contact, which is why subtlety and timing are crucial. In those fleeting interactions, I had to be vague and elusive enough to invite projection. I let Sajhad fill in the blanks and connect the dots. It was a delicate dance of saying enough while revealing almost nothing.

Once inside the safe house, Gibson said, “I saw you talking to him outside the Beer Store. How did it go?”

“It went extremely well.”

“Tell me what happened?” he asked, that same nervous excitement creeping into his voice. I recounted how I approached Sajhad, asked him about a beer from back home, and gradually steered the conversation. I told him I was in town on business and looking for a girl who had ripped me off for a kilo of cocaine. “How did he react?” Gibson asked.

“He paid attention. Really studied the photo. By the way, I need that 604 number. He asked how to reach me.”

Gibson walked over and slapped my hand in a high-five.

“Way to go, man. That’s excellent. I didn’t think you could do it.”

I must have given him a look because he backtracked immediately.

“No, I didn’t mean it like that. I knew you could, just not this fast.”

I brushed it off with a laugh, pretending I wasn’t irritated. He promised—again—to sort out the phone and took off like he was doing me a favour. There was always something off about him—socially inept, as if he’d memorized how people are supposed to act but never quite pulled it off, as if he’d learned human interaction from a training manual and still couldn’t get it right. Everything about him felt forced and awkward. I stayed behind to finish my notes while he probably raced back to HQ, tripping over himself to update Steve Martin, desperate for validation.

Chapter 9

Appetite for Deception

It was just past noon, and the neighbourhood had settled into its midday rhythm. Storefronts were open, kids jostled shoppers as they played chase on the busy sidewalks, and the scent of fresh tandoori-baked naan drifted from nearby restaurants. Surveillance had reported that Sajhad and his crew were in the area, and it was my job to initiate another bump. I waited until the timing felt right, then approached casually. I caught his attention with a nonchalant nod and a few words in Punjabi, then fell into step with the small group of men who moved at a slow, deliberate pace that didn’t draw attention from the shopping bag brigade.

“Hey brother, I was just telling my friends about the girl you’re looking for. Show them the picture?”

I handed it over, and he studied it briefly before passing it around. Within a few minutes, we had arrived at Lahore Tikka House, near where Gibson had dropped me earlier. Sajhad told the host that we needed a table for four near the back, and the waitress led us to a quiet corner booth, brushing away the remnants of basmati rice scattered from the last customers as we sat down. Sajhad ordered four Molson Canadians, then glanced at me and grinned. “That’s okay, brother? I don’t think they got any Sasquatch beer today.”

I chuckled at the inside joke, catching the reference to our chat in front of the beer fridge, while the others sat in stony silence. He remembered specifics from our conversation. I wanted to believe it was the impression I had made, but couldn’t discount his clever quip and its sharp edge.

“Why don’t you have some kebab with us?” He lowered his voice and said something in Urdu to the others, then turned back to me.

“Sorry, brother, I don’t know your name?” Somehow, I doubted that; his recall of my “Sasquatch beer” indicated he had retained the details of our first meeting. Was he testing me?

“Rick Braich,” I said, reaching across the table to shake hands. He didn’t introduce himself or the other two, who continued in their role as mute onlookers.

“Braich, huh? Where’s your village in India?”

“Moga,” I answered.

“You were born there?”

“No, born in Canada.”

He smiled. “Your Punjabi is perfect for someone born in Canada. Sounds like you were born in Punjab.”

I thanked him. “My parents made sure we spoke Punjabi at home. We’re proud of our culture.” It would be the only truth I would share with Sajhad.

Looking over at his two silent friends, he said, “We need to help our Punjabi brother find this girl and get his money back.” The two nodded in wordless agreement, just as the food arrived.

“These are the best kebabs in Toronto,” he said proudly. “Forget the girl, for now, brother. You seem smart. I might have something that interests you.”

“I’m listening.”

“You said the girl ripped you off for some coke—is that your business?”

“It’s one of many. Why?”

“You want Karachi? I get the best supply direct from Pakistan.”

He didn’t need to explain - “Karachi” meant heroin. The implication was clear, he was comfortable with me. I tried to pivot the conversation.

“Karachi’s risky. Lots of prison time, if it goes wrong. I prefer something safer.”

“No risk. We have contacts with PIA (Pakistan International Airlines) straight to Toronto.” He laid it all out, informing me that he had men in the ground crew at Pearson International Airport who could secure shipments before customs. Then came the line that really caught my attention.

“We can bring anything in. We can help you fly anywhere.”

“How can you help me fly anywhere?”

He glanced at his guys for approval. “We got some documents. You understand?”

“No. What kind?”

“We get you a Canadian passport, my Punjabi brother.”

I appeared unfazed. “Fake ones don’t work. Customs catch those easy. I’ve already been burned.”

“These aren’t fake. Real ones. I show you.”

Still, I gave him nothing. “Let me talk to my people in Vancouver. One of my guys is trying to escape extradition from the U.S.”

“Those fucking Americans. I hate them.”

There was no mistaking the venom in his voice, so I played into it. “They have no business going into Muslim countries telling people how to live. Biggest hypocrites. Osama blew them up for a reason.”

The comment electrified the table, finally eliciting a comment from one of Sajhad’s cohorts. “Yes. They are fucking pigs. I pray Allah destroys them all.”

We had crossed into what appeared to be shared ideological ground. I recognized at that moment that I had my hooks in him. “How many do you have?”

Before he could answer, the waitress brought the beers, and he raised his bottle in a mock toast. “As many as you need, my Punjabi brother.”

Breaking bread, or in this case naan, together is a powerful tool, especially in South Asian cultures. Mealtime represents a certain intimacy and creates trust, which is why so many operators use dinner to build rapport. While we talked and ate, the other two reverted to quiet mode. One stepped away to take a call, returning minutes later with a pointed glance toward Sajhad. Without a word, he stood up.

“We have to go now, my Punjabi brother. Business is calling.”

“No problem, my friend. Go take care of it. Maybe next time we talk about our own business,” I said.

“Inshallah,”(God willing) he replied, extending his hand. “This meal’s on me. I look forward to seeing you again.”

We had remained at the restaurant for about an hour, engaging in conversations about Islam and George W. Bush’s oppressive administration. Their sentiment was unmistakable; they despised everything about Americans and their country. As we left the restaurant, I said, “I’m going to keep looking for the girl. I’ll see you guys later,” and began walking in the opposite direction until I was at a safe enough distance from the trio to find a pay phone and call Gibson.

Once I entered the minivan, I updated Gibson on the situation. He was thrilled with the information. “This is exactly what we were looking for; way to go, man!” he exclaimed. I reminded him yet again about the cell phone. “We will probably debrief tomorrow without any scenarios, I’ll make time to get the cell phone before we meet.” Given the progress made that afternoon, I assumed that Gibson would conduct a thorough debrief of Inspector Martin and, together, they would determine the next steps in the investigation.

When we returned to the safe house, Gibson casually asked for the photo of the female. He said he’d “gotten into shit” for using it. That’s when he dropped the grenade - he hadn’t gone through the Undercover Coordinator’s office as I’d instructed, but instead, he had freelanced the entire thing, getting a plainclothes female member from his own unit to pose in a hotel room. I was speechless. I had explicitly mentioned the proper procedure. The RCMP has a national database of vetted undercover operators and staged photos precisely for this purpose. They go to great lengths to protect identities and maintain the integrity of operations. If appropriate protocol had been followed, the picture would have depicted a female operator stationed in another province, with zero local exposure. Instead, Gibson chose to take a shortcut, making it sloppy, reckless, and potentially catastrophic.

“You realize I’ve flooded the area with this photo? What happens if someone recognizes her as a cop?”

Gibson gave a sheepish shrug. “I know. I fucked up.”

I didn’t need to say another word, my face said it all. I was already working the angles in my head, figuring out how to spin the story in case I was challenged by Sajhad. I had already woven that photo into a backstory soaked in betrayal, revenge, and a kind of street justice that doesn’t ask questions. Gibson didn’t get it, he thought it was just a prop, but that photo was a loaded gun. If the story didn’t hold or if the wrong person recognized her, I’d be the one catching the bullet.

He left the safe house with the incriminating image, avoiding any further discussion. No debriefing of my encounter with Sajhad at the restaurant, no feedback or operational follow-up. He just high-tailed it, leaving me to ponder my precarious situation. Everything Gibson had done up to that point confirmed my worst fears, he wasn’t competent enough to manage this file. More importantly, I couldn’t trust him to ensure my safety.

I should have called Kevin Mann at Vancouver HQ immediately and report everything, but I didn’t.

In the RCMP, just like in organized crime, there’s an unwritten code: you don’t rat on your own. Publicly, the Force parades the values of transparency and accountability, but that’s all performative at best. Behind closed doors, anyone who dares to speak up about internal rot is marked. You’re not seen as courageous but as a liability. The silent punishment begins: career sabotage, psychological warfare, and isolation. It’s a twisted irony; a criminal who turns on the mob is protected, given a new identity, a second chance. A member who turns on the Force is left to twist in the wind. No safe house or lifeline. Just the slow disintegration of your former self.

So I buried it, rationalizing to myself that I had met my objectives, made progress, and that Gibson’s incompetence wasn’t enough to sink the operation. Eventually, I came to a disquieting truth: sometimes, survival means thinking for the people who are supposed to be thinking for you.

The next day, I met with Gibson again and the Sajhad interaction was dicussed in vague terms. He didn’t mention the photos and no apology was offered. The debriefing concluded. “I have to head back to the office for meetings. Take the day off. We’ll try bumping into Sajhad again tomorrow.”

I nodded. “That’s fine by me. I needed a break.” I spent the day with my aunt and uncle, who lived just outside the city. It was precisely what I needed, a return to something warm and familiar.

Growing up, I was always close to my extended family, especially my aunts and uncles. When I got married, my parents opposed the union. Stubborn and traditional, they couldn’t see past their own preconceived expectations. Yet, my aunts and uncles had stood by me, softening the hard lines my parents drew and slowly convincing them to accept the life I had chosen. They were my buffer, my shield. They still are.

My aunt prepared a sumptuous home-cooked meal with all my favourite dishes. We ate, laughed, and talked for hours. It was the first time in weeks that I felt grounded. There were no strategies, no cover stories, and no threat assessments—just family. That day gave me a brief reprieve, a pause in the chaos. It reminded me of where I came from before entering this world of masks and wiretaps, paranoia, and lies.

The next day, I would return to the uncertainty, the layered lies, and the incompetence that I could no longer ignore, but at that moment, I was with my family in my true safe house. No handlers second-guessing me, no half-baked plans to fix—just unconditional warmth and support from my family, providing the recharge and reset I urgently required.

Flagged and Forgotten

Most of the primary targets in the investigation were covered under Part XI Judicial Authorization, which, under the Criminal Code of Canada, permitted the interception of private communications. The central hub for these intercepts—commonly referred to as the “wire room”—served as an intelligence nerve centre for the operation. Analysts and linguists monitored real-time conversations, prioritizing them based on threat level and investigative relevance. A uniformed member was assigned to the wire room in a supervisory role to ensure that any high-priority intercepts were promptly relayed to the primary investigator or surveillance teams.

Sajhad and his associates spoke almost exclusively in Urdu and Punjabi, which required interpreters with specialized linguistic skills. One of those analysts flagged a conversation as high priority the day before my final scenario was to unfold. During the call, Sajhad referred to me as “Muma.” This word translates literally as maternal uncle; however, on the street, within South Asian communities, it is slang for police. Sajhad was heard making a chilling remark about taking the “Muma” out of the city to “get rid of him.” The interpreter recognized the immediate danger and promptly relayed it to the supervising member.

The conversation was formally flagged, and Gibson was instructed to report to the wire room to assess the threat immediately. He ignored the request, not even bothering to acknowledge the urgency stamped on the message. Perhaps he was busy with something he deemed more important—an internal meeting, a coffee run, or whatever passed for priority in his world. The delay his nonchalance incurred wasn’t just negligence, it was operational recklessness.

By the time he finally sauntered over to HQ the following day, you might think the urgency was impossible to ignore. The threat had obviously escalated from probable to imminent, but Gibson didn’t understand a word of the intercepted Punjabi. Instead of listening to the audio and analyzing the tone, urgency, and implication of threat from the source itself, he received a neatly typed English translation. Sanitized, delayed, and completely stripped of the urgency the interpreter had felt at the time of interception.

By that time, it was too late. The word “Muma” had sealed it.

I was already deep in the field, embedded with Sajhad and his crew. We were trading street banter and faking brotherhood as if it were second nature. However, underneath the surface, and unbeknownst to me, the ground had already shifted. My cover was blown, and none of my colleagues had let me in on this very important detail. I was no longer an asset, I had unwittingly become a liability. I was marked. Sajhad and his men didn’t see me as one of them, they knew I was a cop, and in their world, that’s a death sentence.

I was out there—exposed, blind, walking straight into the jaws of something I didn’t even realize was circling me. That conversation—where Sajhad casually floated the idea of taking me “out of the city to get rid of me”—had been flagged, translated, and buried just long enough for the threat to shift from theoretical to immediate. Long enough for the silence to turn into betrayal.

The RCMP had the intel. They knew the timeline, and they still let me walk right into it. They didn’t miss it—they ignored it. They gambled with my life, counting on Gibson’s staggering incompetence, and left me hanging in the wind. No warning. No cover. Just another asset in play—expendable, deniable, and on my own.

The badge didn’t protect me. It marked me, and they allowed it to happen.

Chapter 10

The Wire Screamed

The afternoon following my day off, Gibson arrived at the safe house and congratulated me on behalf of Martin. “He’s impressed with how quickly you have been able to progress. Keep up the good work,” he commented before giving me a very awkward “high five.”

“How does Martin want to proceed?” I inquired.

“He’s going to get back to me later today after he’s had some time to think it through.” Just as he made this comment, his phone rang. I continued writing my notes as he spoke on the phone. “That was Special-O. They’ve followed Sajhad and his crew to a location just down the road from us. How do you feel about bumping into them again?”

Motivated by the success of the previous scenario, I agreed. “Whatever you need me to do.”

Gibson said he’d instruct Special-O to follow Sajhad to a suitable location. I was supposed to roll in with the undercover vehicle and make contact. Until now, I’d avoided using it. It wasn’t out of paranoia; it was a matter of perception. In the world of undercover operations, you don’t tell people what to believe; you create a world that makes them believe it. I knew the Lincoln Town Car didn’t give off the right vibe. It was too sterile, too law enforcement, too blue, and the most dangerous part—it was all beyond Gibson’s understanding.

Not long after leaving the safe house, Gibson called. “Surveillance followed Sajhad to the same Beer Store where you first met.” I rolled into the parking lot and immediately spotted Sajhad’s crew in their vehicle. As I parked, Sajhad emerged from the store holding a six-pack of beer.

“Salaam Alaikum, my Punjabi brother!” he yelled from a distance.

“Wa ’Alaikum Salem,” I said, extending my hand as I stepped out of the Towncar. It was the first time he’d used a traditional Muslim greeting with me. Something had shifted.

“You talk to your guy in Van?”

“Yeah. He’s definitely interested. Asked me to get him a sample.”

He opened the vehicle door, “Get in the car. Let’s get it now.”

“I don’t want to leave my car here—it’s a rental, and I don’t need it getting jacked.” Sajhad looked at me, then at his crew. “Okay. Let’s take your car.”

He jumped into the passenger seat and his boys climbed into the back.

Once inside, Sajhad didn’t waste time. He opened the glove box, his fingers probing the space as if he were searching for a reason not to trust me. He was thorough, too, leaning up from his seat, peeling back the roof liner as if it were a crime scene.

“What the fuck was that all about?” I asked.

“Nothing. Just checking.”

I didn’t flinch. Targets tested cover stories all the time. I leaned into the tension. “You have nothing to worry about.”

“I need to be careful,” he said, glancing at me sideways. “I gotta make sure everything is good. That you are who you say you are.”

The operator’s next step is to defend his cover story vigorously; it was time for my performance. “What the fuck, you think I’m wired up or something? I told you why I am here. Why did you even bother getting in my ride if you don’t trust me?” I exclaimed in a defensive tone.

“I must be careful, my Punjabi brother; if I make one mistake, my people will kill my family and me.”

“The same goes for my people in Van. I can’t afford to bring them any heat. “I could see the glares of his companions seated in the back as I adjusted the rearview mirror. “Are you satisfied now? Are we good?” I asked.

“Let me drive, you don’t know where we’re going.”

“Where are we going?”

“To the strip club to meet someone, and from there, we will get the passport.”

I didn’t hesitate and got out to switch seats with him. I knew Gibson would lose his mind if he found out, but he wasn’t there. Letting Sajhad drive wasn’t just about optics, it was a key to my survival. No cop in his right mind allows a target to operate an undercover vehicle. That was the tell, what made it believable.

As we left Little Pakistan, I kept the conversation casual—small talk laced with slightly probing questions about the passports. The two in the back stayed silent, but I could feel their eyes drilling holes into the back of my head.

As we merged onto Lake Shore Boulevard, I spotted the CN Tower about 300 meters ahead. That’s when my phone started to vibrate. Not the burner I’d repeatedly asked Gibson for and still didn’t have, but the Force-issued drug section phone, which technically I should have left at the safe house. A breach of protocol that saved my life that day.

The call display lit up with Gibson’s number.

“Hey, what’s up?” I asked.

Sajhad reached over and turned down the radio, so I switched the handset to my right ear, hoping he couldn’t hear my caller.

Gibson’s voice was panicked. “Hey, I need to tell you two things.”

“Okay. Shoot.”

“They’ve made you. They’re going to kill you. Get out of that car right now.”

I froze. “Okay… What’s the second thing?”

“They’ve lost you. Surveillance has no idea where you are. Rob, get out of that fucking car NOW!”

The air left my lungs. I had to stall. I had to give him something, at least my location update.

“Ya, no problem. I’m with my friends—driving past the CN Tower right now. You should come meet them and talk business.”

“Rob, I’m begging you. Get out of that car. They are going to kill you.”

“I understand.” I hung up, my heart jackhammering in my chest. I looked at the dash—40 km/h on the speedo. Centre lane. Traffic to my right. I glanced in the mirror, seeing cars everywhere.

“You okay, my brother?” Sajhad asked, looking at me with suspicious eyes.

I nodded, but my breath caught in my throat. My body felt like lead. In a heartbeat, I twisted the door handle and launched myself out.

Just as in the movies, time seemed to slow.

I hit the asphalt hard and rolled, my ears filled with screeching tires and blaring horns. A car came to a violent stop, its front bumper inches from my face. I scrambled to my feet and sprinted to the shoulder, my vision blurred and my chest burning.

Sajhad had stopped the Town Car and jumped out, his crew close behind. I had two choices: dart into traffic or hold my ground and pray for backup.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?! Get in the fucking car!” Sajhad barked.

I turned to face him, tunnel vision blinding me to the fact that his two goons had circled behind. I felt a shove and stumbled forward into Sajhad’s arms. They took hold of my legs, while Sajhad wrapped his arms around my upper torso like I was dead weight. Together, they dragged me toward the car, trying to force me into the back seat like a drunk guest who doesn’t want to leave the party.

I thrashed and contorted, doing everything I could to keep them from getting control. My elbows slammed into metal. My boots kicked wildly. I twisted, bucked, and struck out blindly. Then they lost their grip, and I hit the asphalt hard, skin tearing against the grit. I didn’t think, I just moved. Crawling forward like a wounded animal, I jammed my head and shoulders underneath the trunk, wedging myself behind the rear tire. It was the only cover I could see.

I felt a steel-toed boot smash into my leg, and another blow struck my lower back. Then the punches started—rapid, violent jabs to my ribs and kidneys. Pain exploded behind my eyes as someone grabbed my ankles and started yanking. I clawed forward, rolled onto my back, reached up, and gripped the car’s undercarriage with everything I had. My fingers locked in, my knuckles turning white, I wasn’t letting go. That just shifted the focus of the assault, the kicks now landing on my exposed sides, thudding against my ribs, stomach, and hips, vicious and relentless. I gritted my teeth and held on.

“They’ve made you, and they’re going to kill you.” Gibson’s voice replayed, looping on a sick, broken reel, as his words pounded through my skull like a hammer.

Then, out of the chaos, the faces of my kids blotted everything else out. The pain faded, my limbs went numb, and my heart cracked wide open. I started to cry, broken uncontrollable sobs that wheezed out of me. I gasped, over and over, “I’m sorry... I’m so sorry…”

“They’ve made you… They’re going to kill you.”

Suddenly, the world came back into focus, and I could hear someone yelling in Punjabi, “Hey, stop. What are you doing?” I looked to my right and saw the shoes of several people approaching. “Stop, what are you doing to him?” he repeated. Then I heard several male voices, all speaking Punjabi, addressing Sajhad and his men, “Move away from him, let him out from underneath.” A Sikh male wearing a bright orange turban got on his hands and knees and looked under the car, his long beard brushing the asphalt. He extended his hand and said, “It’s okay, brother, come out.” I hauled myself from beneath the vehicle and observed several Yellow Cab taxis parked on the shoulder. Forming a barrier between me and my assailants was a group of Sikh men, all cabbies, exchanging obscenities with the three Pakistanis.

I stood, my hands trembling as I leaned on the trunk for balance. The air tasted metallic, and everything was bright, blurry, and surreal. Then I realized the engine was still running. I staggered toward the open door and looked up to see a smirking Sajhad.

“I’ll see you next time, Muma,” he said, dragging his thumb across his neck.

The shock hit me the moment I started driving away. I was soaked in sweat and could feel my heart pounding like a drum inside my chest. My hands gripped the wheel, but my mind was scattered, frantically trying to piece together what had just happened. I reached into my pocket to grab my phone, only to discover it wasn’t there. It was still sitting on the passenger seat, right where I’d left it.

I had no idea where I was going, but I knew I needed to keep moving. I continued west along Lake Shore, trying to hold it together and breathe, and called Gibson.

He answered immediately, his voice still panicked, “Holy fuck, Rob! Are you okay? Where are you?”

“I’m not fucking okay! What the fuck just happened?” I shouted.

“I’m sorry, Rob. This is all my fault. Please tell me where you are. I’ve got everyone out looking for you. Even Toronto Police.”

“I don’t know where the fuck I am! How the fuck did this happen!?” My voice was pure rage.

“I’ll explain everything when I see you,” he pleaded. “Please—pull over. Just give me your location.”

I stayed on the line, eyes darting across street signs and buildings until I spotted an off-ramp. I took the exit and pulled into the parking lot behind an apartment complex. I was drained—physically wrecked and emotionally gutted. Blackness crept in, and before I could fight it, my head slumped forward onto the wheel. I must have passed out.

The pounding on the driver’s side window jolted me awake. I looked up to see a plainclothes officer with his pistol trained directly at my head.

“Toronto Police! Show me your hands, right now!”

I slowly raised my hands and said loudly through the glass, “Please don’t shoot. I’m the U/C.”

He stepped back, keeping the pistol aimed at me. He spoke into his radio, urgently relaying the situation, and then he holstered his weapon and opened the driver’s door.

“Holy fuck. Are you okay? You gave us all a real scare.”

Within moments, the parking lot lit up with flashing red and blue lights. Marked and unmarked vehicles swarmed the area, and cops were everywhere.

I leaned against my car, barely able to stay upright and trying to steady my breathing. The whole experience felt like a hallucination... as if I was watching someone else live it.

Gibson was the last to arrive, and I could tell by the look on his face that he knew how badly he’d messed up. “You okay?” he asked.

“No, I’m not. What the fuck just happened? How did they make me?”

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll talk in the van.”

“I want you to take me to the airport,” I said. My voice was steady now, flat and emotionless. “I’ve had enough of this. I’m scared, and I want to go home to be with my family.”

He didn’t know how to respond, so we drove in silence for a while. I stared out the window, numb. The lights, skyline, and traffic all blurred into one long streak of static. My thoughts remained on the gritty highway, still underneath that trunk, bracing for another barrage.

Eventually, Gibson pulled into an empty lot, parked the van, and killed the engine. He sat there, hands on the steering wheel, eyes locked on some distant point only he could see.

Then he broke. It came suddenly and violently. His body began to shake, and he let out a sound—somewhere between a sob and a gasp—that didn’t belong to a grown man, let alone one with a badge. “I’m so fucking sorry,” he said, voice cracking apart. “Rob… I didn’t… I didn’t think it would go like this.”

I looked over and saw him unravelling in real time. The pressure, the guilt, the blind panic—everything he had buried resurfaced. His shoulders buckled, and he began to sob uncontrollably.

The intensity of his emotion struck me. He was inconsolable. At one point, he cried so hard that streams of snot ran down his nose and smeared across the front of his shirt, thoroughly soaking it. He wasn’t even trying to hide it.

I felt nothing. No anger. No pity or empathy. Only absolute emptiness.

He kept repeating, “I fucked up. I fucked up. I fucked up…” his voice fading into a whisper.

I just sat there, staring ahead, jaw clenched, trying to keep it together. There was nothing noble about any of this. No brotherhood. No justice. Just a broken man, weeping in a van, and another trying not to shatter beside him.

I had nothing to say to him.

The truth was, I wanted to go home. I wanted to hold my children. I wanted to scrub this whole fucking thing off my soul.

Most of all, I wanted to forget that I had trusted this man with my life, and he’d left me to die. Not metaphorically. Not in the way cops say it when backup arrives five minutes late. I mean, he had literally left me to die.

He had the intel and the intercept, and still, he did nothing. Whether it was incompetence, cowardice, or that toxic mix of arrogance and apathy that festers in the chain of command, he chose inaction. Gibson had sat on a clear warning that should’ve lit the entire building on fire. Instead, he allowed it to smoulder until the flames ignited around me.

When Sajhad’s boys were dragging me toward that car, threats flying and fists slamming into my ribs, I wasn’t thinking about my cover story, nor was I considering my mission. Instead, I was preoccupied with whether I’d ever see my kids again. Would they grow up remembering the sound of my voice, or would I just become some sad, faded photo on a mantle?

I had accepted danger, even embraced it. That was the deal; you sign up, you go in, and you face whatever is on the other side of that door. I didn’t recoil from the risk, and I never asked for any guarantees. But betrayal? That’s something different. That cuts into a place no policy manual can reach. No undercover training course prepares you for what it feels like to be hung out to dry by the very people who were supposed to have your back.

They didn’t forget me — they chose not to do their best to protect me. It wasn’t just operational negligence, it felt like something colder, like I’d been written off. Like somewhere, in a back room, behind a closed door, someone had decided I wasn’t worth the fallout, burning the political capital, or the paperwork.

Sixty-eight grand a year, that’s what my life was worth to them. The cost of a new SUV. That’s what they gambled with — my blood, my bones, my breath — as if I were a disposable asset instead of a human being.

The anger didn’t hit all at once—it seeped in gradually, heavy and corrosive. Deep down, I knew this wasn’t a mistake. It was the system doing what it always does—protecting itself and discarding the rest.

What hurt the most wasn’t the risk or the job, but the quiet betrayal from someone who was supposed to shoulder the weight and instead looked the other way. In the RCMP, loyalty comes with conditions, and taking risks is okay, as long as someone else is left to deal with the fallout.

In the world of undercover operations, that kind of neglect wasn’t just reckless. It was lethal, and it told me everything I needed to know about where I stood: alone.

Gibson should never have been anywhere near that investigation—he wasn’t built for it, and there he was, crying like a fucking child, covered in snot and apologies. Meanwhile, I sat there, empty, counting the miles between that roadside ambush and his pathetic excuse for a reckoning.

There was a dark and primal part of me that wanted to reach across the console and put my hands around his throat, not out of rage or even revenge. To make him feel, for a few seconds, the sheer panic of knowing that death was a real possibility.

But I didn’t. I just sat there, nodding slightly, staring glassy-eyed at nothing. Any remaining part of me that would’ve done anything to meet the objectives, that still trusted the job, the team, and the plan, had died on Lake Shore Boulevard. That was the moment I realized I wasn’t just expendable—I was irrelevant. They had used me, fed me to the wolves, and when it all went sideways, no one came. The job didn’t break me. The betrayal did.

And no amount of tears would bring me back.

Chapter 11

Runway 66

“The problem with the world is that the intelligent people are full of doubt, while the stupid ones are full of confidence.”

-Charles Bukowski

My identity had been compromised; there was no doubt. If Gibson had just done his job, had paid attention, I would never have been in that situation. Every element of the cruel fallout was on him. His emotional breakdown in the minivan wasn’t guilt, it was all about self-preservation. Gibson wasn’t worried about me; he was terrified of what it meant for his career, his standing in the investigation, and the questions that were going to rain down from Ottawa. When it came to medical aid, there was none. Not from him, or from Martin. Their solution? Take me to a strip club called Runway 66.

“Fuck that,” I said flatly when Gibson first suggested it. “I want you to take me to the airport. I want to go home to my family.”

“It’s right by the airport,” he replied like it validated the dumb idea. “We can have a few drinks and talk next steps. If you still want to go after that, I’ll take you. Inspector Martin is going to meet us there.”

Martin’s presence was the only reason I agreed. Maybe I’d finally get answers, some accountability, perhaps even a sliver of respect.

I stepped out of the van, and pain immediately screamed across both sides of my torso and down my legs. My ribs felt as if they were on fire, cracked and shifting beneath my skin every time I moved.

“What’s wrong?” Gibson asked.

“I may have a broken rib,” I said, trying not to wince.

“We’ll get that checked out later,” he replied, casually. That comment burned. It showed complete disregard for the fact that, ultimately, he was responsible for my unacknowledged injuries. Any traces of shock dissolved, and all that remained was raw, undiluted anger.

We entered Runway 66, a dimly lit strip club adorned with the usual carousel of scantily clad girls. Martin arrived a few minutes later and took a seat as if he was just there for the pole dancer’s performance.

“That could’ve been a fucked-up situation,” he said, making an attempt at sounding wise.

“What do you mean could’ve been? It was,” I shot back. “How the fuck did they make me?”

“We’re going to get to the bottom of all that,” he replied, nodding in false agreement.

I glanced at Gibson, whose head was bobbing like an idiotic puppet.

“There must’ve been a security breach somewhere,” I said. “When did you guys first find out they’d made me?”

They both hesitated, then Martin muttered, “It came through on the wire yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” I was astounded and turned to Gibson, my voice rising. “How in the fuck did you miss that?!?”

Martin cut in. “Don’t worry. We’ll examine how it played out. In the meantime, we need a plan to keep the operation going. How do you feel about confronting Sajhad tomorrow at his residence?”

My jaw dropped in disbelief.

That was it? That was the big plan? Send me back into the lion’s den bruised, beaten, and compromised. With what? An apology and a six-pack?

“I’ll arrange for an ERT member to go with you, so there are no further problems,” Martin added as if it were the perfect solution.

“I just got the shit kicked out of me,” I said, “and now you want me to go back and confront them with an ERT member? Are you fucking kidding me?”

Martin doubled down. “We need to keep this thing going. I want you to get right in Sajhad’s face and ask him—‘What the fuck, man?’”

“Yeah, I’m not doing it. Find someone else. I want to fly back to my family tonight.”

Gibson jumped in, his voice greasy with false reassurance. “I know you’re upset and want to go home, but we’ve put a lot of work into this thing. Just give it a shot. If it doesn’t work, I’ll get you on a flight.”

They didn’t get it. “I’m not fucking doing it,” I snapped. “I want to go back home. Tonight.”

Instead, Martin ordered us more drinks. For at least the next three hours—between incredibly uncomfortable lap dances and rounds of Crown and 7s —he and Gibson continued to circle back, trying to wear me down. Not once did Martin ask if I needed a doctor, nor did Gibson follow up on his “we’ll get it checked later” promise.

I’ve worked with brilliant investigators—men and women who led from the front, earning respect through competence rather than rank. However, in the RCMP, that kind of leadership is the exception, not the rule. Far too often, the higher someone climbs, the more detached and ineffectual they become. It’s not skill or operational integrity that gets rewarded—it’s loyalty to the institution. The Force doesn’t promote critical thinkers; it promotes gatekeepers - people who protect the brand instead of the individuals doing the work. What happened to me wasn’t just an operational failure, it was a symptom of a culture that values optics over outcomes, that closes ranks when accountability is needed most, when the uniform becomes more important than the member inside it.

Eventually, I surrendered—partly from exhaustion, mostly to escape that place.

“I’ll meet you tomorrow morning to talk about it,” I told Martin with resignation.

“Great. I’ll have the ERT guy ready for you to meet,” he said, smiling like he’d won something.

Inside I felt empty, afraid, and vulnerable in a way I hadn’t ever felt before. By then, it was early morning and the thought of returning to the safe house held absolutely no appeal, so I told Gibson to take me to my aunt and uncle’s place. When I walked through the door, my uncle took one look at me and knew something was wrong. He stayed up with me for hours as I unpacked everything. When I finished, he hugged me and said through tears, “It’s okay, my son. You’re home now.”

That’s all I had wanted. From the RCMP. From my assailants. From anyone.

To go home.

Gibson picked me up the next morning and drove us to HQ to meet Martin. We arrived early, so he led me into the wire room and placed a binder full of transcribed intercepts in front of me.

Opening it, he pointed to the flagged conversation. The language was explicit, leaving no grey area and no way to misinterpret what Sajhad had said. It was a kill order.

“How did you miss this?” I demanded.

Gibson shook his head and mumbled his default response. “I’m sorry.”

We were still waiting on Martin, so I used the time to write my notes, fully aware they could end up in disclosure. I had every reason to lay it out—Gibson’s reckless freelancing, his complete lack of operational discipline—but I didn’t. I covered for him. I sanitized the truth to protect the lie we were all expected to uphold. I was still playing their game; cover incompetence with silence, as long as the false perceptions hold.

When Martin finally arrived, we walked to his office. Inside, a large man sat in the corner.

“Is this the ERT member?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Martin said. “He’s going with you today.”

The guy looked like a bad cartoon—white, jacked, with a flat-top haircut, a mustache, bright white sneakers, and a fanny pack. He could’ve been a fitness instructor at Depot.

“Are you fucking crazy?” I said. “No. I’m not doing it.”

Martin looked at me angrily. “You realize what this will do to the investigation?”

“You realize what’ll happen if I show up with him at my side?” I snapped. “If Sajhad had even the slightest doubt about me being a Muma, that’ll confirm it.”

I knew that challenging Martin’s authority would cost me, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t trust him, Gibson, or this fanny pack-wearing G.I. Joe. Not with my safety. Not with anything.

Before leaving, I asked Martin one more time. “How was my identity compromised?”

“We don’t know right now, but we’ll look into it.”

“You want me to confront Sajhad, but you don’t know how he figured out I’m a cop? What if there’s a leak in your office?”

That pushed him over the edge. “I told you, we’ll look into it and forward our findings to the Coordinator’s Office,” he snapped.

He wasn’t angry because I was wrong. He was angry because I had the audacity to say it out loud.

Ghost Protocol

I returned to British Columbia, but the fallout had only just begun.

Gibson had already submitted my undercover performance evaluation by the time I landed. In it, he made it clear who he believed was at fault—not him, not Martin, not the system that had left me exposed and bleeding under the wheels of an operational disaster.

No, he pinned it all on me. His report stated that I had compromised the operation by allowing the target to operate the undercover vehicle. No acknowledgment that Gibson ignored the urgency of the flagged intercept or mention of the fact that surveillance had lost me. Nothing about the emotional breakdown in the van or the strip club debrief, where lap dances took precedence over medical care. No reference to Martin’s promise to investigate how the leak occurred, because that investigation never happened.

That same day, Kevin Mann called me into his office. His only concern was why I had allowed Sajhad behind the wheel of the undercover vehicle. I tried to explain the dynamics, the necessity of trust in that moment, and the context on the ground, but none of it mattered. It wasn’t policy-compliant, and that marked the end of the conversation. I asked if any intel had come in—anything to explain how my cover had been blown. He shrugged it off. “They’re looking into it,” he said as if that line alone absolved everyone. Then he concluded that I was being put on the shelf “until you get your head straight.” No investigation into the leak or accountability. Just sweep it under the rug and push me to the edge.

Shortly after, Pete Woods stepped in. He ordered me to take time off, making it seem like a directive rather than a recommendation. I was scheduled for a debrief with the Force psychologist, Dr. Myron Schemp.

Schemp sat across from me with practiced empathy. He’d seen it all before—members chewed up and spit out by the machine. I walked him through everything. The operation. The beating. The betrayal. The aftermath.

When it was over, he looked at me with eyes that told me nothing and said, “You have PTSD.”

He signed me off for an extended period, and just like that, I was no longer an undercover operator. Instead, I had been reduced to a liability. A risk. A name they could file away while focusing on their next “high-profile” operation.

As I left his office, I felt numb—but that feeling didn’t last long. It shifted into anger. They were blaming everything on me, as if I hadn’t been the one out there risking it all while Gibson coasted on incompetence and allowed a live threat to go unchecked. They hid behind the formal language of “policy,” too afraid to face how badly the operation had actually derailed. There was no real review of the intercept delay, no repercussions for Gibson’s unauthorized use of the female member’s photos, and no honest answers about a potential security breach that could have gotten me killed. Instead, they simply dodged responsibility, wrapping their conclusion in a suggestion that I was to blame.

I went home and sat in grim silence for days, my family giving me a wide berth.

There was no easing into it — no slow slide down a slippery slope. It hit like a blackout. I stopped answering calls and wasn’t comfortable leaving the house. I lived in darkness, both literally and figuratively.

Every sound outside contained the possibility of a threat. Every car that slowed outside my house made my heart pound. All night long I’d sit in my living room, my back against the wall, eyes fixed on the front door as if it were a breach point. I couldn’t shake the image of Sajhad and his crew breaking in. I couldn’t stop imagining them standing over me, finishing what they’d started in that street ambush. I’d replay the scene over and over—boots, fists, that slashing gesture across his throat as he called me “Muma.” If I allowed my thoughts to wander to the potential scenarios involving my family, the paranoia and panic were overwhelming. I became hollow.

There’s no better word for it.

Food lacked flavour. Sleep brought no peace. My mind had checked out, making it difficult to engage in conversations. I couldn’t look my kids in the eye without feeling like I was contaminating them with my brokenness. I had once been a protector—trained, sharp, and dangerous in the ways that mattered. Now I flinched at the slightest sound.

My thoughts spiralled, not just about what had happened, but about what it said about the Force. Their loyalty was a one-way street, and I’d just crashed head-on into a wall they had constructed with their own negligence. So they shelved me like a broken tool and told me to get my head straight while they sanitized the narrative and moved on.

I was thoroughly defeated.

Not just by Sajhad and the beating. I was defeated by the silence that followed, by the way the RCMP turned its back on me. I realized that no one was calling to check in on me or investigating how I’d been fingered. Nothing was happening. No one gave a shit.

I didn’t know who I was anymore. I wasn’t the cop. I wasn’t the undercover operator. I wasn’t the father I should have been. I was merely a broken man sitting in the dark, counting the hours until the next wave of panic struck.

And the Force? They didn’t see a man on the edge; they saw a member who needed to get his head straight.

They had no idea I was already gone, having left with the weight of trying to make sense of how I had gone from being one of their most skilled assets to being ghosted by the very institution that had put my life on the line.

I was never meant to come out of that operation whole, I knew they’d written me off long before the first punch landed. But I didn’t fade away, I clawed my way out of the darkness they had abandoned me to. I’m still here, still a little bruised and broken—but breathing, watching, and always remembering. And for the RCMP, I would not be forgotten anytime soon. They pushed me to the edge, thinking I’d fall. But I didn’t fall—I jumped, into oblivion, into a world where betrayal had its own language and power wore a different type of uniform. If the RCMP had taught me anything, it was this: loyalty is a lie—unless you own it.

From that moment on, I was done bleeding for theirs. I’d build something of my own. Something stronger. Something darker. This time, the betrayal would be mine to deliver.

Chapter 12

When the System Fears Its Own

What I Gave Away To Keep A Secret.

I knew the silence between us couldn’t last forever. You can only pretend everything is normal in a house full of ghosts for so long. Coreen wasn’t naive—she had noticed the cracks long before they split wide open. The late-night calls. The emptiness in my eyes. You can’t conceal a double life indefinitely, especially not when one half is crumbling and the other is built on lies.

There was no routine, no discipline—just darkness creeping in around the edges. I drank to silence the noise in my head, and when that wasn’t enough, I reached for painkillers. Not to treat any physical pain, but for the numbness they offered. The kind that lets you drift without feeling or remembering. The days bled into each other, and the house that held my family felt colder with every hour. Conversations stopped. Glances turned into glares—or worse, avoidance. I wasn’t just distant, I was a shadow of the man they once knew.

She stood there, arms crossed, eyes drained of whatever love used to live in them, and said flatly, “I’m taking the kids out. When I get back, I want you gone.”

There was no raised voice or dramatic scene- just deadly calm finality. It felt like someone who had rehearsed this moment a thousand times in her head and had finally run out of reasons to hold the line. Just like that, the door clicked shut, and she was gone. The silence that followed was deafening.

For a moment, I just stood in the middle of the room, paralyzed, staring into the space she had just occupied. My ears rang and my skin felt cold. The weight of those words settled into my gut like lead. I was being erased. Not punished. Not yelled at. Just quietly deleted.

The packing process began, untouched by urgency, just a spreading numbness. I opened drawers and reached for my clothes as if I were a man in a dream. Shirts, jeans, socks. I didn’t even know what I was taking, I just kept grabbing things and folding them poorly. I couldn’t make it make sense. These were the same drawers I used to open before going to work when life still had rhythm and purpose. Now, they were full of rubble from a life I’d demolished with my own hands.

The weight of what I was doing hit me in waves. It wasn’t just leaving a house but stepping out of a life. I wasn’t merely walking away from Coreen, I was abandoning every version of myself that still believed I could balance duty, love, and deception successfully. That illusion was shattered entirely.

Then there was the realization that nearly broke me—I wouldn’t see my kids every day. That normal, wonderful domestic chaos; crayon drawings on the fridge, spilled cereal, goodnight stories, and crawling into bed with us after a bad dream. All of it gone. Except for the nightmares I’d created.

I kept packing and moving, as if momentum were the only thing keeping me from falling apart. I reached for another shirt, another jacket, knowing each one brought me closer to the end. Regret isn’t loud, it whispers your darkest truths while you try to pretend you’re fine.

As lost as I felt, I did have somewhere to go.

Lianna and I had already signed the papers for the townhouse, which I had purchased when my former life was still being held together with deception and denial. She had been living there for weeks, waiting stubbornly for the day I would walk through the door with a suitcase and no more excuses.

The place was clean and tidy, with neutral walls and new furniture. She had created a home while I had been busy detonating another. I set my bags down at the threshold and just stood there, empty. She smiled when she saw me, kissed me on the cheek, and said, “You’re finally here.” I nodded, but inside I felt like a man who had stumbled into the wrong life- a trespasser in a world I wasn’t sure I wanted, let alone deserved.

Coreen knew I’d been unfaithful, but she didn’t know it was Lianna. She didn’t realize I’d already moved on—already built the shell of a second life. And she definitely didn’t know Lianna was pregnant. That truth sat coiled in my throat like a secret too venomous to spit out. Cowardice disguised as a shield. That’s how I rationalized it, but it wasn’t about protection, it was about my inability to face the pain I’d caused.

She had found a receipt in my truck once, tucked in the centre console —an invoice with the new address printed on it. She didn’t say anything then, but I noticed the way her eyes lingered on me afterward as if she were searching for the man she used to know and not finding any remnants of him.

I tried to keep the new address hidden, lying about where I lived and telling the kids not to mention it when they came to visit. “Just say we went to the movies,” I told them. “Or a park. Or something.” They were old enough to know better but young enough to still obey, even if it made them uncomfortable. I put them in that position, making them complicit in my cowardice. I forced them to carry a secret they shouldn’t have been party to.

I told myself I was protecting everyone, that the truth would only make things worse, but that’s bullshit. The truth was already a wrecking ball in full demolition mode. Hiding it just added insult to injury. Every time I dropped them off, watching their eyes dart between me and the house they weren’t allowed to talk about, I felt smaller, less like a father, less of a man.

Lianna tried to play the role of a steady partner, soon-to-be mother, the woman I’d left everything for, but I wasn’t building a new life, I was standing in the ruins of the old one, pretending not to smell the smoke. Life wasn’t just slipping through my fingers—it was rotting in my hands. Every time I looked in the mirror, I saw someone unrecognizable.

When my parents found out, it broke something sacred. They truly loved Coreen and had embraced her as a daughter, weaving her into the fabric of our family. I could sense my father’s disappointment, even when he said nothing. That disheartened, bitter kind of silence stings more than any raised voice ever could. My mother cried, not just for Coreen, but for the way I’d dismantled everything they had believed about me; the honest Mountie, the dutiful husband, the father with a stable home. In his place, I presented them with a man living a lie, starting a new family while the old one was still nursing the wounds I had inflicted.

The extended family also began to withdraw, their judgment arriving wrapped in polite avoidance. I could sense it in every awkward conversation, unanswered call, and sidelong glance at gatherings where I was no longer welcome. I had become the whispered cautionary tale of what happens when a man makes the wrong choices and loses his way.

The Poetry of Collapse

One afternoon, I was home alone with the kids while Lianna was at work. Suddenly, there was an assertive knock on the door, and Coreen stood there, her eyes burning with quiet fury. I hesitated for a moment, then stepped aside. The air became charged with tension as she stalked in, absorbing the space around her. She began moving through the room, sarcastically commenting on the new furniture and a framed picture of me and Lianna. I stood frozen, unsure of what to do as the kids hovered in the background, equally uncertain.

I eventually corralled her down the hallway and guided her to the front door. “You can’t be here,” I said. “Please. Let’s talk somewhere else.” She was crying now, but not the kind of tears that begged for comfort. This was pure rage that overwhelmed and overflowed. She stepped outside, and I exhaled slowly, closing the door behind her. I thought that was it.

The door suddenly flew open with a violence that caught me completely off guard. Her father had been waiting outside, watching and listening. Whatever he heard-or thought he had-was enough to push him over the edge. He kicked the door in as if breaching a room, and then both of them were inside, Coreen behind her father, who was charging at me with the kind of fury only a father possesses when he feels his daughter has been disrespected and destroyed.

There were no questions, no hesitation, he shoved me hard, slamming me against the wall. Pain ripped through me like electricity. I’d just had surgery on my shoulder and I was stitched up and jacked on painkillers. Numb most days, dulled by opioids and guilt. I was in no condition to defend myself. Physically. Emotionally. Nothing.

He barked something about what kind of man I was, about family, about how I had disgraced them all. Coreen was yelling now too—words I can’t fully remember, but the emotion cut deep. The whole scene blurred; anger, pain, shame, and me half-lucid, being held against the drywall, just a man being cornered by his own destruction.

I didn’t raise my hands or push back. I took it, because how do you fight a man who’s right? Who’s just giving voice to everything you already know about yourself? His fury was justified.

Eventually, he stepped back, not out of forgiveness but exhaustion. Or perhaps restraint. Coreen pulled him away, and they both walked out, the storm trailing behind them. The door hung slightly ajar, so I closed it, locked it, and slid down to the floor. My shoulder throbbed painfully. My heart even more so.

I was arrested for domestic assault—a charge I disputed, but the hurt it caused is something I can’t escape. I was released with conditions to avoid any contact with my wife or her father. The RCMP didn’t waste time and initiated a parallel Code of Conduct investigation, which isn’t a criminal process, it’s something quieter and more surgical, a mechanism the Force employs not to seek truth, but to strip the uniform from those who had become inconvenient. The matter was assigned to Sgt. Craig MacMillan of “E” Division Internal Affairs.

MacMillan wasn’t new to me. He was the kind of officer who thrived in the shadows—cold, self-righteous, and motivated not by justice but by the slow erosion of those he disapproved of, and he disapproved of me with a vengeance. He didn’t see a skilled undercover operator or a broken man trying to survive, he viewed me as a threat to the sanctity of the institution. I knew he had no interest in fairness. He had sensed blood in the water and was armed with a sanctioned excuse to come after me.

MacMillan didn’t just review files, he delved deep. Coreen informed him about the lines of credit I’d opened in my father’s name and two others linked to my brothers. He took that and gleefully ran with it, starting to interview my family as if they were suspects in some larger scheme. My parents and brothers were dragged into the storm I’d created with no warning or dignity, just insulting questions and insinuations. The shame I’d brought to my family, the same family whose name I’d once been allowed to wear with pride, was now institutional evidence.

Coreen’s sister, who was living in Grand Prairie, Alberta, contacted the local detachment and provided them with a formal statement claiming she’d heard I was “fraternizing with members of the local Hells Angels chapter.” That kind of allegation, true or not, was poison to someone in my position. Associating with organized crime wasn’t just a violation of trust, it was career-ending.

It was all MacMillan needed. He didn’t care whether it was fiction or who the author was, he simply needed something on paper, something he could wave around like a smoking gun. The RCMP didn’t require facts, and MacMillan didn’t care about nuance or proof, he just needed momentum, and he had it.

The Force was desperate to identify that final nail in my coffin, and MacMillan, the loyal company man, was eager to oblige.

The Force suspended me with pay—a purgatory of sorts. I wasn’t terminated, but I wasn’t operational either. I had no uniform, firearm, or access to files, only a name on the payroll and a weekly obligation to report to Headquarters and sign in. The whole situation felt like a leash.

They weren’t just trying to sideline me—they were reminding me who my owner was.

I wasn’t allowed beyond the front desk, no clearance or corridor access, just the reception area, which was neutral ground, sterile, and controlled. I was treated like a guest who’d overstayed their welcome and was being barely tolerated. That’s where Pete Woods would meet me, always flanked by someone; a silent observer or designated witness. Insurance. Optics. Control. Woods craved all three. He wanted to be seen as the man in command, maintaining order while I waited behind the glass like a loaded gun that someone forgot still contained ammunition.

He understood how far I’d fallen and that the betrayal had festered into something dangerous. Perhaps he saw it in my eyes, maybe he’d read the reports, or possibly he could feel my volatility. He knew I loathed him, not just professionally, but personally, with a bone-deep hate. Maybe he believed I could potentially transform that hatred into action. He wasn’t entirely wrong.

I signed in late and left early. I came when I wanted, not when they told me to. I wasn’t about to give them the satisfaction of obedience; I didn’t belong to them anymore. That made Woods squirm. Every week, at random times, I stood in that lobby, reminding him of everything he couldn’t control. Every calm, controlled breath I took under his supervision was an act of silent rebellion. He wanted me broken, but I rewarded him with defiance.

The uniform, the badge, the brotherhood—they no longer meant anything to me. I wasn’t waiting for redemption or seeking reinstatement; I was a man buried beneath consequences, paralyzed by painkillers and regret, too far gone to elicit the righteous anger I once lived by.

Some Words Don’t Echo—They Erupt

I wasn’t just a suspended member, I had also become a massive target; surrounded, isolated, and steadily dismantled. Everything I had built over a decade—every operation, every arrest, every sacrifice —was being stripped away piece by piece. During this process, I was moving from resentment to awakening.

The final time I reported to HQ, something had shifted. I was allowed beyond the glass, escorted of course. Woods and Murray Doak flanked me like handlers leading a prisoner. We moved silently through the corridors, each step echoing with the weight of what was to come. They led me into a small interview room with no windows or clock, just four walls and a single table where the end of my career awaited.

Woods placed a binder in front of me as if it were radioactive. “I guess you were expecting this,” he said, in a flat, rehearsed voice. I remained silent.

The binder was thick, full of pages of affidavits. Macmillan’s harvest. Each one was a carefully selected bullet point in the RCMP’s final execution plan. Statements and allegations that provided just enough to substantiate the outcome they’d already decided on. I was now officially suspended without pay.

Outside, Lianna waited in the car. She had driven in with me that morning, unaware that by the time we left, everything would have changed. I got into the passenger seat and opened the binder on my lap, flipping through it as she pulled out of the parking lot.

Each page hit harder than the previous one, but it was the statement from Coreen’s sister that lit the fuse. Her words—spiteful, vague, and designed for impact—alleged that I had been fraternizing with members of the local Hells Angels chapter. No details or corroborating context, just enough poison to taint the well. Just enough for Macmillan to file it away as evidence of association. It was a betrayal within a betrayal, weaponized hearsay disguised as testimony. It made my blood boil. I sat in that car, flipping through the wreckage of my life in black ink and legal formatting, while outrage boiled in the pit of my stomach.

I called my younger brother Andy, but I wasn’t crying out for help—I was issuing a death warrant. My voice was low, cold, and final. “I’m going to kill Coreen and her father,” I said. “Then I’m going to kill myself.” There was no trembling in my voice, no hesitation—just that dark, electric calm that settles in when you’ve crossed the line in your own head and there’s no turning back.

He knew I wasn’t joking. He had long seen me at war with the world—and worse, with myself. He knew what I was capable of when cornered, when the betrayal dug too deep and the weight of it all snapped the last wire that held me together. He did what he had to do and called Abbotsford PD.

The system kicked in like a hammer on steel. I wasn’t a man anymore, I was a high-risk file; trained, armed, and dangerous. I had gone from being the guy who wrote threat assessments to becoming one. I was the scenario they used in briefings - the kind of case that doesn’t end with a knock at the door but with an entry team equipped with a battering ram, or worse, a body bag.

I arrived home still shaking with fury, peeled off my clothes, threw on my farm gear, and got into my truck. I drove out to the country, hoping the open air would prevent the walls in my head from caving in. It didn’t work. The anger just kept recycling, growing sharper and meaner.

Then my phone rang. It was Lianna, her voice clipped, trying to hold steady. “Rob... Abbotsford Police were here. Full tactical gear. Long guns. They’re looking for you.”

She hadn’t offered any cooperation, not a word on my whereabouts, just defiance and loyalty at a moment when she should have been running in the opposite direction. She had tried to give me time I didn’t deserve.

I’d barely hung up when my lawyer, G. Jack Harris, called, confirming the situation. There was an edge in his voice that indicated seriousness. “Rob, they’re coming. I spoke with the lead investigator from your previous domestic. They’re laying charges—breach of your release conditions and uttering threats. They want to know if you’re willing to surrender peacefully.”

I hardly had time to process it before I spotted a cruiser creeping slowly up the gravel road. It stopped and the door opened, revealing the driver to be Constable Wilding. We weren’t friends or colleagues, didn’t even work at the same agency, yet, he knew me by my reputation, and what I used to stand for. Now, he was on assignment to take down a guy he probably once respected from a distance.

He walked toward me without backup. No gun was drawn, or indication of aggression. Just a heaviness weighing down his shoulders, as if he were carrying more than just policy—he was carrying disappointment. He stopped a few feet from me and looked me dead in the eye. “Rob,” he said, “come on. You need to come with me.” Then he paused, swallowed hard, and said almost under his breath, “This is hard for me to do.”

I could tell it was true, because it’s one thing to arrest a stranger, but it’s another to arrest someone who you thought should have known better. I simply nodded, walked over, and opened the cruiser’s back door myself. There were no cuffs, no resistance, just my quiet resignation; for allowing it to get this far and becoming what they claimed, permitting the pain to twist me into something I swore I’d never be.

Decorated and Despicable

They booked me into the Abbotsford Police cells that night; concrete walls, cold steel, and the mandatory fluorescent hum. The usual holding pen for the condemned or temporarily discarded. I was asked if I wanted to provide a statement. My response was automatic. “No.” I knew the system inside and out, and I wasn’t about to give them a single word to twist and take out of context. This time, my silence wasn’t to show defiance; it was to attempt survival.

The next morning, I was woken early, shackled, and handed over to the sheriffs. Standard transport, no conversation, just pointed stares that indicated ‘we know what you are now’. They walked me into the provincial courthouse as if I were a serial killer, head down, wrists chained to my waist. It wasn’t shame that I felt; it was something colder and far heavier, as if I were witnessing my own downfall unfold in real-time.

Jack Harris was already there, tie knotted tight, expression unreadable. He didn’t offer comfort; instead, in a low and calm voice, he said, “They’re going to lean on what happened yesterday.”

There was no need for him to explain. One day earlier, on Tuesday, May 20th, 2003, a man had walked into Mission Memorial Hospital and murdered his wife and mother-in-law. Executed them, cold and calculated, and before anyone could arrest him, being the coward that he was, had turned the gun on himself. A domestic bloodbath with media saturation and a fearful public looking for answers and someone else to take the blame.

That context twisted itself around my bail hearing like a noose. The courtroom was filled with tension. The Crown wasted no time making parallels they didn’t even need to articulate fully. The implication hung in the air like a stain; two men, both unhinged and capable of violence. The Mission shooter was already dead. I was alive, so I became the proxy target for every ounce of institutional fear, courtroom optics, and Crown spin.

Jack attempted to push back, calm, composed, the voice of reason. He called it what it was, fear-mongering. However, it was pointless, the timing was toxic, and the judge remained unmoved. Perhaps he couldn’t afford to be, not after what happened in Mission. The Court couldn’t risk ignoring it. All they saw was another potential headline, and they weren’t going to let it happen on their watch.

The judge looked at me as if I were a ticking time bomb, weaponized and ready to blow. I still remember the words—cold, deliberate, and calculated: “This Court has grave concerns regarding Mr. Sidhu’s training and access to weapons.”

Not the allegations nor the evidence. Just who I was. Or rather, who they thought I had become.

Bail was denied, and I was ordered to remain in custody pending trial. Just like that, no second chance or conditional release. My background, once a badge of trust, was now seen as a threat multiplier. Years of service, training, and tactical expertise, all of it twisted into a justification for keeping me behind bars.

I remember glancing at Jack who simply gave a small, grim nod, as if he’d seen it coming, and had already moved on to damage control.

As I stood there, shackled, with the walls closing in, I thought—how could it possibly get worse? Then I remembered how. Lianna was seven months pregnant and due in late July. I was probably going to miss it all. Not because they could prove I was guilty, but because through timing and circumstance, I had come to represent exactly what they feared: a headline waiting to happen.

Surrey Pre-Trial

I had walked across that same parking lot every workday, heading toward the Surrey RCMP Detachment with purpose, confidence, and control. Three buildings stood nearby—Surrey Provincial Court, the Detachment, and Surrey Pretrial Centre—all connected by a network of underground tunnels. A complete justice system, joined together by concrete corridors.

I had often glanced across at the Pretrial Centre. Occasionally, I caught sight of the inmates standing in the narrow windows, looking down to where we parked our personal vehicles, observing the outside world through thick glass and thicker consequences.

I used to wonder what had brought them there; what decisions, traumas, and failures had lined up just right-or just wrong-to land them behind that glass. I never spoke the words out loud, but the thought often followed me: What broke in their lives to end up in that place?

The intake was clinical, and I was processed like any other individual coming through the gates. However, I could feel the difference in how they looked at me, with recognition and quiet calculation.

Because I was a cop, I was flagged immediately. Protective custody. I was to be placed in a segregation unit, away from the general population, for my own safety. The message was clear: I no longer belonged to the world of the RCMP but was equally unaccepted by that of the criminals. I was suspended somewhere in between, a man without a tribe, untrusted by both sides.

The unit was small and sterile, neither a punishment nor a form of freedom. Other inmates were not housed in the pod unless absolutely necessary. Isolation was the default, with silence providing the background noise. However, in that seclusion, something shifted.

The cell itself was basic, a confinement constructed of concrete and metal. It had a small window, designed to let in just enough light to remind you of what you were missing. Through that glass, I could see the parking lot of the very detachment I used to walk into every morning with a badge on my hip and authority in my step. I didn’t have to speculate anymore, because now I was behind the glass, one of the men I used to glance at and wonder about.

It’s a strange kind of reckoning to see yourself from the other side, not just physically, but philosophically. Realizing that the line between law and chaos, order and collapse, was never as solid as you once believed.

Now, I watched from the other side. I’d stand at that window and stare across, observing members come and go, their strides purposeful as they followed their routines. Life carried on as if I’d never been part of it, and yet, inside the walls of that facility, something surprising happened.

The correctional staff treated me with empathy and quiet dignity, not with grand gestures or false sympathy, but simple, human recognition reflected in the respectful tone of their voices and a willingness to see the man, not just the charges. They called me “Mr. Sidhu,” not inmate or the accused, in a place built with the purpose of dehumanization, which mattered more than I can explain.

The facility director made a point of visiting me personally. He instructed the staff to keep my cell door open during the day, allowing me as much freedom as the protocol permitted. It was a small gesture, but one I absolutely appreciated.

I was being favoured with understanding over pity. Perhaps not of the full weight I was carrying, but still, it offered something deeper than a policy built on institutional indifference that consumes people and leaves no one accountable. The correctional staff didn’t turn away from that reality, seeing it for what it was. They didn’t form opinions based on my story, they just created space for it, which is more than I can say about the RCMP. In this place, I experienced more dignity from my jailers than I ever received from the organization I had once pledged my allegiance to. That contrast settled into my bones.

Even within the cold embrace of isolation, words found their way in. The guards, ever efficient and quietly observant, occasionally passed discreet messages from mutual acquaintances still serving on the Force. Brief notes scribbled in shorthand: “We haven’t forgotten you.” “Still respected, still one of us.” “Hang in there, brother.” They were quiet echoes of a life I once knew, where honour and duty came before politics and convenience.

Those folded slips of paper delivered in quiet secrecy were more than mere distractions, they were essential lifelines. Each note served as a reminder that somewhere beyond these walls, there were still men and women who remembered the work I had done, the risks I had taken, and the sacrifices I had made. They understood that my fall wasn’t just about the mistakes I had made, it was about the system’s refusal to allow its own to see past the glare of scandal and the shadow of institutional indifference.

Then there was my closest friend from the Force, a man for whom loyalty wasn’t a badge to be worn or a promotion to be earned. The brass had ordered him to cease all contact, to let the system run its cold course without interference, but that order wasn’t enough to sever the bond we’d forged through years of shared danger and camaraderie. The next day, defying protocol with quiet rebellion, he showed up at Surrey Pretrial.

I remember the moment clearly, face-to-face, separated by glass. He didn’t come with a smile or grand promises, sitting down heavily, his eyes locked on mine as if trying to drill the truth into my battered soul. “I’m here because you’re still my brother,” he said. His voice was steady but laden with the weight of our shared past. “Don’t get it fucked up—none of this is anyone else’s fault but yours. You let it come to this.”

His words cut sharper than any other accusation. They were devoid of sugarcoating and brutally honest. I could see the pain in his eyes, not just for me but for the Force that once moulded us into protectors and had now reduced me to a cautionary tale.

At that moment, I felt a mix of shame and a sense of relief. His support meant more than I could express; the acknowledgment that amid all the darkness, he still cared enough to come here and remind me of who I’d once been. I was forced to confront the reality that I had willingly stepped off the path I’d pledged to follow, and that every colleague who had ever trusted me now carried a fragment of disappointment.

I wasn’t just the inmate behind a cell door; I was a man defined by my past - a past filled with camaraderie, loyalty, and a bitter understanding that sometimes even those who once stood for justice could stumble and be cast aside by a system that easily flipped allegiances. There was a haunting lesson in the unwavering support of my former brothers and sisters in arms.

Redemption was a fragile commodity in an organization that had already written my exit scenario.

The following day, a guard approached the front of my cell and paused. He just stood there as if bracing for impact before opening my door. “There’s someone here to see you,” he said, his voice low.

I looked up from my inspection of the concrete floor, making no effort to conceal my irritation. “If it’s not my lawyer or someone from my family, I don’t want to see this person.”

He hesitated and said, “It’s your boss.”

Every muscle in my body tensed into hard knots. I didn’t need a name, I knew who had come to represent the Force’s cowardice, arriving to deliver one final blow wrapped in protocol and dressed in a suit.

I was cuffed and escorted through the administrative section of the jail. The guards were quiet, uncertain about what was about to unfold. Something volatile walked with them, something that had once worn a badge.

They led me into a small office where I remained standing. When the door opened again, there he was, Superintendent Carl Busson. He looked exactly as I remembered; corporate clean and regulation crisp, like he’d been stamped out on the RCMP’s bureaucratic assembly line. A perfect product of institutional loyalty, polished to reflect everything the Force valued.

“How’s it going, Rob?” He said it like we were old friends catching up over coffee.

I just stared at him with every ounce of hate I had stored inside me. “How the fuck do you think it’s going?”

He didn’t respond. He wasn’t here to talk, he had a task to execute. He extended an envelope, my termination papers, the last ritual in a series of betrayals. The ink on the page felt as if it were written in my own blood.

I took it, my gaze remaining fixed on his.

“You’re a fucking piece of shit, Busson.” I said it as a statement of fact. No yelling or theatrics, just the kind of raw truth that cuts deeper because it’s stripped of civility and spoken without restraint or fear of consequence. It wasn’t for effect or performance. It was the kind of line a man delivers when everything inside him has already been burned to ash. When the rage doesn’t need volume to be lethal, it just needs a target.

His face remained unchanged, showing no reaction, which made it worse. There was no guilt or regret, just the same smug detachment that oozed from every polished corner of RCMP management. He wasn’t there for closure; he was there for the all-important optics.

I leaned in, closing the space between us slightly. “Don’t you ever come here again, I’ve got a lawyer. You can send whatever the fuck you want through him.”

He shifted, just barely, and I saw a flicker of discomfort behind his eyes for the first time. He knew what I was capable of. He understood this wasn’t some broken man sitting in a cage. This was someone he couldn’t own anymore.

I turned before the guards could lay a hand on me and walked out. I could feel his eyes on my back the entire time, but didn’t give him the satisfaction of another glance.

That meeting wasn’t to satisfy protocol; it was about him showing me who still held control. What he didn’t understand—what I don’t think any of them ever fucking understood—was that I was finished playing by their script. I was no longer their pawn... I was becoming someone they couldn’t predict.

The next day, Sgt. Paul Nadeau from the RCMP’s Member Assistance Program arrived with the Force physician. It was the first time in a long while that someone from the organization showed up without accusation or judgment as their purpose. The tone was different, this visit wasn’t to discuss consequences, it was about the next steps.

He spoke calmly, professionally, and even compassionately. He asked what I needed and what the RCMP could do to help me move forward.

I listened, but I remained guarded.

My mistrust wasn’t personal, it had nothing to do with Nadeau himself. He seemed sincere, maybe even decent, but concern doesn’t mean much when it comes wrapped in RCMP credentials. He told me he could make the case to the brass for a medical pension tied to the PTSD diagnosis. He said he’d help me push the paperwork through to Veterans Affairs for disability benefits and offered to navigate the maze on my behalf.

The words sounded right, but I knew better than to get comfortable. Even when they come with compassionate voices and seemingly good intentions, men in uniform always have masters to answer to.

Then he said something that carried more weight than he likely intended. “When the Force wants you gone,” he said quietly, “it will acquiesce to almost anything.”

That line stunned me. Not because it was shocking, but because it was so brutally honest. This wasn’t reconciliation, it was a quest for a clean break, sanctioned and sealed. Not an offer of redemption, just an exit strategy wrapped in policy and paperwork. A quiet way to make me disappear.

I nodded and said I’d think about it, but the truth was already settling within me. I wasn’t ready to let them write the ending.

Still, I needed clarity; someone outside the machine who understood how it worked and didn’t falter when calling it what it was. I reached out to my lawyer, Jack Harris, one of the few people I trusted to tell me straight. His disdain for the Force was palpable; laced into every word, every pause, and every sigh that followed the letters “RCMP.” He didn’t just mistrust them, he saw right through them for what they were—an institution that protects itself at all costs and discards those who can no longer serve its image.

Jack didn’t hesitate. He told me to take the offer, secure the pension, and access the benefits. He advised me to use their process to protect myself, but he didn’t stop there.

He said, “Don’t just walk away—hit them where it counts.” He urged me to file a formal claim against the Force for negligence tied to the Toronto operation—the breach, the betrayal, and the silence that followed when they knew I was compromised and did nothing.

Jack didn’t sugarcoat his words: “What happened to you wasn’t just an operational fuck-up—it was institutional abandonment. They didn’t just leave you exposed, they left you for dead and hoped the paperwork would bury the rest. Imagine if you were killed, your family would be trying to find answers for decades before they would get anywhere close to the truth.”

Jack didn’t offer sympathy; he provided something much more relevant: a strategy. For the first time in a long while, I wasn’t thinking like a cop or a pawn; I was considering my situation like a man with nothing left to lose and a debt to collect.

All that remained now were the charges: assault, uttering threats, and breach of an Undertaking. They were the final chains, still clinking behind me as I tried to crawl out of the wreckage of my life. I’d already been gutted of my identity, hollowed out by betrayal and consequence, but these charges were the system’s way of ensuring I didn’t forget who held the keys.

The assault trial proceeded with Jack Harris by my side—calm, fierce, and laser-focused. He didn’t try to redeem me; that wasn’t his job. Instead, he set out to dismantle the Crown’s version of the truth, and he succeeded. He highlighted the inconsistencies, not as a victory, but as a painful reminder of how much damage had been done. The court was left to see the ugliness for what it truly was—chaos I had helped create. It stemmed from my mistakes, my failures, and my blindness, but it was not a crime.

I took the stand and testified on my own behalf, not out of hope of obtaining sympathy, but because I still believed in owning my story, however twisted it had become. I stood while I gave my evidence, as I’d been trained; eyes forward, voice steady, no theatrics, no excuses, just the truth, however painful.

Sgt. Craig MacMillian sat at the front of the courtroom, arms crossed and a smug, shit-eating grin on his face. He didn’t have to utter a word, his presence spoke volumes. He wasn’t seeking justice, he was there to witness my downfall.

Which didn’t come... I was acquitted. After delivering the verdict, the judge was not finished. He looked me squarely in the eye and said, “You are a despicable human being.”

That line landed harder than I was prepared for. It didn’t come from a prosecutor or a reporter, it came from the bench, surgical, cold, and final. It wasn’t just a comment on the case, it was a summation of everything I’d become; my failures and betrayals, the trail of wreckage I’d left behind.

The other charges, uttering threats and the breach, didn’t go to trial. I was offered a peace bond, which stipulates that I have no contact with Coreen or her father for one year. I didn’t fight it, I was too tired, too drained, and too aware that no piece of paper could repair what had already been broken.

After 55 days in custody, I walked out of the cell, but freedom did not follow. What remained with me was the stench of exile. I didn’t feel like a man released — I felt like a man disowned, cut loose from the very family I had once bled for.

The Force had been my first family. I wore the badge as if it were part of my very skin. I believed in its mission the way a devout person clings to scripture—service, sacrifice, honour. I have never stopped believing that law enforcement, at its core, is a necessary pillar of society. But the creed that once lifted me became the doctrine that crushed me. When optics take precedence over people, ideology hardens into a weapon—protecting the institution’s image while cutting down those sworn to uphold it.

The badge was gone. My marriage was in ruins. And the brotherhood — the family I believed would stand through storms — disappeared like smoke the moment I ceased to be useful.

In that emptiness, a different family arose—not based on service or vows, but forged in darkness where loyalty is gained through blood and silence. After the saints expelled me, the syndicates welcomed me. I exchanged belonging for exile in the darkest corners of a man’s soul.

But every family carries its own betrayal.

Part Two

The Devil’s Ledger

Chapter 13

A Patch to Bury the Past

“It is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both.”

— Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince

Deep down, I always knew it would end this way. You can’t outrun your roots or hide from your history, you can only delay when it catches up with you. After everything, I found myself right back where it all began: the family farm. The same stretch of earth and endless rows of raspberry canes that, as a boy, had filled me with resentment so fierce I had vowed I would never spend my life here like those before me, breaking their backs under the sun for next to nothing.

There was a cruel kind of symmetry to it. I had left this place with a fire in my belly, determined to carve out something more for myself, but when all the fires had burned out, I returned carrying burdens no one could see. I was no longer the prodigal son. I was a wanderer; hardened, weathered, a stranger among familiar fields.

The air continued to carry the same bitter mixture of soil, sweat, and pesticide. I thought I would hate the memories it unearthed, but there was a quiet truth I could now sense. One, the boy who had once run away, could never have grasped. The farm wasn’t what broke a man; life was. The farm simply stripped away the lies.

I hadn’t returned with a mission of seeking forgiveness or redemption, I no longer believed in such things. I came back because there was nowhere else to go, and although part of me resisted, I understood something even more profound; I was already moving on, courting a different loyalty, where the only rule was strength and the only reward was survival.

I entered into a partnership with my uncle and his two sons. They were good men who still shook hands on their word and believed that sweat and sacrifice could provide an honest life. Men who didn’t cut corners and didn’t deceive themselves about what mattered. I should’ve felt proud that they chose to stand beside me. Instead, I felt like an intruder, moving through the days like a ghost, dragging my body across the dirt, pretending I was still one of them.

The work was brutal, transactional, and endless. Leasing land meant managing someone else’s dead dreams while keeping your own on life support. The crops didn’t care about your intentions. The fields didn’t care about your name. Only output mattered, and even that was always a gamble. I handled it the only way I knew how to, with mechanical numbness. Field inspections, equipment repairs, fighting the weather, fighting the banks, fighting the quiet erosion that seeped into your soul when you realized hard work might not be enough to save you.

Although I was familiar with Rob Shannon during his time as a resident of Abbotsford, my earliest memory of actually meeting him dates back to 2000. It took place at a bar called Night Magic —a dimly lit, sticky-floored establishment where all the wrong kinds of deals were done. Shannon and his associates were holding court in the back, a pocket of energy you could sense even if you didn’t know the players. As I made my way toward the washroom, I had to pass directly by them.

Shannon rose from his seat as I approached and casually intercepted me, introducing himself and commenting, “You’re a cop, right?” There was no sense in lying, not back then, so I nodded and confirmed it. He smiled in a disarming way that didn’t quite match the weight he carried. “Ever heard the name Gerry Poole?” he asked. I shook my head, the name meant nothing to me. He told me that it was his stepfather—an ex-RCMP member who had gone on to become the Chief of Police in a small Prairie town.

It was a strange conversation, almost surreal given the opposing sides we represented. We talked a bit more about Poole and the old war stories he had passed down, and then, just like that, the moment ended. No grand agreement had been reached, no formal handshake sealing some pact. Shannon just gave a small, knowing smile, the kind you barely catch if you’re not paying attention, and turned back toward his dark corner. I returned to my seat, feeling the weight of something I couldn’t quite name. That night, a line had been traced in the dirt—subtle, almost invisible —but real. Not yet a commitment, but a recognition and understanding.

After that, our encounters became more frequent. Strip bars and restaurants, and of course, his home base, Night Magic. Our greetings grew less formal, and our conversations became less guarded each time we crossed paths. He didn’t treat me like a cop, and I didn’t treat him like a suspect. That wall had already started to crumble before either of us consciously kicked it down.

I could sense our connection, even if no one else had noticed. It wasn’t built on desperate need or flashy promises; it was quieter than that, founded on the kind of mutual respect that men like us didn’t hand out easily. Rob Shannon is a very likable sort in that rare way where you didn’t have to fight to gain his attention or approval. He didn’t flood the space with noise or posture for dominance; instead, he was quietly solid and present. You got the sense that once you were inside his circle, you were in for good, but if you ever crossed back over that invisible line, there would be no second chances.

My induction into organized crime wasn’t a sudden leap into darkness. I didn’t wake up one morning and decide to fall; I just stopped resisting the pull. It was a slow, methodical unbuttoning of the uniform I had worn for over a decade. One familiar nod at a time, a casual conversation with serious undertones, a handshake that was clasped more firmly. Lines in the dirt crossed without fanfare.

A few months after my return to the berry fields, Shannon found me. He appeared, silent and steady, as if he had been lurking in the background the whole time, waiting for the inevitable moment when nothing was left of me but the pieces nobody else wanted to pick up.

There was a seriousness in his face that day, a weight behind his words when he finally spoke, quietly measured and almost reluctant, like he hated what had to be said but respected me enough to say it anyway. “I heard what happened to you in Edmonton,” he said, his voice low. I shook my head. “Toronto,” I corrected him. He nodded once, taking it in without missing a beat. He understood that I hadn’t just left the Force, I had been stripped bare. I wasn’t a casualty or even a cautionary tale. I was the debris left behind after the destruction.

He leaned against the old barn in a casual yet alert manner, the way a man learns to be when trust is a commodity you can’t afford to throw around. There were no words of fake sympathy or cheap attempts to remind me of the fall I’d taken. Shannon knew that pretension was a vulgar insult at this point. What stood before us wasn’t friendship, it was something colder and more complex. The knowledge of what it means to be broken, not in some glorious, redemptive way, but in the slow, grinding manner that leaves you existing in a body that doesn’t know how to stop breathing even after the soul has already given up.

We stood there for a long time, talking in the half-shadows. About the Force and the betrayals. About how easy it is for an institution to discard you once you are no longer useful. Shannon offered only understanding, the kind that comes from living on the other side of the lies. He spoke quietly about his stepfather, a man who had worn the same uniform and suffered similar repercussions when politics outweighed loyalty. His story was a reminder that the Force had been breaking men long before it got to me.

I realized he understood the cost of betrayal because he had experienced some version of it himself. Reserved and almost detached at times, there was no mistaking what held value for him, integrity. His word meant something. You could feel it in how he looked you in the eye when he spoke to you.

“You have expertise,” he said eventually, as if stating an inevitable fact. “Skills my people could use in some of our business.”

There it was. No ceremony or pretense. No speeches about honour or banners wrapped in bullshit ideals. Just a straightforward observation and an invitation into a different kind of brotherhood. One that wouldn’t ask me to die for a lie or bury myself under the weight of a hypocrite’s oath. They weren’t pretending it was anything more than what it was, survival and profit.

It was brutally honest in a way the Force never had been. No hidden agendas or backroom politics. A simple contract; your skills for our cause, your silence earns our trust. In return, they would pay me, not with empty promises or irrelevant medals, but with real money, protection, and loyalty.

I understood the weight Shannon carried and the business he was operating. Somewhere deep inside, a very small part of me—the part that still clung to the myth of honour and loyalty—had already faded away enough that it didn’t matter anymore. They weren’t promising salvation; they were offering opportunity, and after everything I had lost, this was a concept I understood better than morality.

For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t being asked to pretend to be something I no longer was. They wanted what I had to offer, and they were willing to negotiate a price without insult. It wasn’t clean or noble, but it was real.

Rob hadn’t arrived intending to save me. He came because he understood exactly what it looked like when a man had nothing left to pretend. He couldn’t offer me a way back; there was only a path forward. I would have to define a new version of myself. If I wanted survival, it would come without redemption. If I sought revenge, it would arrive without honour. The rules that once defined me were gone. All that remained was the heavy silence and understanding between two men who knew precisely how this story always ends.

Chapter 14

Blueprint for an Empire of Ashes

“He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.”

— Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil (1886)

The meeting with Rob Shannon had led to an inevitable turning point, a quiet handshake that rewrote the terms of my existence. There were no fireworks or grand pronouncements, just a shared understanding between two men who knew the rules of this other world and the costs of operating outside them. That night, I crossed a line, not for money or power, but because I had nothing left to lose.

From that point forward, I moved differently. Calculated, cold, and unapologetic. The illusions peddled by the RCMP were truly dead to me. The only code that mattered now was measured by what you could produce, protect, and endure without blinking.

It didn’t take long for opportunities to quietly surface, small moves, small hauls, as if this new world was testing me. I didn’t flinch; I had the skills, the discipline, and now for the first time, the freedom. Real freedom. The kind the badge had never given me. However, liberty without purpose can be dangerous, growing in unanticipated directions and velocities. In that vacuum, I let revenge fill the void. Every load that crossed the border felt like a form of retribution.

With each successful crossing, an inner voice bitter with disappointment whispered, this is for every lie they fed me and every time they tried to own me. I wasn’t just building a new empire, I was dismantling the mythology of the RCMP, one million-dollar shipment at a time.

The business’s growth felt predestined, like a script that’s already been written, just waiting for the right actors. We modified our vehicles, pickup trucks with reinforced beds, and hidden compartments. Eventually, we moved in convoys of three trucks at a time, each carrying up to 750 pounds of marijuana. At $1,400 per pound, that meant over 3 million dollars rolling down the backroads—silent, steady, and seemingly untouchable.

The weed came from all parts of the Fraser Valley, quiet grow-ops and indoor hydroponic farms hidden behind mushroom operations. A large portion of the product originated from Vietnamese growers. One of them, a guy we called “Gretzky,” was a wiry, sharp-eyed man who knew how to stay off the radar. We met for the first time in a raspberry field not far from the border—a location that, in a cruel twist of irony, looked directly into Matsqui Penitentiary, my past and future bearing witness to the present. Surrounded by rows of thorny raspberry canes and the distant barbed wire, we communicated through nods and meaningful glances. That field became our transfer point: quiet, untraceable, and loaded with a constant symbolism I never ignored.

We couldn’t just rely on luck, so we gathered intelligence, scouted border patrol shifts, and identified areas of weakness. We had members of our crew cross legally into the United States and drive straight to the nearest Border Patrol station. There, they counted the number of private vehicles in the parking lot, a simple but effective method to gauge approximately how many agents were on duty. We always factored in at least one assigned to the office, so the math wasn’t complicated. It gave us just enough insight to plan for windows when movement felt less like risk and more like certainty.

Farmers in the area were aware of our presence but didn’t intervene, some looking away out of fear, while others did so out of comprehension. South Asian farmers, in particular, recognized something familiar in us, something tribal. Maybe it was cultural, recognition of a basic survival instinct. Either way, envelopes were slipped under their doors containing cash as a token of respect and gratitude. No words needed to be exchanged. Just mutual acknowledgment—quiet, unspoken, and rooted in something deeper than law or loyalty.

Recruitment happened naturally. There was no need for advertising; word spread fast among those already inclined to cross the same line I had—friends of friends, exhausted workers, and farmers tired of barely making ends meet. They came looking for an escape, for something that felt more like control. Not everyone could handle what was involved, but those who endured adapted quickly.

I watched it happen—how desperation hardened into resolve, how the line between survival and ambition blurred. Some of them were barely recognizable months later. Maybe that’s what it took to survive in our world. Even then, I knew that transformation always comes with a cost.

That’s how I met Jimmy Sandhu, aka “Slice.” He didn’t say much, but his presence filled the room; calculated, calm, yet carrying a quiet violence that was always humming beneath the surface. Years later, his name would hit the headlines after he was found riddled with bullets outside a luxury townhouse in Thailand. That came as no surprise to me; in that world, you either disappear in silence or go down in flames, and Jimmy was never going to fade quietly away. He chased the same fire that drove and eventually threatened to consume me.

Then there was JR Khun-Khun. JR wasn’t wired for subtlety, he wanted the crown before he’d earned the promotion. Even back then, he had a restless energy and need to be seen. He’d later make national media for spraying bullets outside the Delta Grand in Kelowna, killing Jonathan Bacon and wounding Larry Amero. At the time, he was just another ambitious kid trying to prove himself, but what he lacked was patience, and in that life, impatience can cost you everything.

Looking back, I find it unsettling how clearly I saw the writing on the wall, yet I chose to ignore it. Jimmy and JR weren’t just players in the game, they were reflections of the man I was already becoming, each of them holding up a mirror I didn’t want to face. Their ambition, recklessness, and hunger—I understood it all because it lived in me too. The truth is, we rarely recognize the crossroads we’re standing on. We tell ourselves we’re in control, that we’re different, but by the time you realize how far you’ve drifted, you’ve already passed the point of no return, and everything you thought you were firmly holding onto has already slipped from your grasp.

My most important cohort was AJ—Anthony Jurcev. What started as a partnership quickly evolved into something deeper, a brotherhood forged not by blood, but by a shared vision and ambition. We weren’t just running alongside each other, we were building together. AJ possessed a rare hunger, not merely for money or the thrill, but for mastery. He sought to understand the full scope of what we were doing, every moving piece and strategic angle.

He became obsessed with learning everything I could teach him; how surveillance worked, the detection of counter-intelligence, and how to anticipate law enforcement maneuvers before they ever materialized. He soaked it up like a student who understood that the stakes weren’t just academic, but life and death. We spent hours dissecting RCMP surveillance techniques, debating the best counter-tactics, and mapping out load routes and contingency plans, as if we were designing a military campaign. He wasn’t just a participant; he was a visionary. It was through him that we established our bridge to the Mexicans. Suddenly, we weren’t just pushing bud, we were coordinating full-scale shipments of cocaine.

The logic was straightforward; if we could transport marijuana south, why couldn’t we transport cocaine north? The trade routes were already established. The vehicles, the drivers, and the timing—everything was already set up. It was simply a matter of reversal. And the product margins? Far superior. Southbound weed became the down payment, Northbound coke was the payoff.

We were evolving rapidly. The business no longer focused on loads; it centred around structure, systems, and logistics. I needed assistance, and that’s where my gatekeeper and fixer James Thiessen came in. I managed five encrypted BlackBerrys at a time while James ensured I remained mobile, unreachable, and insulated. If I needed someone at 2:00 a.m., he appeared without questioning why.

James was more than just a driver and bodyguard; he was a constant presence, a quiet, unwavering force that never questioned a directive or hesitated to act. Whether it was a snowy mid-winter run across the valley or a last-minute reroute due to something seeming off, he was there, calm and focused. He operated like a soldier with a mission, and that mission was to protect me. He’d wait outside as I met with killers, engine running, eyes scanning. He’d clear rooms before I walked in and sit in silence as I made decisions that moved millions. He memorized faces, noted license plates, and picked up on subtleties with an incredible innate instinct. I trusted him with my life, and in the world of organized crime, that meant everything.

His loyalty wasn’t born from desperation or profit, but anchored in principle. He had that rare mix of discipline and discretion that made him invaluable. James knew when to speak and when to listen, anticipating problems before they materialized and never asking questions that didn’t need answers. When I had to disappear on short notice, he packed the bag. When I needed to move product, he drove the load himself without a flicker of hesitation. He essentially became a living firewall between me and the world.

Eventually, I was introduced to one of the upper-echelon Hells Angels, the kind few ever really meet, let alone sit across from. He wasn’t loud, brash, or demonstrative, moving with the quiet authority of a seasoned CEO, the type of man who only needed to begin speaking to dominate a room. Everything about him was calculated; his words, his posture, his silence. He understood that in our world, credibility wasn’t just valuable, it was everything. It brought access, demanded respect, and kept you alive. Protection wasn’t handed out freely; it was earned through loyalty, delivered through results, and measured by your actions when things went sideways.

I won his trust by presenting a persona that mirrored his own, carrying myself with the same composure I had learned in the RCMP: structured, mission-focused, and always ten steps ahead. I treated every introduction like a transaction and every conversation like a negotiation, knowing the value of patience and the power of silence. More importantly, I understood that even in the underworld, the smartest players ran it like a business; hierarchies and protocols mattered.

I proved that I wasn’t just another hustler trying to climb the ranks. I didn’t smoke screen with noise or flash, I showed up with structure. While others chased quick wins and reckless bravado, I brought systems that could scale and discipline that didn’t waver under pressure. I treated every move as a calculated risk, every crew as a unit, and every operation as a business model. I understood logistics, delegation, and redundancy. I mapped routes like supply chains, managed people like assets, and designed protocols for failure, not just success. That wasn’t common, most people in that world didn’t think past the next score. However, I had already planned contingencies, exit strategies, and fallback channels. In an ecosystem that respected raw power but revered sustained control, that didn’t just earn me a seat at the table—it gave me the implements to draw the blueprints for our expanding enterprises.

Many were surprised by how naturally I slid into a leadership role among men who didn’t easily acquiesce, but I didn’t lead with ego; I led with purpose. The training I received from the RCMP, including command protocols and observational awareness, wasn’t wasted; it was repurposed.I ran our operations like a corporation, combining underworld objective with RCMP procedural polish, and in the space between those two worlds, I flourished.

This particular higher-up in the Hells Angels respected my strategies. Make money, not headlines. No cowboys or clout chasers. My circle was tight, and everyone in it understood the standards they would be held to.

Decorum and professional protocol weren’t just suggested they were non-negotiable. If you wanted to be anywhere near the inner circle, you had to earn your place and carry yourself as if it meant something. This wasn’t some half-assed street crew throwing punches in back alleys or bragging at strip clubs. What mattered was precision, structure, and intention. No emotional outbursts or puffed-up bravado, that kind of behaviour didn’t just reflect poorly, it put the entire operation at risk. I made it clear from the beginning if you couldn’t master yourself, you had no business standing beside me.

Discipline was our mantra, every meeting, movement, and conversation had a purpose. We adhered to an unwritten code of conduct that felt more Fortune 500 than felonious. Arrive early, speak only when you have something worthwhile to say, dress like you respect yourself, and maintain your energy and presence with focus and clarity. You never knew who was watching, so we behaved as though someone always was.

We moved like executives in an underground economy. This wasn’t just a criminal enterprise; it was a brand. A high-performance operation built on reputation, fear, respect, and consistency. Every decision carried weight and every detail mattered. From the way we answered our phones to how we shook hands, the subtleties spoke volumes about who we were and what we represented.

You don’t outrun law enforcement—you outmaneuver the system.

In those early days, we operated out of a barn near Abbotsford Airport, gathering at dead-end roads leading directly into the United States. Sometimes we “borrowed” vehicles from the long-term parking lot; on other occasions, we simply swapped British Columbia license plates for Washington tags. The small details made all the difference.

Adaptation was our greatest strength. When we moved to planes, we didn’t just rent airtime—we embedded ourselves into the industry. A small flight school at Abbotsford Airport became our front. On the surface, it was a hub for recreational pilots and flight instruction, but beneath it lay a gateway for reconnaissance and discreet transportation. We secured hangar access, kept maintenance crews loyal with monthly cash envelopes, and dealt with instructors either through bribes or calculated ignorance.

Flight logs were padded with ghost names; fabricated students and fake training schedules were used, everything designed to withstand a casual audit. We staggered our departures during off-peak hours, always avoiding patterns and remaining just outside the margins of suspicion. It wasn’t about slipping through security, but becoming part of the background noise. Flights merged with the routine hum of airport life. By the time anyone noticed anything was amiss, the cargo was long gone, the paper trail leading nowhere. Radar could track altitude and bearing, but it couldn’t detect intent.

Our planes were modified with precision, but the most valuable upgrade wasn’t inside the fuselage—it was mounted on the landing gear. We rigged the struts with detachable, remote-operated camera systems housed in custom carbon-fibre casings. These weren’t your off-the-shelf drones or GoPros; they were stabilized, night-vision capable, and built to withstand turbulence and rapid descent. From altitude, they captured everything: vehicle clusters along rural arteries, heat signatures moving through rows of raspberries at night, and runners stashing loads beneath brush lines. What appeared to be agricultural flyovers to the casual observer were, in fact, carefully coordinated surveillance sweeps.

It wasn’t just about seeing, the design was to ensure we remained unseen. Every frame we captured helped map blind spots, identify patrol rotations, and expose surveillance infrastructure, including hidden trail cameras and RCMP staging areas, as well as unmarked vehicles and all-terrain vehicles used by the Integrated Border Integrity Team (IBIT). We built detailed profiles of the watchers, their routines, idiosyncrasies, and lazy shortcuts. On a few occasions, we caught law enforcement tailing our couriers or staking out known drop-off locations, so adjustments were made quickly. Routes were burned, vehicles swapped, and phones dumped. It was systematic counter-surveillance; proactive, disciplined, and cold. The cameras weren’t just tools, they were insurance policies. In the world of organized crime, knowing you’re being watched isn’t paranoia, it’s protocol.

The weather was our ally. We tracked cloud cover like pilots preparing for combat. If visibility dropped, we took off. If wind patterns shifted, we adjusted our routes midair. Every pilot had contingency fields mapped in advance, makeshift landing strips that could be activated with a single call. If the situation felt wrong, we would abort and circle back. Coordination was tight, with real-time updates, encrypted communications, and layered backup crews on standby.

It provided us with a clear tactical advantage. We flew low, disabled the transponders, and observed border patrol movements from above. At one point, we landed a plane filled with marijuana on the Nooksack High School football field in Nooksack, WA. As usual, I monitored everyone’s movements by phone, listening in real-time as our team gave a running account of what unfolded. The sky was pitch black, illuminated just enough by moonlight to guide the descent when suddenly, one of the crew said, “We got movement on the south end.” A pickup truck rolled across the far end of the field, headlights sweeping widely. My gut clenched and for a moment, I thought the entire operation might be compromised, but the truck didn’t stop. It passed by without slowing down, likely a groundskeeper or a random passerby.

My guys remained calm, hit the grass hard, cut the engine, and connected with the receiving crew in seconds. The exchange was precise, with bundles being moved out as fresh eyes scanned the horizon. Within moments, the plane was airborne again. No lights or chatter, just the roar of the propeller fading into the night. There was no question it was a bold maneuver, but it worked, and in our world, flawless execution under pressure was the closest thing to real calm we ever felt.

What began as a defiant pushback against the RCMP transformed into something entirely different: an empire built on calculation, coordination, and controlled chaos. Every time I was informed of a successful crossing of the border, I smiled. Not because of the money, but because I knew that somewhere, someone in a uniform was still pretending they had it all under control.

They didn’t. I did.

I was always on the move because motion gave me purpose, and purpose numbed my ever-present outrage. Stillness was a luxury I couldn’t afford in a world filled with ghosts that trailed me. I continued in forward gear, expanding the operation, tightening its structure, building something too disciplined to collapse and too dangerous to ignore. The money moved clean as millions were laundered overseas. The people around me were reliable and knew their roles.

Every time I discovered a loose end it would be snipped before it could fray.

While I was building, they were watching. The RCMP hadn’t forgotten me. I was a lingering irritant they couldn’t escape, a threat that had slipped their leash and kept surfacing in places they couldn’t predict. When their surveillance yielded nothing and wiretaps came back empty, they fell back on the kind of policing I was all too familiar with; no warrants or uniforms, just actors in plain clothes, peddling rehearsed stories, and poisoned handshakes laced with lies. It wasn’t an investigation; it was a crusade. A personal grudge wrapped in the cloak of intelligence work, driven by spite and sanctioned by the same system I once served. They weren’t after justice; they were after a reckoning. And they wanted it in my blood.

One afternoon, I left a local sandwich shop in Abbotsford and was walking toward my truck when, from a distance, I heard someone call out sharply and deliberately, like he already knew I’d turn.

“Hey, Constable Sidhu… Constable Sidhu.” The name hit like an echo from another life. I turned slowly, suspicions ricocheting through my senses as he walked toward me with a casual confidence, a faint smile on his lips.

“That was a long time ago,” I said flatly, eyeing him. “I’m no longer a cop.”

He laughed convivially as if we were old friends and this was some kind of reunion.

“You probably don’t remember me,” he said, “but you arrested me in Surrey for beating up my old lady.”

There was no shame in his voice, more a peculiar kind of pride as if the confession had become part of a redemption arc.

“Thanks to you, I got my life straight. Now I’m selling stocks.”

We’d handled hundreds of domestics in Surrey, most of them fast, volatile, and impersonal. I never stuck around long enough to play therapist. I kept my face expressionless and let him talk, but everything about his tone, timing, and presence felt wrong. Still, I played it cool, and at his suggestion, we exchanged numbers.

I met up with AJ immediately after, still pondering the details of the encounter, and laid it out for him piece by piece. The guy was too polished, too rehearsed. It felt contrived as if he were reciting lines written by someone else. I didn’t recognize him, and nothing about his story seemed to add up. A conviction for assault, especially in a domestic violence case, should’ve closed doors, not opened trading accounts.

By this time, AJ had become exceptionally well-versed in the mechanics of undercover techniques. He didn’t just listen, he dissected, asking the right questions and pointing out subtle cues I hadn’t even verbalized yet. His instincts aligned with mine immediately, and he observed that the approach reeked of a “bump,” likely scripted and sanctioned. The pacing, the phrasing, even the way the guy asked to stay in touch, all classic moves.

The next day, his number lit up my phone. I answered. There was no hello or casual conversation, just straight into a rehearsed pitch about us getting together to “discuss business”. He even mentioned something about paperwork, as if it would legitimize the contact.

I didn’t let him finish and hung up without saying a word.

My blood ran cold, chilled by years of betrayal and survival. If they wanted it, they’d have to try harder, dig deeper, and bleed for it themselves. It felt like a tripwire had been triggered, silent, precise, and meant for someone who knew better than to stick around. I didn’t wait to see what snapped next. I buried the number, deleted the contact, and erased the moment as if it had never happened. As far as I was concerned, it was done.

In this world, the past can often resurface without warning. Years later, I was having lunch in Abbotsford with an acquaintance when he introduced me to someone new.

“Rob, this is Paul McNamara.”

I stood and extended my hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

He grinned. “Again.”

“Again?” I inquired.

“Yeah,” he said. “You’re going to want to sit down for this.”

Paul relayed the entire story. He had been working with the Combined Forces Special Enforcement Unit – BC. A very capable undercover operator, Paul was considered among the elite within the police universe. He earned that reputation through years of sharp execution, sound instinct, and a calmness that most couldn’t fake under pressure. They had drawn up a complete operational plan to infiltrate my inner circle; however, no one had devised a decent bump strategy. He told me that if he had more time, he would have shown up with paperwork in hand to make it more legitimate.

“It wasn’t planned or rehearsed,” he admitted. “I had to do it on the fly.”

Paul had told them it wouldn’t work. He understood how I moved, how years in the field had trained my eyes to scan past the surface and sense when something wasn’t right. He said I was too seasoned, too cautious, and attuned to the cracks that appear when someone’s trying too hard.

There had been a subtle inflection in his approach, something in the rhythm that didn’t sit right. The words landed, but they didn’t settle naturally. It wasn’t my ego that caught it; it was experience shaped by years of navigating that fragile space between trust and threat, where your survival depends less on what’s said and more on what’s felt. You learn to hear the silences between the lines. Their plan was textbook, whereas mine relied on instinct, and once you’ve lived in that space long enough, certain reflexes become heightened and honed.

At our recent meeting, he reflected on the call he had made the day after his less-than-successful “bump,” when he explained that there was a delay in the paperwork; an admission that, in hindsight, conveyed more than the words themselves. The machinery behind the operation wasn’t ready to follow through. That gap, that hesitation, was precisely the kind of flaw I would have sensed. Paul understood that and knew the window had closed.

What he flagged wasn’t just a delay; it was a breakdown in the machine that wasn’t ready when it was needed. That kind of failure wasn’t new to me; I’d lived it during Project O-Pass. Back then, Gibson had his hands on the wheel, and both he and the system had choked. The bureaucracy moved slowly, while the threat advanced with impunity. Intelligence sat in black-and-white transcripts, instincts were second-guessed, and when he was called to act, the silence and incompetence were deafening.

The RCMP projects an image of discipline and precision. It is a hierarchy grounded in control and the illusion of authority. Yet, behind the facade, it’s dysfunction masked by red tape—decision-making stifled by institutional protectionism, where appearances take precedence over competence. When pressure mounts, what they provide isn’t leadership; it’s paralysis in uniform.

Paul called it as it was—no excuses, no spin. That honesty resonated differently coming from someone with his credentials. I appreciated his candour and insight. Moreover, I admired it. Paul wasn’t just some cop who knew how to talk shop; he was a tactician, a field-hardened operator who understood the stakes and the psychology it took to survive where most folded. He had been through it and earned the right to speak that truth, and I hold a deep respect for him because it is rare to find someone who not only recognizes the flaws in the system but also has the courage to call them out with clarity and purpose.

Criminals build networks with the same precision that law enforcement uses to build cases; timing isn’t just a factor, it’s the fulcrum on which everything balances. In both organized crime and undercover operations, momentum is not a luxury; it’s a matter of survival. My training taught me to recognize the narrow window when everything aligns, but what they don’t prepare you for is what happens when that moment slips away. There’s no rewind, no second approach. You get one shot. Miss it, and all you’re left with are the echoes of what might have been. The difference between contact and collapse often comes down to a single second, and when that second’s gone, so is everything it could’ve changed.

“That part’s important,” Paul said. “Because it fits exactly with your understanding of how police operations work. Delays are deadly when you’re targeting someone intelligent and sophisticated. But at least we exchanged numbers.”

Paul is now retired from the Vancouver Police Department, but back then, he had a front-row seat to the obsession law enforcement had with trying to reel me back in. I had become a constant irritation to their command structure—a reminder that they hadn’t broken me, hadn’t owned me, and couldn’t outthink me. I wasn’t just frustrating them; I was a thorn buried deep in the soft tissue of their pride.

Every time they tried to outmaneuver me, I adapted. Every tactic they deployed, I revealed. I was undeterred, and the harder they tried to bait me with undercover operators and setups, the more transparent their desperation became.

It wasn’t just that I eluded them; it was that I revealed their predictability. I knew their playbook, and now I realized the truth that stung them most: I didn’t just survive without them, I thrived in spite of them.

You can never really outrun law enforcement. The badge has an insidious reach. It collects intel, bides its time, and grinds you down with a patience that only institutions can afford. However, when you understand their operational nuances, their rules of engagement, and their politics, you do not have to run. You have to stay one step outside of their periphery.

The difference is strategic. They’re trained to react, and I have conditioned myself to anticipate. Rules constrained them, while I adapted by mastering the art of controlled unpredictability.

Outsmarting isn’t about being faster—it’s about thinking in dimensions they aren’t permitted to see. That’s what has always given me the edge. In a world where they were bound by policy, I was bound by results. And results don’t need permission.

Even as I built this empire of vengeance, I sensed something darker creeping in. Not fear or guilt, but something colder. The more successful I became, the more I realized I was chasing something I couldn’t catch: closure. I wasn’t just trying to survive anymore; I was trying to erase something that had already scarred me beyond recognition. Each load I moved was another nail in the coffin of the man I had been and the life I had abandoned. I told myself I was in control, but the truth was, I was the last one standing in a storm I had created, and it was already too late to turn back.

The nights grew longer. Sleep came more slowly. I was surrounded by wealth, influence, and loyal men, but inside, I was rotting. Haunted by the silence I’d chosen and the man I’d buried, the one who had once believed in law, in justice, in a higher purpose. I couldn’t unsee what I’d seen. Couldn’t undo what I’d done. Every dollar felt earned but cursed, and every victory tasted like rust and blood at the back of my throat. Power insulated me from consequences, but not from myself.

So I filled the hours, drowning the silence. I dove into every vice like a man inhaling smoke in a burning room; desperate, reckless, knowing it would kill something inside but needing it anyway.

Booze, pills, lines, women—whatever numbed the static in my skull and the stench of what I’d become. I didn’t party, I self-destructed in slow motion. Behind locked doors and blacked-out windows, I spiralled, telling myself that I was in control, but that was a lie I wore like cheap cologne, strong enough to fool everyone but me. I wasn’t seeking pleasure, I was chasing oblivion.

That darkness pulsated with a rhythm: loud music, fast cars, tense deals, muted regret. I measured nights not by hours but by how numb I could get before morning. I wore my empire like a suit of armour, but within, I was unravelling, quietly, viciously, and uncontrollably. With every high, I drifted further from who I was and closer to something hollow. Something dangerous and unrecognizable. I had everything but felt nothing.

I kept moving because motion dulled the noise. Stillness was dangerous as it left space for reflection, and reflection carried weight I didn’t have the strength to lift anymore. My world demanded everything, not just time and effort, but presence, foresight, and vigilance. It required me to be everywhere at once, to see around corners, and to anticipate betrayal before it whispered my name.

In the rare moments when the noise subsided, I felt it—that crushing heaviness pressing into my chest like a slow suffocation. I had built something vast, intricate, and profitable, and it rested entirely on my shoulders. There was no delegation of burden. No one else carried the secrets, the threats, the sleepless nights. I was both the architect and the foundation, and when you take on those roles, no cracks are permitted. You bear the weight, hoping no one notices the impossible strain.

Even the people closest to me saw only what I allowed them to see. They admired the empire, but they couldn’t touch its core, because I didn’t let them. I couldn’t. When your life is spent within a fortress, you begin to forget how it feels to experience anything other than the burden of preventing its collapse. There was no safe place to be vulnerable, no space to fall apart, not in that world.

Deep down, I understood that empires like mine can’t last forever. They are born in chaos, driven by circumstance, and designed to destroy. They shine brightly because they must—they’re not built to survive, only to dominate. Eventually, you realize it’s a constant, gnawing hunger that devours everything in its path—loyalty, peace, identity—like a smouldering ground fire. When there’s nothing left to burn, it turns inward and devours the architect.

Chapter 15

The Pharmakon and the Gatekeeper

Pharmakon- An ancient Greek term that can mean both “remedy” and “poison”, reflecting its paradoxical nature.¹⁶

“For wounds and every other evil that men inflict upon themselves spontaneously and by their own choice are in the long run less painful than those inflicted by others.”

— Niccolò Machiavelli, 1469–1527

Much of my life involved doing the wrong things the right way, in a highly organized and structured manner. I couldn’t operate in chaos, so I learned to master structure. I thrived in systems that mimicked legitimacy, built on control, timing, and reputation. However, beneath that veneer of discipline was something far more dangerous: self-delusion. My misguided actions were frequently accompanied by rationalizations, clean, rehearsed, and convincing. The most apparent form was justification. I told myself I had reasons, that my precision somehow sanctified the outcome. Organized crime, in many ways, embodies that very analogy; it’s the meticulous orchestration of decay, the choreography of corruption cloaked in order.

This trait defined my success in that world. I didn’t view myself as reckless; I was calculated. For a time, it worked, but the results were hollow. Every high came with diminishing returns. I was constantly driven by the need to prove myself, not out of necessity, but for validation. Doing well was never enough; doing better became an addiction fed by another crossing of a larger load. I convinced myself I was ascending, but what I was doing was gambling; blindly placing bets on my freedom for the fleeting rush that came with outwitting the system one more time.

The crossings became rituals, each one a performance, a reaffirmation of my invulnerability. The momentary thrill of accomplishment - the handshake, the quiet nod, the truck vanishing into the night - was my drug of choice. I repeated the pattern until I thought I no longer needed to question it. The stakes grew, not because they had to, but because I needed them to. I fed off the incremental risk; it gave me the illusion of purpose. The truth was simpler and darker: I wasn’t chasing fulfillment; I was chasing a feeling I couldn’t name, a hunger that was never sated.

True reflective reason had no place in that pursuit. It was silenced under the weight of momentum, pride, and the lie I kept telling myself that I was in control. I wasn’t. I had become a servant to the very structure I once believed I commanded. Each decision felt autonomous, yet I was merely following a blueprint of self-destruction I had designed without ever questioning the cost.

The greater the ascent in organized crime, the more lethal your blind spots become. Momentum doesn’t just conceal mistakes, it magnifies them. In my pursuit of dominance, I had built an empire that wasn’t sustainable. In a cruel twist of irony, I mastered everything except the one thing that mattered most - myself.

In the fall of 2007, I was approached by Bayant Dhindsa, a family acquaintance with deep roots in my life. Our parents had been close since their early days in Mission, part of that tight-knit immigrant fabric where loyalty ran deep. Bayant and I had been roommates during my first year at Simon Fraser University when life still felt like it was unfolding in a straight line.

Bayant now moved through a world built on illusion, a theatre of grand, romanticized schemes chasing wealth and power. He has mastered the performance; all polish and persona, name-dropping with calculated precision to forge associations that lend him borrowed legitimacy. In his view, what isn’t visible isn’t valuable. Substance takes a back seat to spectacle.

Beneath the gloss, familiar cracks were evident. Very human frailties and petty insecurities have consistently undermined his ambitions. As far as I know, none of his ventures have produced the results or the wealth he once envisioned. Time has chipped away at his aspirations, forcing concessions he likely never imagined making. Even now, beneath the compromises and the charm, Bayant remains what he’s always been: an opportunist parading as an optimist, waiting for the next angle to exploit.

One day, he called me out of the blue, asking if I’d be willing to meet him and an associate. He described the man as a “friend” who needed help with something tied to his employment.

“His employment?” I asked, skeptical.

“Yeah, this guy has access to a Border Services agent. He acts as his business manager for.”

“Business manager?” I echoed, pressing for clarity.

“I’ll let him explain in person,” Bayant replied, dodging details.

A business agent representing a border guard? The arrangement alone piqued my curiosity. It was vague, loaded, and strange enough to make me wonder what they were really after.

To dare in life is to accept the risk of possible failure. Add a scheme pitched by Bayant Dhindsa, and the odds become exponentially greater. Still, against my better judgment, I agreed to meet them later that week at the Apollo Sports Bar in Abbotsford.

After my conversation with Bayant, I reached out to AJ, who didn’t hesitate. He’d come, but insisted on keeping his distance. “I’ll post up close,” he said, “but I’m not sitting at the table. I want eyes on the entrance. Just in case.”

We arrived early, and AJ chose a vantage point that provided him with a clear view of the room and an unobstructed ear on our conversation. He brought two others from our crew to sit with him—cover, plain and simple. No one in organized crime sits alone unless they’re asking to be noticed.

Moments later, Bayant arrived and said, “He just called—running a few minutes late. He’s at his pharmacy down the road.”

“His pharmacy?” I asked.

“Yeah. He owns a pharmacy close by.”

“I thought you said he was a business agent for a border cop?”

“He is, Bhai [Brother in Punjabi]. The guy is very resourceful.”

As he spoke, I noticed a tall Indo-Canadian man approaching our table. His stride was slow and cautious, his eyes scanning the room as if he were rehearsing his next move.

“This your guy?” I inquired.

Bayant glanced over his shoulder, nodded, and said, “That’s him.”

There was a flicker of hesitation before the man continued his approach, fluid, measured, almost serpentine, testing the ground with every step.

Bayant glanced at me and said, “Bhai, this is [the Pharmacist].” I stood and introduced myself, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

As we shook hands, I shot A.J. a furtive glance, which he caught instantly. This was the man we were here for.

I sat back down, unconsciously flexing my fingers to shake off the tension. Something in me had recoiled the moment I shook his hand. The Pharmacist hadn’t said a word yet, and already that familiar uncomfortable crawl was working its way up my spine, a quiet dread tightening my chest with each breath. The room buzzed quietly with background noise, but in my head, it became deafening. My gut wasn’t whispering, it was howling, and like a fool, I ignored it.

Everything about him felt off. His movements had the precision of someone who practiced them in the mirror because they didn’t come naturally. His eyes flicked around too deliberately, as if mapping exits. That smile, polished and professional, carried no truth; it was a mask disguised as a greeting.

I remained in my seat, listening and nodding.

Because I wanted what he was offering more than I was willing to trust my instincts.

I had spent years drilling discipline into my crew like scripture. “Never rush. Always assess. No sloppiness. No shortcuts.” Yet here I was, sitting through a meeting I knew reeked of compromise, chasing something I told everyone else never to pursue, a shortcut.

I sat there, a war being waged within —a grinding, internal conflict where instinct clawed at the edges of my awareness, begging me to pull back, to walk away. Instead, I buried it and made the same mistake I had punished others for. I chose greed, and in doing so, I shattered the very code I claimed to uphold.

Bayant turned and said, “I’ll let you explain your situation to Rob.”

The pharmacist gave the room a quick sweep, too obvious to be casual, too quick to be clean, his eyes darting from table to table as if he were expecting a raid or planning an exit.

“Relax,” I said flatly. “There are no cops here.”

He flashed a nervous smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Okay,” he said, clearing his throat. “I act as the business agent for Jassy Grewal… and we could use your help with a couple of things.”

“Business agent?” I asked, eyeing him. The title still didn’t sit right.

“Yeah,” he said, avoiding my gaze. “I handle all his financial affairs… related to his side business.”

I let a beat of silence pass, reflecting on rumours I had heard revolving around this particular border cop.

“Alright,” I said, leaning back. “Go on.”

He shifted in his chair again, betraying his nerves and giving him the appearance of someone trying to decide the trajectory of his story mid-delivery.

“A while back, Jassy intercepted this kid—goes by ‘Congo’—trying to move 50 keys across the border. Since then, Congo’s been threatening him. Tried to blow up Jassy’s house with a pipe bomb.”

“And he called the cops?” I asked, already skeptical.

“He reported it to CBSA. His superiors supposedly did a threat assessment,” he said, glancing at Bayant like he needed backup. “But all they did was park an Abbotsford Police cruiser outside his place for a day. That was the extent of it.”

I let the silence sit for a second.

Everything about the story felt… curated. There was just enough detail to sound urgent, but not enough to ring true. The way he kept scanning the room made it seem like he was waiting for something to happen. This wasn’t just about Congo or pipe bombs.

I recalled that Ajitpal Singh Sekhon, aka “Congo,” had been arrested by Grewal on January 25, 2005, while attempting to cross the Aldergrove, B.C., border with 50 kilos of cocaine. The case was still in limbo—procedure questioned, loopholes exploited, and justice conveniently delayed.

The two had history, high school classmates who had once run in the same circles. It had long been whispered that Grewal was more than just familiar with Sekhon’s operation; in fact, many believed he was complicit until he flipped on Sekhon. No one knew exactly why; perhaps it was self-preservation or maybe leverage. However, what was clear was that Grewal hadn’t thought through the consequences. In the world of organized crime, such a move doesn’t come with a rewind button; it comes with consequences and retribution.

The Pharmacist continued, his voice tightening. “Jassy doesn’t feel safe anymore. His supervisors, Abbotsford PD— they haven’t done a damn thing to make it right. A cruiser sat outside his place for a day, then vanished. That’s their version of protection.”

He leaned in slightly. “I need you to speak with Congo. Get him to back off.”

I nodded slowly. “Alright… but you mentioned there were a couple of issues?”

“Yeah,” he said, lowering his voice. “This whole thing—it’s changed Jassy. He’s lost faith in the system. In his employer. He feels betrayed, abandoned.”

It occurred to me that this could be a thinly veiled reference to my own experiences; was he trying to establish camaraderie? Once again, I ignored the warning signals and turned my attention back to the man sitting across from me.

“That’s where I come in. As his business manager, I’ve been directed to explore… options. Specifically, to identify individuals or groups who might benefit from the services of a CBSA insider. Someone who’s disgruntled. Someone who knows how to move things, whatever those things are, across the border, no questions asked. For the right price.”

He didn’t need to spell it out. They weren’t just looking for help with a threat; they were shopping a pipeline.

Supposedly, he and Grewal, along with another CBSA employee referred to as “Dave,” were pulling in $25,000 per load for providing safe passage for multiple hundred-kilo cocaine shipments.

“Who’s this Dave guy?” I asked.

“He’s a sniffer dog handler. If needed, he creates a diversion, walks the canine in the opposite direction, buys us a window,” he replied.

The Pharmacist explained that Dave took a $6,000 cut per load, while the rest was split between him and Grewal. I didn’t care about the dollar amount; it was how the shares were divided that caught my attention. The equal split revealed everything; the Pharmacist viewed himself as Grewal’s peer, not a subordinate.

The Pharmacist explained that he had recently brought someone into the fold—an Iraqi guy from Chilliwack named “Omar” to provide vehicles and drivers, but things had gone sideways.

According to the Pharmacist, on the day of a scheduled crossing, one of Omar’s men had pulled up to Grewal’s booth, appearing visibly shaken. Grewal’s co-worker, stationed nearby, noticed the driver’s nerves and began walking over, likely to initiate a secondary inspection. Before the second officer could arrive, Grewal hurriedly waved the vehicle through. It was a sloppy move and triggered a review, with CBSA launching an internal investigation.

That was enough to spook both Grewal and the Pharmacist. They had to cut Omar loose immediately.

“I need you to have a talk with him,” the Pharmacist said. “Tell him it’s over. He’s sloppy. Unprofessional. He’s gonna get us all busted.”

I was about to ask, And what’s in it for me?, when he preempted the question.

“If you can help us with those two issues, Congo and Omar, we’ll get your loads across at thirty-five a pop.”

I leaned back, studying him. The price was right, but the risk was real, and I couldn’t shake the rumours that said Grewal had flipped on Sekhon, so I asked him straight. “How do I know this isn’t a setup? Your buddy’s a cop, and he already burned Congo.”

“That’s not true,” he shot back. “And anyway, he doesn’t know I’m meeting you. He knows I’m meeting someone to handle his problems.”

He laid it out that this way Grewal could maintain plausible deniability. If ever questioned or polygraphed, he would truthfully say he had no direct communication with me. The Pharmacist would act as the intermediary, relaying dates and shift schedules, collecting payments after each crossing, and passing along any critical information essential to the operation’s success. After every completed delivery, he’d also ensure Bayant Dhindsa received a finder’s fee for making the connection.

“Alright,” I said. “I’ll get back to you.”

We wrapped up the meeting, and I remained seated, watching the Pharmacist and Dhindsa make their way out. There was no urgency in their pace, no glances back or wasted motion. They moved like men who had rehearsed the exit, as if they had run the scene a dozen times in their heads and were now following the script, which read that the hard part was over and they could breathe easily again.

A.J. sat down across from me.

“What did you think of that guy?” I asked.

He didn’t hesitate. “He reminds me of a snake.” I nodded slowly, still staring at the door.

A snake. Yeah. That tracked. One that was equipped with a poison that doesn’t kill right away but leaves you sick enough to miss the bigger threat until it’s too late.

The world we were all entrenched in was built on misdirection, on information as currency, and trust as an expense very few could afford. What they were offering wasn’t just access, it was opportunity; a direct pipeline into CBSA, operational intelligence, and a handler dumb enough—or desperate enough—to act on impulse without a fallback plan.

That’s where my arrogance kicked in. I told myself I was smarter than him, smarter than all of them. Grewal might have the badge, the security clearance, and the gate codes—but I had the instincts and the edge my experience brought. After all, I’d outwitted the RCMP for years. I had danced circles around their surveillance and slipped through their task forces. My lines ran cleaner than anything the Force ever deployed against me.

So what was one corrupt border cop in comparison to that?

It’s easy to believe you’re in control when you feel like you’ve always been a few steps ahead. However, arrogance is a slow-acting venom that doesn’t quickly strike you down; instead, it seeps in through the cracks disguised as confidence and dressed up as strategy. Before you know it, you’ve convinced yourself that since the system hasn’t yet caught you, it never will.

That was the trap I turned a blind eye to.

Grewal wasn’t just a player; he was a mirror. A man who still wore the uniform but had stepped outside of the law, never fully letting go of the machine that made him. That made him dangerous, not because he was smarter, but because I had made the error of assuming he wasn’t.

That’s how people like me get burned, not by the flames, but by underestimating the spark.

Still, it was never that simple. The Pharmacist wanted me to believe he was merely the middleman, just a facilitator. However, middlemen don’t typically bring deals this big unless they’re either in over their heads or setting a trap.

I considered Grewal to be the real wildcard. A man with a badge, a past betrayal, and enough clearance to make or break me with the stroke of a pen or a whisper to the right investigative unit. Even though I had been assured that he didn’t know I would be behind the entire operation, that could change in an instant. If it did, I’d have to assume I was already on borrowed time.

I wasn’t naive. Grewal didn’t need plausible deniability; he needed distance and insulation. And if shit ever hit the fan, it would be me splattered across the headlines while he buried his past under sealed grand jury testimony.

Thirty-five a load was more than fair. With the right volume, it would open a lane wide enough to feed every downstream connection I had; maybe even build something bigger, something lasting if I could control the risk and manage the players. Possibilities that made the offer hard to turn down.

A.J. sat silently beside me, reading my changing expressions the way he always did. “This could be real big,” I muttered.

“Or real messy,” he replied. Both were true, but Billy would know what to do.

16 Wikipedia

Chapter 16

A Tarp that Covered the Chief

“Everyone sees what you appear to be; few experience what you really are.”

— Niccolò Machiavelli 1469–1527

I recall sitting in front of my television, watching the late news when a report of a hiker discovering a body at the base of the Chief in Squamish, B.C., caught my attention. The camera panned over a figure covered in a tarp, and in that moment, something shifted inside me. A tightness formed in the pit of my stomach, and for a brief stretch, my breathing grew laboured and shallow, as if I was fighting for air. My instincts knew, and my body reacted before my mind caught up.

Just hours earlier, Billy had messaged me, asking me to attend a meeting that night. I remember how drained I felt—physically, mentally, emotionally. It had been a long day, and the thought of driving from Abbotsford to Delta, B.C., felt overwhelming. What made it even stranger was that Billy never conducted business once he was home with his family; that time was sacred. “Why can’t we do this tomorrow?” I asked.

“I need to deal with this now. Are you coming or not?” he shot back.

“No, schedule it for tomorrow, I’ll come out first thing in the morning,” I replied. It was a decision that would haunt me. Early the next day, I received a message from an associate: “Did you hear about Billy?” Before I even opened it, that same tightness returned. I already knew. “He’s dead. They found his body in Squamish.”

Before his murder on October 2, 2011, Billy Woo was more than just an associate; he was my mentor, confidant, and, in many ways, a mirror. Our paths intersected indirectly in mid-1997 when I was still with the Surrey Drug Section, and a colleague mentioned his name. Billy’s reputation preceded him as someone who moved seamlessly among all criminal groups. I didn’t meet him in person until years later, after I had left the RCMP. When we finally met, he wore a stretched-out Harley-Davidson T-shirt and black sweatpants, carrying a “murse” loaded with three PGP-encrypted BlackBerrys. That murse was his signature.

He didn’t care for flashy chains or designer suits. He was short and stocky, but his presence filled the room. He had a warm handshake, an infectious smile, and a sense of calm that came from surviving chaos. He believed in one thing above all: the weight of your word. “Everything falls into place in this life if you keep your word,” he used to say. In organized crime, that meant everything. Your reputation was your currency. Most people didn’t understand this, which is why many of them didn’t last. Honour is a rare commodity in organized crime, and those who think otherwise usually end up face down in a ditch or locked in a cell.

Billy and I spent hours strategizing. We shared mutual respect, but over time, it developed into something more profound. I began to look up to him. He was exceptionally disciplined and always assessed risks through the lens of long-term costs. “Never waste time, energy, or peace of mind on the affairs of others,” he’d say. Billy’s charisma wasn’t just charm—it was the foundation of his calculated leadership. When he acted, people followed not out of fear but because they believed.

In the world of organized crime, survival was the metric of success. One had to be forward-thinking and strategic. Improvise too frequently, and you’d find yourself scrambling for answers at the worst possible time. Catastrophic decisions stemmed from half-baked plans. Billy didn’t operate that way. He planned. He foresaw.

When the Pharmacist and Bayant Dhindsa approached me, my first call was to Billy. I needed his insight and could rely on the fact that he never minced words. After I explained the situation, he looked at me, shook his head, and said, “For Christ’s sake, Rob, if this border cop will turn his back on his employer, what do you think he will do if he’s ever pressured about you? He’ll deliver your head on a platter.”

The only other time I ever saw Billy that animated was after his first encounter with Devron Quast. Same fire. Same concern. This time, his eyes were colder, more alert than angry. Billy’s authenticity sharply contrasted with Devron’s false bravado, and for me, the clash was palpable.

Devron fancied himself a gangster. Flashy cars, a money clip, and a phone full of names he didn’t have the weight or street credibility to use. He strutted into rooms like he’d earned stripes he never had to make sacrifices for, borrowing the lingo and mimicking the posture. Real players could sense it right away—the softness in his tone, the sag in his spine. He was the kind of man who sought to be near power because it made him feel safe, mistaking proximity for belonging.

Quast even carried a laminated insignia of the Hells Angels death head in his wallet, pulling it out like a badge, as if it held significance and granted him clearance, as though possessing a symbol granted him a seat at the table.

That’s all it was—symbolism without substance, a prop in a performance he couldn’t master. He was a man who reeked of mediocrity and desperation, whose pretended loyalty wouldn’t last five minutes when the shit hit the fan and the familiar sound of cuffs tightening and piss running down your leg were the only sounds to be heard.

Billy saw it before I did—probably before anyone else did. That was the thing about Billy: he didn’t just listen to what was said; he listened to what wasn’t. He watched for the faltering gaps and the stutters between words and examined the weight of what a man avoided. He had a sixth sense for sincerity and an even sharper one for bullshit. Quast didn’t pass the smell test.

Billy never needed a dossier. He could feel it in a handshake, a glance, the rhythm of a conversation. He’d say things like, “It’s not about what he’s saying—it’s how quick he’s saying it.” Regarding Quast, his verdict was swift and instantaneous. “He’s trying too hard,” Billy told me. “That one calls you ‘brother’ before he even knows your last name. Watch how he moves—he’s building a version of himself he thinks you’ll buy.”

That was precisely it; Quast exuded a manufactured ease. He laughed too loudly, agreed too quickly, and every story he told lined up a little too neatly with whatever you’d just said. He was evasive with details, deflected serious questions with jokes, and tried to keep the room distracted like a magician who didn’t want anyone to look too closely at any one hand. He was always watching, measuring your reactions, and calibrating his next move based on what kept you leaning in. It was salesmanship, not connection, and Billy could sense that in a heartbeat.

Billy wasn’t distracted by the performance. He had spent his life navigating the shadows of organized crime, an area I was just starting to explore. He had learned to tell the difference between loyalty and leverage, as well as authenticity and imitation. He understood what it meant when someone showed up with too many answers and not enough questions. He didn’t need convincing. He already knew. Billy taught me that loyalty can’t be bought or coerced. It is earned through consistency and accountability. When people like Devron claim loyalty without conviction, I see it as dependence disguised as virtue.

“He’s a car salesman for sure,” Billy said. “Talks in circles, throws compliments like darts, but never says a fucking thing that matters.”

I dismissed it. “He is actually a car salesman, Bill. That’s his game.”

Billy didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah. And all of you guys will be the ones he’s going to trade in or sell to the cops.”

He rolled his eyes in disgust.. “For fuck’s sake, Rob, I will regret asking this… but what do you want from me?”

“I need you to reach out to Congo and Omar. Squash these matters.”

Despite his misgivings, he agreed. Not because he trusted the situation, but because he trusted me. Billy had a keen sense for trouble and made no secret that something about it didn’t sit right. However, he also knew I wouldn’t ask unless it was important, which held weight in our world. Favours weren’t given lightly, and when they were, there was always a weight behind them—an unspoken ledger of trust and consequence.

He didn’t posture or lecture. He just gave me a long look, the kind that said “This better be worth it.” Then he nodded. That was Billy—he didn’t need a hundred questions answered. He needed one thing: a reason, and with us, the reason was always the same.

Because when it came down to it, he knew that if he played his part, I would ensure he benefited. Not in a transactional way—but in the way that mattered most to men like us: protection, respect, and opportunity. That was our currency. Not dollars. Not clout. But honour among men who had been hardened by life and still chose to support each other.

That was the code we followed: loyalty, reciprocity, and silence.

It wasn’t just something we said—it was something we breathed. It meant you never left a man exposed. It meant you stood on your business, even when the road ahead felt crooked. It meant that in a world where people switched sides for a payout or disappeared when the heat showed up, we stayed in the pocket. Eyes forward.

Billy and I didn’t need to remind each other of that code—it was ingrained in every move we made. We had been through enough to understand that the only thing separating us from the chaos was the weight of our word. And once given, that word didn’t bend.

Even when it should have.

A few days later, Billy circled back.

We met again—same quiet spot, same code of silence hanging between us like a contract. He didn’t need to say much. His look said it all—he’d done the work. Whatever doubts he had about the situation, he set them aside long enough to dig.

He leaned back, arms crossed, his eyes habitually scanning the street before landing on me with that familiar mix of calm and concern.

“This Pharmacist guy’s a real character,” he said, shaking his head slightly, like the words tasted off even as he spoke them.

That was Billy, always understated yet never vague. If he referred to someone as a “character,” it wasn’t banter; it served as a warning dressed in soft language. He didn’t require theatrics; he let the truth linger just long enough for you to feel it crawl under your skin.

“According to Omar, Mann’s already positioned himself as the go-between. He calls himself the “business manager,” and get this—he’s already pre-paid. Payment in full for services not even rendered yet.”

He paused. Let the absurdity settle. Then added:

“Omar still has 150 keys tucked away in Washington. That’s the real play. He’s just waiting on the birds. Once they’re over, he’s done with these clowns.”

“Clowns?”.

That word hung in the air with a weight most people outside our world would never understand.

“Yeah. Clowns. They don’t know who they’re dealing with. [The Pharmacist] lives in a big fancy house. Omar knows exactly where both of them live. And if anything happens to those last two loads, he says there will be plenty of smoke.”

Billy paused. “You should tax these clowns for getting them out of this mess.”

“No worries, Bill. I got you.”

In organized crime, language wasn’t merely communication; it served as a means of classification. Every word carried weight, and every label carved a place in the hierarchy. Calling someone a clown wasn’t harmless; it was damning.

To be called a clown meant you were a liability dressed as an asset. It suggested you were playing roles you hadn’t earned, walking into meetings you weren’t invited to, and puffing your chest in a room full of men who had valid reasons to be there. A clown wasn’t just someone to mock; they were someone to avoid, as their carelessness always resulted in a body count. They talked too much and listened even less, never realizing when they were being sized up for burial.

Billy used the word precisely, not being a man who wasted breath on insults. If he called someone a clown, it meant they had already failed one of the most crucial tests in our world: self-awareness. Awareness of who you are, where you stand, and where you’re headed.

There was one even worse word.

Goof.

In the Canadian underworld, this word wasn’t thrown around lightly; it was equivalent to a death sentence. In the Canadian underworld, you didn’t use it casually. It wasn’t just the lowest rung—it was beneath the floorboards. A goof represented the bottom of the barrel: a parasite, a predator, a pariah. In prison, the word incites immediate violence. Outside, it was only used when a man had crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed—when his existence was no longer tolerable, even from a distance.

You could recover from being called a “heat bag,” and you could outlive being called greedy. However, if the word ‘goof’ landed on your name, it not only stuck but also travelled.

That was Billy’s read on Grewal and the Pharmacist. He didn’t just see the play they were running; he recognized the underlying weakness. The vanity and desperation that permeated their plans were evident.

It was a classic misdirection. The Pharmacist had positioned himself as the connective tissue between two worlds—corporate polish and street muscle—pretending to be indispensable while siphoning power from both ends. But Billy could see it for what it was: a short con dressed in long-term empty promises.

“For fuck sakes Rob, these two think they’re architects of something big, but they’re just stacking illusions on top of bullshit. They don’t even know what bricks look like, let alone what it takes to survive in our world. And when it all comes down, they’ll be the first ones running to the cops, looking for someone to blame, and I guarantee that will be you!”

He was right.

I didn’t want him to be—but he was. I could see it even then, flickering at the edge of my awareness, buried beneath layers of ambition and denial. Hindsight can be cruel that way. It doesn’t arrive ahead of time with a brass band; it creeps in slowly, whispering reminders long after the damage is done.

I still wanted to believe that I could manage it, that I could keep the chaos contained. That these clowns were just tools—useful idiots I could steer toward an outcome only I understood. But Billy knew better; he always did. He didn’t just assess risk; he anticipated collapse. When he called them clowns, he wasn’t merely insulting their intelligence; he was predicting their failure.

Because he had seen their kind before: the fast-talking opportunists who mistook presence for power and confused access with authority. Men who clung to encrypted phones and designer labels like armour, believing that optics could replace structure. Yet behind the posturing, there was no genuine understanding of what it meant to hold the line when everything went sideways.

“What about Congo?’

“He’s a good kid,” he said finally, “Grewal fucked him over, plain and simple, but he’s not part of this pipe bomb bullshit. He’s just fighting his case. You won’t have a problem with him.”

Coming from Billy, that was more than a character reference; that was clearance. In our world, reputations moved faster than money. If Billy vouched for someone, it meant he’d seen them under pressure—witnessed the gears turn when things got real. It indicated they didn’t fold, didn’t snitch, didn’t beg. That kind of validation couldn’t be bought.

Satisfied, I called the Pharmacist and informed him that his problems were resolved. The mess with Omar wouldn’t escalate any further. We could move forward, but I also made it clear that there would be a cost for the chaos they had created—what Billy had dubbed, only half-jokingly, the “Clown Tax.”

Ten thousand per load. A stupidity surcharge.

The Pharmacist didn’t argue. He knew he was skating on thin ice and was desperate to stay in the game. He showed up at my place twice, each time with cash in hand—neatly banded, trying to look cleaner than it actually was. He didn’t ask for receipts; he just wanted to be seen paying his dues, attempting to buy back credibility with stacks of fifties and hundreds.

“Because You’re Dead. Like Me”

Then, suddenly, Billy was gone. No warning, no gradual sign. One moment, a meeting I refused to attend.. Next, a tarp at the Chief’s base fluttered on the late-night news, and in between—nothing but a brutal gut punch I never expected.

A few days after his murder, I had a dream—or maybe it was something else. Somewhere in the space between a dream and a nightmare, I detected a reckoning. I found myself in the passenger seat of an Escalade, the familiar streets of Abbotsford sliding by. We passed my son’s high school, and I saw him walking on the sidewalk, his head down, his backpack slung low on his slumped shoulders, tears sliding down his cheeks. He looked broken in a way I had never seen before.

I rolled down the window. “Hey buddy, where’s your Jeep? Why are you walking?”

No response; he just kept walking, as if I wasn’t there.

I called again, this time louder. “Why are you walking?”

Still no reaction.

Then came the voice from the driver’s seat—calm, resigned, final.

“He can’t hear you.”

I turned. It was Billy, with his hands on the wheel and eyes focused straight ahead.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because you’re dead. Like me.”

Everything stopped.

Time. Breath. Meaning.

His words didn’t slice through reality—they collapsed it. It felt like the floor had given out beneath me mid-step, and I was falling into a bottomless pit. My body spasmed, and I jolted upright, gasping for air, my chest heaving from the effort. The room tilted and closed in. Sweat clung to my skin, but the shiver of cold I felt wasn’t from the night air. It came from somewhere deeper, under the skin and behind the ribs, in that empty chamber where regret lives when you’re too proud to name it.

That wasn’t just a dream; I was certain that there was a message that slipped through whatever veil separates the living from the dead.

From that night on, Billy was always there. Not upset or angry, just present. I’d catch a glimpse of him in the rearview mirror, in the silence before sleep, in the pause between thoughts. He wasn’t just haunting me; he was reminding me of what I had missed, of what had been ignored, of who I had become when I stopped listening.

I think about what Billy was trying to tell me, that something wasn’t right, that I was slipping into waters too deep, playing with forces I couldn’t control, bending rules that wouldn’t curve without consequence. He saw the cracks forming before I did and noticed the shift in me; the hunger, the detachment, and the way I started mistaking ambition for clarity. He recognized the version of me I was becoming—driven, reckless, and blind.

I brushed it off, convinced I could navigate the chaos, read every angle, and outmaneuver every threat. I told myself I was built for this, that no one could see the board like I could, but all the time, unable to see myself.

Billy didn’t tell me who he was meeting that night. No forewarning or details, just his request followed by my denial and then silence. Maybe he wanted to keep me out of it, sensing what was waiting for him and knowing there’d be no way back. Perhaps he had already resigned himself to it.

To this day, I don’t know who left him broken and bound at the foot of the Chief. I don’t know the names, the faces, or the final words spoken, but I know the path that led him there because I helped to pave it.

Not out of malice, but through something quieter, more cowardly; the kind of greed that disguises itself as strategy. Every time I dismissed the tension in his voice and prioritized growth over gut instinct, every time I told myself I had it all under control, I laid another brick on that road.

That REM sleep-induced encounter— Billy in the driver’s seat of the Escalade—hasn’t blurred or faded with time. It replays in perfect detail, like a scene shot in super-high resolution. I remember how the light illuminated his face, the way he didn’t look at me when he spoke, gazing straight ahead, knowing that the road we were on only had one direction.

That image of my son walking alone, head down, cheeks wet with tears, stays with me. It was a portrait of everything I stood to lose.

That moment in the car wasn’t only a dream; it was a verdict. It doesn’t replay to remind me of what happened to Billy—its existence forces me to recognize what I allowed myself to become.

The kind of silence that followed wasn’t peace. It was punishment.

It wasn’t just the absence of his voice; it was the weight of everything left unsaid and unrectified: the lessons I hadn’t listened to, the warnings I’d shrugged off, the loyalty I assumed would always be there until it wasn’t.

The world kept spinning, of course. That’s what it does. People are killed, but Business continues, and names fade from memory like old ink on damp paper.

But I didn’t move the same after that. Something shifted in me the day Billy vanished from the map and reappeared under a tarp.

There’s a particular kind of silence that only comes after someone who really knew you is taken, someone who saw past your mask and still had your back.

That silence isn’t empty; it’s completely loaded with guilt and consequence.

If I had listened more attentively, seen more clearly, or acted more promptly, things might have played out differently. That thundering silence remains with me to this day.

There’s no need to wonder what Billy would say now, I already know. Some truths don’t need to be spoken aloud - they lurk beside you in the dark and wait for silence. “Because you’re dead. Like me.” Maybe, on a few different levels, he was right. What remains is a man carrying the echo of a friend he didn’t listen to and a verdict he can never appeal. When the world gets quiet, I still hear his voice in the driver’s seat. Not angry or bitter, just deeply disappointed. That’s what breaks me. Because in the end, Billy was right... I’m pretty sure I died long before I ever got caught.

Chapter 17

Nothing to Declare

“The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.”

— Sun Tzu

I learned early on that it wasn’t enough just to think your way through this world. Intellect and strategy will only take you so far—the real advantage comes from being able to feel your way through uncertainty. Intuition isn’t guesswork; it’s what kicks in when logic stalls and the stakes are too high to hesitate. It spoke to me more often than I cared to admit.

The game, like any enterprise, was governed by evolution; the marketplace changed, risk profiles shifted, and once productive methods eventually turned stale. The ability to pivot—to adapt quickly and quietly—separated operators from casualties. Our existing routes, protocols, and personnel had begun to calcify, and I could feel it. We were repeating patterns and unconsciously falling into routines. In the underworld, habits get you noticed, followed, and most importantly, can be fatal.

What is often misunderstood about organized crime is its close resemblance to legitimate business. You assess liabilities, allocate resources, manage your people, and protect your brand—except that mistakes don’t lead to a quarterly dip; they result in people being buried. That’s why the smartest move isn’t always the boldest; rather, the one that reduces volatility and extends the run is.

Most individuals in criminal organizations, when they encounter a wall, tend to improvise; that kind of desperate swerve doesn’t solve the problem. Improvisation may feel like control in the moment, but it’s an illusion, a frantic grasp at anything resembling direction. It only drags them headfirst into the next chaotic episode, often one worse than the last. A ripple effect of missteps, false assumptions, and knee-jerk reactions that invite disruption into a system designed for control.

In organized crime, reaction can be indistinguishable from weakness, and therein lies the real danger. It’s not just the tactical errors, but also the quiet erosion of belief in the system itself that leads to uncertainty. In a crisis, people often panic, become careless, and cut deals without considering the broader ramifications. They start rewriting the story mid-script, and by the time you realize it, you’re cleaning up something you never anticipated or agreed to. That’s how empires unravel.

I wasn’t interested in improvisation; I prioritized sustainability. Rather than worrying about what’s next, I considered what would endure.

The Hustle Schematic

I had already secured the Pharmacist, who provided access to Jasbir Grewal, the compromised border agent who functioned more like a silent partner than a game piece. What we gained was existing groundwork: predictable, repeatable, insulated. The kind of corridor others only dreamed of. While most smugglers gambled on unsecured lanes and shifting variables, we now had a way to establish control. Our advantage wouldn’t be just in volume, but in consistency, which, in any enterprise, criminal or corporate, is a powerful lever.

The Pharmacist, in many respects, was the linchpin and, most importantly, the architect of access. The relationship he had cultivated with Grewal wasn’t a haphazard connection formed over drinks and desperation; it was carefully built, precise, and rooted in mutual benefit. By the time the Pharmacist approached me with his requests, the two had already established a rhythm—a working language of signals, schedules, and silence.

I immediately recognized that what they possessed was not just useful; it was foundational. Grewal and the Pharmacist had constructed a crude yet functional prototype of strategic access—valuable yet fragile. I didn’t merely tap into it; I audited it, assessed its weaknesses, defined its thresholds, and reengineered it for scalability.

What began as a request for assistance evolved into a framework for endless opportunity. However, building that type of infrastructure required thinking beyond mere execution and results; it also necessitated planning in advance for failure. I had to anticipate every possible fracture point: late intel, downed communications, or compromised personnel. Fallback protocols were established: clean switch-off points, ghost contacts, and alternative crossing windows. Every border guard booth schedule would include two backups, and every route had a burner rig staged an hour away; no one moved without knowing the contingency plans if things went south.

The logistics of this operation were a high-wire act, with each phase carefully planned out, yet steeped in the looming spectre of possible failure. The structure was almost surgical in its precision, designed to minimize exposure while maximizing the efficacy of each move. The first phase would begin the moment the Pharmacist shared Grewal’s shift schedule. This wasn’t just a simple notification; it was a signal that the wheels were in motion. Information that was worth its weight in gold.

With that intelligence at my fingertips, I’d become the operational mastermind, passing on the crucial details to the entire network of assets. However, it wouldn’t be as straightforward as just giving orders on when to move. This required more than just timing and coordination—it meant anticipating and managing risk at every step.

The counterintelligence strategies I employed didn’t outsmart the system; they mirrored it by utilizing its blind spots, adopting its language, and exploiting its predictability. Grewal’s booth was more than a checkpoint; it was a chokehold I controlled. The system, with all its cameras and policy compliance, never even blinked.

The master plan was more than getting the shipment from point A to point B; it was about ensuring it remained invisible, slipping through the cracks of the system, bypassing red tape, and exploiting every loophole.

With just a few encrypted pings from the Pharmacist, I could coordinate large-scale operations across international borders, transporting product through one of the most heavily scrutinized corridors in the country. Not by circumventing the system, but by exploiting its vanity.

That’s what made Grewal so dangerous. Not because he broke the rules, but because he knew the system’s weaknesses inside and out. Grewal didn’t need to outsmart the system; he was the system – or at least a part of the corruption that ran through its core. The CBSA’s arrogance had made it easy with outdated protocols and superficial oversight. Grewal was also proof that the institutions’ faith in their own integrity was laughably naive. The border was more of a performance than a line to defend, with uniforms, checklists, and optics designed to impress and, in some cases, intimidate the public. But it wasn’t built to withstand betrayal.

It wasn’t a superior intelligence that gave us the upper hand; it was understanding how power lazily turns a blind eye when it believes it’s in control. They watched everything except what truly mattered, always looking outward when real threats also dwelt within. Grewal was a prime example of this, his loyalty having been slowly eroded away under the weight of disillusionment. I understood because I had also experienced it; I knew exactly how to address that situation.

Grewal didn’t need convincing—he simply required validation from someone who could relate to the depth of his perceived betrayal. That’s where the Pharmacist came in—not just a familiar face, but a trusted bridge. Through him, I didn’t need to recruit Grewal; I only had to offer up a currency of sentiment, a reason compelling enough for him to stop pretending any part of himself still cared.

Grewal was already coming to terms with his discontentment. Years at the border had hollowed him out; his loyalty had collapsed from the slow decay of being overlooked, sidelined, and passed by. He gave up guarding the gate the moment he realized that no one was ever going to open it for him. By the time the Pharmacist came to me, his partner wasn’t just willing—he was waiting in quiet anticipation.

The Face of Deception

The Pharmacist had briefed me on the type of profile that, according to Grewal, would pass through customs without raising a single eyebrow. The safest bet was a retired couple in their mid-sixties or older, white, slow-moving, with maps on the dashboard and a cooler full of sandwiches in the back. The type that border agents barely gave a second glance.

Grewal took his training and reverse-engineered it. He understood the institutional side—what agents were coached to observe, what signs indicated nerves, and what could lead to someone being pulled for secondary inspection. Through messages conveyed by the Pharmacist, Grewal trained our personnel to avoid every one of those cues. It was all done at arm’s length—a ghost teaching ghosts how to disappear—communicating the subtleties through encrypted relays. He instructed them to make eye contact in brief, respectful bursts, keep their hands visible at all times, and speak in tones reserved for asking about a senior discount at a museum. Every gesture was meticulously calculated to appear innocent; nothing abrupt, assertive, or confrontational.

After the first official run, he continued to identify and refine every behavioural tic and instill habits that appeared natural but were engineered for deception. Our drivers didn’t even realize how much of their body language had been manipulated until they had completed the crossing. We chose to take it a couple of steps further, sharpening and expanding the profile: older homosexual men, polite, soft-spoken, and harmless in the eyes of authority. It was genius in its ability to provide camouflage—who’s going to tear apart the RV of a retired gay couple on their way back from wine country? We developed entire backstories for them, complete with photo albums and prescriptions in both names. The devil is in the details, as the saying goes, and they made the deception credible. Golf clubs in the cabin and two matching bicycles strapped neatly to the rear bumper completed the narrative. One glance and the unsuspecting agents would see an unremarkable lifetime of routine, not an international drug smuggling operation.

Of course, our ingenuity extended beyond the surface image. We removed the water tanks and replaced the ceiling panels to create beautifully concealed load compartments. RVs are designed for comfort, not inspection; when fully loaded, each unit could transport nearly 400 bricks of cocaine, pressure-wrapped and precision-stacked into every cubic inch of unused space. A redesign with one goal: maximum payload and minimal detection, transforming the vehicle into a mobile vault, inconspicuous and familiar, yet exponentially more valuable.

With the details of my operations refined to perfection, I decided it was time to present them to Rob Shannon and Devron Quast.

Shannon was sharp and street-smart, possessing a profound understanding of how small decisions could trigger enormous consequences. Although he wasn’t the final authority, he functioned as the first layer of scrutiny for the Hells Angels, the initial filter through whom every plan passed. His approval didn’t guarantee success, but his hesitation certainly signalled risk. In operations where a single misstep could lead to exposure, loss, or indictment, his opinion carried considerable weight. Nothing advanced without his quiet, deliberate assessment.

His long-time friend and associate, Quast, on the other hand, clung to Shannon like a shadow, desperate for light. He craved the proximity not for protection, but for the sake of perception, believing that standing beside Shannon gave him a weight he, and everyone else, was well aware he hadn’t earned.

His worth didn’t lie in loyalty or muscle; it was entirely logistics-related. His family owned the Hyundai dealership in Abbotsford, which meant a constant turnover of vehicles. Buried in the fleet was the real asset: recreational vehicles—rolling bunkers that provided anonymity, plausible cover, and ample space.

Quast declared that he knew the exact personnel to use in this scenario—men who could play their part without faltering. Older and discreet, the type of guys who could seamlessly blend into a crowd or campground without creating a ripple.

Once I discussed the details with Shannon, it needed to be approved by the HA executive level for formal authorization. The senior table did more than review proposals; they dissected them. It was a boardroom built on grudges, where memories were long, forgiveness was rare, and a single blunder could be fatal. The wreckage of past betrayals influenced every pitch, with the constant fear of exposure and the raw politics of turf and ego. If a plan backfired, it wouldn’t be categorized as a mistake; it would be seen as sabotage, where no one wanted to know why it failed, only who to blame and bury for it.

I remember sitting across from one of the key figures in upper management—the kind of guy who didn’t stress out easily, except this time. He was old-school, hard-coded into a system that valued predictability over innovation and silence over ambition. What I was presenting—a cross-border operation involving a federal border guard and his encrypted handler—sounded too exposed and dangerously reliant on individuals outside of his organization.

He didn’t question the logistics; he’d seen my plans succeed too many times to doubt that aspect. What truly bothered him were the men involved: specifically, Grewal and the Pharmacist. They were, at best, unaffiliated strategic contractors, useful and valuable, yet at the same time autonomous; anyone without a leash posed a risk.

He looked me straight in the eye and said, “If this goes sideways, it’s on you to fix it.”

That wasn’t a warning, it was policy; a clause carved in stone. In organized crime, “fixing it” didn’t mean simply managing fallout—it meant eliminating the source of risk, quietly and completely. If Grewal or the Pharmacist broke protocol or made the wrong kind of noise, it wouldn’t just be my name in question; it could jeopardize the stability of the entire system. The fix wasn’t a casual suggestion; it was an unequivocal obligation.

In that moment, I understood the stakes with immediate clarity. I wasn’t merely endorsing a proposal; I was binding myself to its outcome, guaranteeing not only its success but also its silence.

Gears in Motion

The product, which was always referred to as “gear” in our communications, was supplied by the Mexican cartels. Coordinating with them required entering a high-pressure environment where “mistake” wasn’t part of the vocabulary. These weren’t guys who asked questions nicely or offered second chances. I had to manage egos sharp enough to slice, threats that came disguised as partnerships, and chaos that didn’t wait for permission to erupt. They were ruthless, unforgiving, and precise about their expectations. If a load didn’t arrive, a driver bailed, or a handoff went wrong, there were always consequences.

Beforehand, the cocaine would need to be staged in Southern California, secured by trusted personnel on the ground who must be available to receive, store, and prepare the shipment without raising any suspicion. The drop zones were constantly changing; sometimes it was a garage, other times a warehouse disguised as a tile distributor. Occasionally, it was a trailer situated in the middle of a Six Flags amusement park, where a guy named Julio had two pit bulls and enough firepower to start a small war backing him up.

Once the “gear” was confirmed, our drivers had to make the five-day round trip between Canada and California. Almost a week of highway time wasn’t the hardest part, though; it was the waiting. Our drivers would return to their staging area in Washington State, sometimes the day before, sometimes the same day as the crossing—biding their time in motels, RV parks, or truck stops, blending into the background. No one knew for sure if everything was set until the final signal came through. When the moment arrived, they had to be ready to move—no hesitation.

Phase two of the operation was the most high-stakes and hazardous. Grewal’s location wouldn’t be sent until he physically arrived on site. It was only after he was settled into the daily routine of his post that he would signal the Pharmacist, providing the booth number and a tightly controlled window of time for the crossing. That was the safety measure; too much advance notice meant too much risk.

Everyone involved was equipped with Phantom Secure Network BlackBerrys, which featured PGP encryption and remote kill switches. These devices were assigned codenames by the manufacturer. The Pharmacist, also known as “Dong” and later “Spade,” sent all relevant intel directly to me. There was no unnecessary chatter or cloak-and-dagger theatrics—just raw coordinates, tasking directives, and concise confirmations.

As soon as the intel was out, I had mere minutes to initiate a series of actions that had to occur with absolute precision. The intensity of the situation weighed heavily on me, every decision felt like a tight wire ready to snap, my mind racing through endless calculations, backup plans, and escape routes. My stomach was in knots, a constant reminder of what was at stake. This was the moment of truth, the point of no return.

It was a rare, almost unnatural quiet—the kind that arises when everyone knows their role and executes it without question. The chain of command functioned flawlessly, each link responding with the same deliberate urgency. It was as if the entire operation had been modelled in a simulator, resembling the opening phase of a well-planned assault.

Success, whether in the corporate world or the shadowy realms of organized crime, has always involved more than simply reaching the endpoint. It’s about how you get there, the path you forge to cross that line, and the intricate systems you establish to ensure you don’t get caught along the way.

In my world, where survival and victory are equally intertwined, every detail matters. The flawless execution of this operation isn’t a matter of luck or chance—it’s the result of years spent understanding the system from the inside out and exploiting its weaknesses. Every move has been meticulously calculated, and every contingency has been planned with precision, not only to address the known risks but also to accommodate those unexpected variables that always seem to emerge at the worst possible moment.

In organized crime, you didn’t simply follow orders or adhere to doctrine. You worked around it, adapted it, and most importantly, ignored it when it hindered your progress. While rules, regulations, and expectations held others back, trapping them in systems designed to maintain control and order, we carved our own way of operating. Our approach bypassed doctrine, rendering it obsolete. Our systems were crafted to stay under the radar, avoiding unnecessary attention. We developed invisible frameworks, layering them over conventional structures to operate in the shadows. No one would have guessed how we functioned; the way we navigated the system stemmed from decades of familiarity with its inner workings, exploiting every weakness, flaw, and gap in the structure.

While law enforcement and other organizations adhered to their prescribed methods, we developed our own. The doctrines of others became their disadvantage, a glaring gap in their strategy that we could exploit at will. They were too focused on following procedures and ticking off boxes, whereas we acted in ways that no one had anticipated. We didn’t need to be faster, stronger, or more intelligent—we just had to be one step ahead of their predictable patterns.

We developed systems and operational methods that bent the rules without breaking them, leveraging the weaknesses of the established order as stepping stones rather than obstacles. We did more than hide in the cracks; we became the cracks themselves, slipping through unnoticed. No cameras, no audits, no red tape, just pure, unyielding momentum.

As the operation progressed, I could sense the weight of what we were doing. It wasn’t just about finishing a mission; it was about proving our system was effective and superior to the conventional world’s. That in our hands, the very frameworks others relied on could be transformed into something unrecognizable, something that broke through the limitations they had set for themselves.

In the world of organized crime, that kind of precision wasn’t just rare, it was lethal.

Chapter 18

Feds and Choirboys: Ballads of Betrayal

“Never open the door to a lesser evil, for other greater ones invariably slink in after it.”

-Baltasar Gracias

It was July 24, 2007, and the Southern California heat lingered as shadows began to stretch across Interstate 5, long and deliberate, replacing the shimmering daytime mirages. Anaheim to Orange County, just another route in the drug trade’s complex circulation system, but that night, one of our key arteries were severed.

At first glance, the RV appeared to blend in - clean, quiet, and unremarkable. Yet for some reason, California Highway Patrol Officer Carlos Marzocca decided he needed to take a closer look. Whether it was instinct, experience, or just bad luck, he hit the switch, activating his lights and siren.

As soon as I realized the pings from my men had ceased, I felt my chest tighten, and my brain began to whirl. We had protocols in place, including coded messages sent every three hours. No news was not good news; it was a silence that warned of impending disaster. That RV was supposed to be making its way north through California, but the signal had gone dead, and in our line of work, darkness never arrives without trouble following close at its heels.

I got in touch with my right-hand man, AJ, and asked him to meet up. Rob Shannon was out of the loop - he was on a fishing trip with his stepdad and unreachable. It wasn’t like him to miss anything, but timing doesn’t ask for permission when things go sideways. I called Quast and told him to bring anyone who was in the area. We ended up gathering in a Vancouver park, drawn together by a raw sense of urgency that comes when you know things are about to fall apart. It felt like time was standing still.

In the meantime, Ian Anderson’s wife had arrived at Quast’s house. No warning call, she appeared on his doorstep, pale and trembling. Quast told me that the expression on her face told the whole story before she could even say a word. Her voice had cracked when she finally spoke, as if she were choking on the truth; they’d been caught.

Ian Anderson and Donald Jezequel were in custody.

As this news was relayed to me, each word felt like a punch to the gut. The silence that followed was grimly suffocating, every face around me telling the same story: the crushing awareness that this wasn’t just a minor slip-up or setback that could be fixed with a quick pivot. No, this was something entirely different and much worse.

It was like a crack in a dam. In that instant, we could all sense the impending instability when the entire structure starts to groan, creak, and then collapse. Slowly at first, then picking up speed, until everything you thought was solid-everything you relied on to keep you safe-begins to crumble away, and you’re powerless to stop it.

In that chilling instant of painful realization, I knew my life would change irreparably and forever.

The loss was enormous - $5 million in raw product. Nearly triple that on the street. However, the weight wasn’t just in the numbers; it was in what came next.

The detained men started talking almost immediately.

Jezequel was the first to crack. He spilled the whole story - dates, routes, and quantities. He claimed he’d been making deliveries for us since 2005; a total of four trips, each loaded with a quarter ton of powder.

Nearing retirement age, Jezequel was no ordinary street-level courier. He was the kind of guy who should have been kicking back in a recliner surrounded by grandkids and signed baseballs, not dodging heat on an interstate with bricks in the back. He’d spent decades building his private haven—a lifetime of collecting rare sports memorabilia, including signed jerseys, limited-edition cards, and game-used bats —a tribute to a purer, more straightforward kind of loyalty. It wasn’t enough for him, though. The truth was, he loved the intrigue and cloak-and-dagger nature of our world; it gave him a sense of excitement that his carefully curated collection never could. He thrived on the codes, the planning and secrecy, and in referring to me as “Schwartzkopf”, his version of reverence as if he was saluting a general in a war he was proud to be fighting.

He was too eager and overly loyal in all the wrong ways. He constantly tried to win friends by being excessively flattering and always getting along with everyone; he was the type of person who would laugh at a bad joke to blend in. Maybe that’s what undermined his resolve, not that he had much to begin with. When the pressure finally got to him, that need to belong turned into something desperate, transforming into a panicked survival instinct.

In that shift, everything we had built began to implode. It felt as if the very core of the operation had been contaminated, slowly and irredeemably. The trust, the systems, the years of strategic planning and moves - all vulnerabilities just waiting to be discovered. That moment, and the betrayal it manifested, was the fissure that allowed everything to start unraveling.

He provided them with the framework for the entire operation, and now the blueprint was in their hands. As soon as Jezequel started to sing, Anderson didn’t hesitate to join in, his voice even louder. He kicked the door right off its hinges, ripping everything apart in one brutal, swift motion. It wasn’t just information that was handed over; it was the very mechanisms that held everything together.

Ian Anderson was a complete lackey. Similar to Quast, he was the type of person who believed that being near the action granted him power. He wasn’t driven by ambition or a clear plan; rather, he was motivated by a profound need to feel included and significant. He wanted to belong to something—anything—that could give him the illusion of purpose.

In actuality, he didn’t hustle or grind; he simply hovered in the background like a parasite, clinging to the edges, waiting for someone to tell him what to do next. He wasn’t even worth the effort of manipulation; he was merely there, occupying space and using up oxygen. I recall a time when a cohort of Rob Shannon named Jody York yelled at him, and he pissed himself before fainting.

Quast had brought him on as a low-level assistant, someone to handle routine tasks so that the operation could continue to run smoothly. That was all he was meant to be - a cog in the machine; he wasn’t expected to have any input or impact. His role was straightforward: maintain the status quo, keep things moving, and otherwise, stay out of the way.

Quast and I had met up with Anderson the day before, and I had given him explicit instructions: he was the backup driver, sent south only because the first RV had broken down in Yuba City. His task should have been simple - get down there, pick up Jezequel and the load, and drive back north. There were no tough decisions to make, no heavy lifting to do. He just had to follow orders, stay focused, and drive; but instead, he changed lanes without signalling and merged right in front of Officer Marzocca. It was a rookie mistake and a clear display of dangerously careless incompetence.

The moment the heat was turned up, there was no soul-searching, no inner turmoil. Anderson was a man built for comfort, not consequence; he didn’t weigh his options or ask for a lawyer; he simply opened his mouth and began frantically spewing names like a man drowning in self-pity and fear.

He downplayed his own involvement, presenting himself as an innocent bystander unexpectedly caught up in a situation too big for him to handle. He claimed it was just bad luck and that he was merely doing a favour. He asserted he didn’t even know what was inside the RV, but that was a flagrant lie. He wasn’t naive—he had allowed us to park vehicles loaded with drugs on his property in Langley, BC, accepting his thousand-dollar monthly payments and remaining quiet—until silence was no longer in his best interest.

Then he went further, not just cooperating, but embellishing. As the lies started to stack up, he told the feds that I’d threatened to kill him and his family if he didn’t go down to meet Jezequel. He said I was dangerous, unstable, and vindictive - like I was some unhinged warlord barking threats from his bunker. It was a complete fabrication, but one told with just enough fear to sound believable. That kind of narrative buys a man leverage in court. It paints him as the terrified pawn instead of what he really was: a willing participant and beneficiary. Just like that, he wasn’t merely complying with the feds; he was rewriting history to save his skin - a coward’s desperate attempt to shave a few years off his sentence.

He supplied the authorities with everything... including Grewal.

In doing so, Anderson became the catalyst for the collapse of the operational perimeter, and with that, the illusion of control I had spent years perfecting shattered. Everything I had built—quietly and meticulously, under layers of protocol and paranoia—was now exposed and vulnerable.

There was no more insulation or opportunity for misdirection. Jezequel and Anderson hadn’t just given up the entire system; they had surrendered names, and as a result, they completely dismantled the very architecture that had kept us one step ahead for so long.

Things got even worse after I had confirmed that they had been arrested. I immediately notified Phantom Secure to wipe their encrypted devices remotely, but it was too late. They had already handed everything over to the feds, including the passwords that exposed every message I had sent them. Every enigmatically worded detail and subtle hint of my involvement was now out in the open.

Standing there in the aftermath, I realized something crucial: once the door’s been torn from its frame, you can’t lock it again. The damage was devastating, and it wasn’t just about operations - it was also personal. The trust that had once protected me had turned into a weakness. It felt like the ground beneath me was giving way, with nothing but darkness ready to consume me.

My name was no longer just whispered in the shadows of law enforcement. Now it was the title of a file sitting on a desk in a federal prosecutor’s office, redolent with statements and accusations. I wasn’t a ghost in the system anymore, slipping through the cracks and avoiding detection. No, I’d been elevated to something far worse - a target. Every move I made was now being tracked, scrutinized, and dissected.

My mind was a whirlwind of questions: How much did they know? How far had the leaks spread? Was this the end of the line? It hit me like a ton of bricks. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. Every sound outside was a possible indicator that they were watching me, and every phone call could have had a double meaning. I caught myself constantly checking my rearview mirror, scrutinizing faces in crowds, and seeing something to fear in every shadow. It wasn’t just paranoia, it was preparation.

It was a surreal feeling watching my world crumble again, yet still pretending everything was going to be fine. I had to keep up the appearance of composure because as soon as I acknowledged my fear, it would become real and consume everything I touched.

When I discovered that both Anderson and Jezequel had dropped my name, it hit me hard—I should’ve seen it coming. I did see it coming, but greed has a way of overwriting instinct, silencing the voice that is meant to warn you: this is reckless, not just a risk. I understood the type of men they were, their allegiance and arrogance merely a facade—the kind of men who talked big and folded quickly—yet I had still included them in my schemes.

By ignoring my instincts, I had betrayed myself long before they ever had the chance to. I mislabelled desperation as loyalty, interpreting their ambition as hunger rather than a warning. I allowed the possibility of growth - the potential for scale and reach - to drown out every alarm bell. I made excuses for their cowardice, thinking I could manage, contain, and utilize them, but their bravado was nothing but bullshit, empty noise with no substance. Jezequel and Anderson didn’t just fold, they defected; and once you cross that line, there’s no coming back.

That whole episode made me recognize the price of lying to myself. Those two didn’t just rat me out; they exposed the fact that I’d sold out my own instincts for a shot at something bigger. In life, that kind of betrayal-the one you inflict upon yourself-is the one that leaves the ugliest scars.

The fallout was instantaneous, the tension in the group growing palpable and dangerous. I could feel it permeate every conversation, every awkward silence, and every furtive glance. The atmosphere grew heavy with angry suspicion, and there were serious discussions about making both of them disappear.

This was the part that movies never seem to get right. The conversations that took place were quiet and precise, revolving not around the “if” but the “how and when,” mired in cold logic and stripped of sentiment. It was never about revenge; it was about eliminating the risk and the blunt, ruthless calculations that follow treachery. It wasn’t motivated by bloodlust, but by the reality that sometimes restoring balance requires brutality. We all knew what needed to be acknowledged, even if no one was willing to say it out loud. These conversations skirt around words yet still carry the full weight of consequence. In organized crime, almost nothing can be mended once it’s broken; mistakes aren’t correctable, and grief is a luxury reserved for civilians. You must keep moving even when you’re wounded, and lead while being hunted; you may bleed, but you can never stop.

You act because hesitation isn’t just dangerous, it’s often fatal. Every weak link they strive to exploit doesn’t just trace back to you - they become the embodiment of you: your drug trafficking network, your reputation, and eventually, your prison cell.

I was no longer confronting hypotheticals, I was bracing for eventualities.

I turned my attention to the RV that had broken down—the original, reconfigured one still sitting in a California garage, supposedly repaired. I needed to know what would happen when it pulled up to the border crossing. Quietly, I arranged for Frederick Davey, the driver who typically accompanied Jezequel, to bring it back into Canada, trying to keep the maneuver as discreet as possible. As far as I knew, it hadn’t been flagged, but we all knew that there was no chance that it wasn’t compromised. The vehicle had to have been exposed, one way or another, so the question wasn’t whether it had been hit, but how deep the breach had gone.

The motorhome was waved aside and underwent an extensive secondary inspection that lasted for hours; it wasn’t just a cursory glance; they took their time, methodically examining every square inch. Davey watched as they carefully lifted the floor and removed the ceiling panels, revealing the hidden storage compartments. The meticulousness of the search confirmed the worst-case scenario. The weight of this settled over me. What had begun as a simple test had turned into a loud, unforgiving corroboration that the damage was far more widespread than I had ever anticipated.

The RV was parked on Sumas Way in Abbotsford, right next to a Motel 8, abandoned there like a ghost. That vehicle, once a vessel for a criminal enterprise, now stood as a monument to its collapse. It sat there silent, still and radioactive, as if the story it carried was too heavy to move.

Chapter 19

A Greek Tragedy

After the arrests in California, we didn’t back off; we intensified our efforts. Every seizure, headline, and knock on the door foretold the grim reality that time was running out, but instead of retreating, we dove headfirst into the chaos. We weren’t planning for the future - we were using up everything to fuel the present at a scorched-earth pace, extracting whatever value remained before the structure crumbled completely.

Jezequel and Anderson’s arrests struck hard, both strategically and personally. Quast had spoken directly with both of them, who were now pointing fingers, each accusing the other of being a rat. It was a classic case of deflection; desperate, predictable, and potentially explosive. This confirmed what I already knew: the breach wasn’t just external, it was primarily internal.

That realization shifted something within me; the threat had transcended logistics and become existential. Their betrayal wasn’t confined to a moment; it was a live current flowing through the network, spreading in ways none of us could fully perceive. This was no longer merely about damage control; it was about survival, and as all of this sank in, my paranoia melted into clarity and cold, undeniable fear. Not the kind that pokes at your conscience in the quiet hours, but the sort that pummels your ego and informs you that the damage is already irreparable and irreversible. The arrests weren’t anomalies; they were accelerants, and all I could do was brace for what would come next.

Meanwhile, we knew we now had no future to protect, which left us with only opportunities to seize. The game plan shifted dramatically; there was no more cautious timing, no more waiting for the perfect moment. The moment was now, or it might never come. We hastened our pace, streamlined our strategies, and increased our loads, having once staggered them. Our system no longer functioned in a steady rhythm - it surged with high voltage and impending doom.

With every move, I felt a sense of urgency, but it wasn’t just fear that was pushing me forward - it was my newfound lucidity. I wasn’t in the dark about what would happen next; I knew exactly how this would play out, so I decided to write the final chapters myself. There was another factor that overrode the clarity - it was pure greed. That voice inside you that drowns out all others and assures you there’s still one more run, one more payout. It was about draining every last drop of blood from a system we knew was on its last legs.

Back then, I told myself I was being strategic, calculating, and methodical. But deep down, I knew the truth was darker - my obsession was fueled by the thrill, the risk, and the power that came with handling millions while staying just out of reach. That’s the clever thing about greed, it can redefine itself; it slips into your thought patterns, disguising itself as drive and purpose, but in reality, it’s a glutton that never stops feeding until it has consumed everything.

In the past, backup plans were a necessary matter of contingency. What were once merely fallback options kept in reserve became part of our daily routine. We structured our operations as independent systems, dividing them into isolated segments, each sealed off from the others.

Drivers were only aware of their section of the route, without knowledge of the starting point or final destination. Loaders completed assignments without understanding the bigger picture.

Couriers employed secret codes that changed constantly, resetting at least every week, sometimes daily, ensuring that if one part of the operation was compromised, the rest remained secure.

Each staging location had a backup plan in place, and every plan B had its own undisclosed alternate. If a drop was in jeopardy, the secondary site was already established, its coordinates encrypted in a separate device known only to the route supervisor. Even vehicles were swapped out after every trip, cleaned, and then repurposed for the next one. Nothing lasted long enough to form a pattern.

By now, our operation was deeply steeped in paranoia. We no longer used long-term safe houses; instead, we relied on temporary warehousing sites, mostly rundown rentals or properties up for sale, each one functioning for just a few days. We couldn’t rely on phone numbers; instead, we employed rotating encrypted devices on secure networks, conversations revolving around keywords slipped into casual chats. There were no longer fixed routes; we navigated fluid corridors, adapting based on geography, traffic cameras, local law enforcement, and our now questionable instincts. Exposure was no longer a risk but rather a fundamental possibility.

Discipline was the key to our continued survival and a necessary burden we all carried, every single minute of the day. When someone let it escape their grasp, it didn’t fall softly; it burst chaotically through layers of protocol, careful planning, and years of quiet structure, utterly dispelling the illusion of control.

The flaw wasn’t in the blueprint, which was airtight, solidified by experience, and refined through close calls. The defect lay with the men interpreting it. In a world built on uncertainty, that kind of weakness doesn’t bend—it breaks violently and irreversibly, taking everything down with it. That’s precisely what happened in Everett, Washington.

It was May 16, 2008. Michael Vendoeris was heading to Everett in a beige 2007 Dodge Caravan, his assignment straightforward: collect the load from Gerasimos Skafidas and transport it the final stretch across the border into B.C. Skafidas had made the trip down to Los Angeles days prior, picked up the product, and was now heading north, just as he had on at least five previous occasions. For him, it was business as usual.

Vendoeris was confident in the fact that Grewal was still in play on the Canadian side, and with a border guard facilitating the return, the risk seemed negligible. Illusion, as always, was the first casualty.

He approached the U.S. border, claiming he was headed to Bellis Fair Mall to “check it out.” Maybe he showed anxiety, or perhaps his story didn’t align with his appearance, but something about him sparked suspicion, and the Americans put him on their radar. Surveillance teams were immediately dispatched, following him through the mall and back to his van. He didn’t notice them, and soon he was on a direct course to the rendezvous point at the Days Inn.

They watched as Skafidas pulled up beside him, and they observed six large suitcases being transferred from one vehicle to the other in broad daylight. There was no attempt at subterfuge or even a hint of discipline - just two men moving $8 million in illegal drugs like it was lost luggage on a curb.

Seconds later, they were surrounded. The takedown was swift, precise, and brutal in its efficiency—208 kilograms of cocaine, gone. The result was that another artery in our operation was severed, and more names were added to the growing list of assets who couldn’t hold the line.

As with the California bust, Everett was more than just the seizure; it was about the confessions, the betrayals, and the repercussions that followed. Vendoeris and Skafidas started talking. Not weeks later, not days after lawyers had been consulted or pressure applied. No, they began spilling their guts right there on the side of the road, as if their arrest came with a complimentary therapy session.

According to Vendoeris, Bryan Hanna had brought him into the crew. Hanna - also known as “Tomato Face”, a nickname that had stuck after Grewal described him that way while passing through his lane one afternoon - was a familiar figure who often hung around people like my guy AJ. Vendoeris started by flying to L.A. to rent vehicles for Hanna, and then moved on to mid-level courier runs. He admitted that this wasn’t his first interaction with Skafidas; he had made at least five previous trips to Bellingham to pick up loads.

Although he was never meant to be more than a delivery boy, once in custody, he gave them a full rundown of the operation. He identified Hanna as his primary point of contact and singled out Grewal as the source of access to the Canadian border. He handed over his BlackBerry, which they went through with a fine-toothed comb, finding coded messages with timestamps for safe crossings.

In addition to our gear, AJ had agreed for our driver to carry a load for a third party—an arrangement brokered by one of his close associates. What made the run so important was that he had personally endorsed the mission’s success. In our world, a guarantee means something. It’s not just a formality - it’s a personal assurance that ties reputation and relationships together. If something goes wrong, that covenant doesn’t just disappear; it echoes with consequences that rarely stop at the person who made the promise.

When I found out, it was a huge shock, not because the deal had been made - I knew this kind of side agreement happened - but because of what it signified. A guaranteed crossing done behind my back meant I was now locked into an obligation I hadn’t agreed to. That kind of blind exposure poses a threat. It alters the rules of accountability and blurs the lines between decision-making and consequences.

We had to have a sit-down to discuss how to move forward; in organized crime, these meetings aren’t only about negotiations, they’re about alignment. In this instance, the owner arrived alone, with no entourage or fanfare, just a man trying to project authority through his silence and posture. The tension in the room shifted around him. Although some had suspected that this man had strong ties to the Mafia in Toronto and Montreal in the past, our research had revealed that he was neither formally nor informally affiliated with either. Honestly, we weren’t intimidated. Whatever presence he brought into the room didn’t carry the weight he hoped for. We knew his threats were just noise, so we let him talk, measuring him up and remaining unimpressed by what we saw.

The confiscated load wasn’t just a logistical failure - it was a crack in the image he’d carefully curated. It didn’t immediately affect his operational credibility, but it damaged something far more volatile: his ego. He didn’t see himself as just another player; he viewed himself as someone owed a certain deference. In his eyes, that load wasn’t seized, it was stolen; a distinction that mattered in the circles he aspired to command. The money was secondary, the real currency being reputation. In the underworld, people rarely react to losses with logic; they respond with pride, driven by the fear of appearing weak, and with an overriding need to reassert control.

That’s when things usually start to spiral out of control. In this game, it’s not the failure itself that causes the damage; it’s the resulting actions and reactions.

So, the figure he mentioned - $1.2 million - wasn’t about recouping losses; it was a demand calculated by ego and pride. In his mind, that amount wasn’t open to negotiation; it was purely symbolic. And in that context, when words like ‘respect’ and ‘credibility’ dictate the dollar amount, what follows hasn’t got anything to do with business—it’s personal.

The owner issued some veiled threats, framed as suggestions, replete with implications wrapped in coded language, the kind meant to maintain plausible deniability. The message was obvious: pay up or face the fallout. He wasn’t trying to start a war; he was trying to impress upon me who he believed held the leverage.

I slowly shook my head, not matching his tone, but adopting my own; calm, deliberate, and unmistakably direct. “Ease up on the threats - because if you want to get stupid, we can get stupid too. We’ve got guys like you, just for guys like you.” My statement held no bluster or attempt to provoke, and it landed solidly.

In that moment, the energy shift was palpable, quickly leading to that split second when everyone takes a long, deep inhale and reevaluates the situation. He wasn’t expecting pushback, at least not to that extent. There were no raised voices or cautionary posturing, just quiet resolve.

That’s what unnerves guys like him the most: composure and stillness, signalling readiness

In our world, being ready comes with its own kind of implicit warning.

After the meeting, it was evident on AJ’s face that he was shaken. In my experience, when he felt backed into a corner, clarity rarely followed. He would often retreat into silence, contemplating the implications, trying to regain a sense of control in a situation that no longer obeyed his terms. The tension between appearance and reality weighed heavily on him that day. Again, we found ourselves having very ominous discussions about how to contain the fallout. These weren’t ordinary debriefs—they were conversations laced with dread, where the stakes had become personal, not just professional. Every scenario came with consequences; we no longer had the luxury of avoiding them. They were no longer calculated or strategic—they were grim, reactionary, and carried a quiet desperation just beneath the surface. We weren’t solving problems anymore; we were scrambling to slow the bleeding. As I understand it, the unhappy load owner eventually circled back to the broker who had initially brought the deal to AJ, seeking resolution with the middleman instead.

Damage wasn’t limited to bruised egos and financial losses; it extended to the very core of the organization. The events in California had exposed our weaknesses, and then Everett had confirmed and magnified them. We were looking at impending absolute exposure with an urgency that was no longer theoretical. Every name that was dropped, every coded message that was cracked, was a thread being pulled from the tapestry of what we’d built, its patterns now quickly unravelling. As the pressure intensified, my response was to keep pushing forward, not out of pride, but a basic survival instinct. Once you know time is running out, the only option is to squeeze every drop out before the last grain of sand falls.

What Everett represented to me wasn’t just another minor bust; it was the moment the illusion cracked and fell away. The moment I realized that control, no matter how tightly I thought I held it, was always more fragile than I wanted to admit. Up until then, there was structure; layers of planning and systems based on trust, but Everett shattered that rhythm.

The infrastructure we had in place was abandoned, and the protocols were bypassed by the men who were now in custody. All the forethought, groundwork, and contingencies were made irrelevant the moment they chose panic over purpose. It was about the fragility of people placed in a reality too big for them, and once that fracture opened, nothing I had built could withstand it.

Chapter 20

Cryptic Pings and a Penguin’s Sting

It was just a former poultry farm at the corner of Peardonville and King Road in Abbotsford. There was nothing about it that seemed suspicious or out of the ordinary, and that’s exactly why it was perfect for our purposes. One barn served as a garage for trucks from the owner’s hauling business, but the other barn was a different story—it housed a collection of high-end imported vehicles.

At first, the setup looked harmless enough. The property owner had been bought off, so I assumed it was a typical arrangement—compensation for keeping quiet. What mattered more to me was who had access and who didn’t. The first barn became our unofficial meeting spot; a place where deals were hashed out, money changed hands, and the air always reeked of diesel, damp wood, and tension.

The guy storing the cars was a peculiar character. Short, stocky, and in his mid-fifties, he dressed like a man who hadn’t updated his wardrobe since the early ‘90s: faded slacks, scuffed loafers, and collared shirts two sizes too big, unbuttoned just a touch too far. He always wore sunglasses, even in the shade, and walked with his chest puffed out, as if he had something amazing and life-changing to share with the world. We joked that he looked like a penguin—an unflattering yet accurate physical description. What made my hackles rise was his salesman vibe—the kind that invaded your personal space, leaned in too close, patted you on the back a bit too often, and acted like your best friend after five minutes of small talk. Something about his demeanour, the way he skirted around direct answers, always felt like he was calculating what he could extract from the conversation. I didn’t trust him, even though Quast endorsed him, saying his father knew the guy, too. I figured it was some car business connection, but the fact that Quast vouched for him only deepened my suspicions. I had always harboured doubts about Quast, and by extension, anything or anyone he brought into the fold. He had a way of choosing to support people that felt less like insight and more like recklessness. The Penguin was also friendly with Shannon, which only added to my unease, but I kept my misgivings to myself for the moment.

Then he purchased Shannon’s Hummer, paying $5,000 above the asking price, which raised another red flag in the back of my mind. In our world, nobody overpays for anything—especially not a vehicle—unless it’s part of a plan. I was familiar with this tactic from my time in law enforcement, where I’d seen it used repeatedly to build false credibility. There’s even a saying in organized crime: only cops pay full price. They want you to believe overpayment indicates generosity, but I know that it signals an agenda. It’s how they buy their way in, gaining your trust and spinning a web around you before you realize you’re the prey. I pulled Shannon aside after the deal was completed and told him outright that this guy was part of a setup. I could sense it in every interaction—how he used misdirection and stalled whenever he answered direct questions. I was emphatic, wanting no part of whatever they were concocting with him, but Shannon dismissed it, thinking I was being paranoid. I knew it was my instincts buzzing, and I’d learned the hard way to trust them more than anything. What Shannon viewed as a good deal, a gesture of friendship, I saw only as bait. I wasn’t wrong.

Quast was the main advocate for merging our operations with the Penguin, pushing hard and dismissing my concerns, like Shannon, as nothing more than paranoia. Despite my gut telling me something wasn’t right, the others let him in—not entirely, but enough to be a problem. He never actually attended our meetings, but every time we left the barn, he’d be there, loitering near the exotic cars, pretending to fix something. Always watching, always within earshot. Once the Penguin had his hooks into Quast, it wasn’t hard for him to move in closer under the guise of a business opportunity. He slowly prepared Quast and Shannon, hinting that his contact was a corrupt Homeland Security agent with connections and power south of the border. At first, it was subtle but deliberate, dropping anecdotes and innuendos to tempt and entice. Quast bought into it quickly, and from there, it was a short leap to coax Shannon in. Eventually, the conversation turned to introducing them to his so-called friends—U.S. buyers who could supposedly move large sums of cash through American casinos. Then, the Penguin took the next step, suggesting they travel to the United States to meet his people in person.

That should have been yet another red flag; from the moment I heard it, every instinct I had began frantically sounding alarms. That kind of introduction isn’t made lightly; it’s a tactical move engineered to either impress or intimidate, and in our world, it’s the card you play when you’re desperate or dangerous—often both. I wasn’t impressed; I was pissed. I’d been on the other side of those setups, and I knew what it looked like when someone was trying to manufacture credibility. I had used that very move myself in covert operations; the rhythm of deception isn’t subtle when you’ve lived it, and this one was hitting every beat. I told Shannon I wanted to meet this so-called dirty agent, but I wanted it to happen on our turf—in Canada. That was the test. The guy failed; he wouldn’t cross the border, claiming it was too risky. Then he fed us a story, saying he had a criminal record in Canada from a drinking and driving conviction years ago. That was supposed to explain his refusal, but to me, it didn’t track. How the hell does someone with any kind of criminal record—even one on foreign soil—get into Homeland Security? It was a warning signal so loud it was blaring. That confirmed it for me: he wasn’t who he said he was; no real Homeland agent running black ops would blink at crossing a border if the payout was worth it. The whole thing was wrong on every level.

Then came another anomaly—Shannon, who had once been flagged at the border just for blinking the wrong way, was now effortlessly traversing one of the continent’s most scrutinized crossings with the Penguin in tow. It was supposedly all arranged by the dirty agent. Quast? He bragged like an overly impressed teenage girl about how the Penguin had cleared the path with his connections. At first, it felt utterly implausible, but the more I thought about it, the more their gullibility began to make sense. They were used to working with me, an ex-RCMP officer with ties to a compromised Canadian border guard. Maybe that’s what made the setup so believable for them. Perhaps that was the exact narrative Homeland Security piggybacked on—familiar enough to be convincing, dangerous enough to fall for. I didn’t trust any of it. Not the agent, not the circumstances, and definitely not the timing.

He had convinced them that he had access to a money laundering system through Las Vegas casinos. Quast became utterly invested, acting as if he’d been given the keys to a kingdom. He couldn’t stop talking about his new contact, constantly boasting about the opportunities that were coming his way. Shannon, however, was more guarded and subdued; something had changed for him. There was a clear lack of enthusiasm in his response when Quast extolled the virtues of his new friend. It was as if part of him already sensed where this was headed, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it—or he knew, but didn’t want to voice it aloud.

I remember one call in particular when Quast had this agent on speakerphone from his office. I was in the room and provided Quast with a set of pointed questions to ask, ones that would cut through the facade if, in fact, there was one. The agent didn’t like this turn of events, hesitating, deflecting, and dodging. Then he suddenly said, “My supervisor is rolling up. I’m going to have to get back to you.” The call ended abruptly as I looked at Quast and reiterated my stance, “I don’t trust this guy.”

By this time, Quast and Shannon had made several trips south of the border to meet with the Penguin’s contact. It was a textbook ‘Mr. Big’ play—the kind of elaborate, multi-layered sting operation law enforcement launches when they want to lure someone deeper into a setup masquerading as possibility. Quast walked directly into it, blind and bold, entranced by the illusion of scale and legitimacy. Unfortunately, Shannon followed closely behind.

After multiple meetings, the agent hadn’t just established a connection—he had already begun to set a trap. He convinced them it was time to move some product, stating that the opportunity was prime and practically risk-free. He proposed sending a shipment of marijuana across the border, assuring them that the infrastructure was in place, the buyers were reliable, and the route was secure. To sweeten the deal, he didn’t just offer a pipeline; he also provided the truck and driver. He told them his guy would handle the pick-up personally, ensuring everything went smoothly and discreetly. Of course, Quast was all in—seeing it as the next step in growing the operation. Shannon, while still more reserved, didn’t resist. Whatever combination of greed, ego, or blind trust affected their judgment, they both signed off, not realizing they had just walked their first shipment straight into the hands of a federal task force.

The first load that crossed into Washington State was promptly impounded—full seizure, arrests, the works. I assumed that would put an end to the operation, but, despite everything, he somehow managed to persuade them to send another shipment. This time, the agent said they needed to provide the driver since his had been compromised in the first takedown. Richard Jensen, another long-time associate, was brought in to deliver the load. Quast sold him on the idea, assuring him that the entire infrastructure was still intact and that he’d be driving through the border with no questions asked. The Americans also wanted Shannon and Quast to come in person. They claimed it was to smooth over the fallout from the first shipment—to clarify, rebuild trust, and finalize what was supposed to be a guaranteed route moving forward. It was presented as a formality, but to me, it had all the signs of a pressure move.

On the morning of June 5, 2008, I received a text from Rob Shannon. “Hey bro, I’m heading out to take care of some business. I’m not sure how it’ll turn out or if I’ll be coming back.” I replied immediately to his ominous message, asking for more details, but I never heard back.

I drove to the Hyundai dealership, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles, the tension coiling in my gut. I was looking for Quast, but more importantly, I was seeking answers.

Everything about that text from Rob didn’t sit right; it felt too final, like a man bidding farewell without saying goodbye. When I pulled into the lot, it looked like business as usual, but that calm only deepened my unease.

Inside, I found the assistant sales manager, Phillip Stone, who always lingered on the outskirts of our crew like a groupie. As with most car salesmen, he was a smooth talker, more comfortable with lease agreements than sticky situations, but he was Quast’s guy and knew enough to stay in the loop. When I asked where they were, he barely looked up. “They went down south,” he said as if they’d just stepped out for a quick errand, “taking care of some business.”

No details or concerns, just that flat, empty tone, as if it were just another day at work. It wasn’t, not for me, and most definitely not for Rob, and the way Stone brushed it off only added to my anxiety. I knew then that something was about to go down, just not the what, when, or where. I went about my day, trying to shake off my trepidation, but the text from Rob remained lodged in my mind like a splinter. Later that afternoon, I was sitting in the chair at Ink Boy Tattoo Studio in Abbotsford when another associate, Matt Schrader, walked in, appearing unhappy and agitated.

“Have you heard from Rob?” he asked, his voice full of concern. “His girlfriend’s been calling for hours—he always picks up for her.”

I shook my head and pulled out my phone. “No, but look at this,” I said, showing him the message I’d received that morning. His eyebrows shot up as he read Rob’s words, clearly interpreting them the same way I had.

Nothing more was said as we climbed into Matt’s car and drove straight back to the dealership. Upon entering the lot, I noticed that the previous calm had given way to chaos. The place was now bustling with news vans, camera crews, and reporters swarming like vultures around a fresh kill. Something had exploded here, and everyone wanted a piece of the wreckage.

I glanced at Matt, who was scrolling anxiously through his phone. “We need to go. Now. There’s something we don’t know about, and I guarantee there are cops posted up around here waiting to see who shows.”

He nodded, eyes still glued to the screen. “There it is,” he said, “Two Canadians with ties to the Hell’s Angels arrested after a three-year investigation.”

As we drove away, I sank into my seat, gazing past the growing crowd of media minions, my thoughts immediately turning to Rob.

It wasn’t just about the headlines denouncing the Hells Angels or the fallout they would trigger. This was personal. I saw Rob as more than just a trusted associate. We had built something together, weathered tough times, and made moves that only a select few could truly comprehend... but to be honest, I no longer understood the moves he had been making recently. I had spoken up more than once, sharing my concerns and highlighting the issues. It wasn’t that he didn’t hear me; he couldn’t shake off Quast or his misguided loyalty to him. With his eyes wide open but his heart tied to a lost cause, he had agreed to move forward with the ill-fated plan.

After a brief conversation with Rob’s stepdad a few days later, I realized that Quast had started cooperating almost immediately after his arrest. Like the men who had fallen before him, he didn’t lawyer up or try to stall for time—he began talking and didn’t stop. Quast wasn’t just some low-level operative moving goods around; he was woven into the entire operation from start to finish. He was familiar with the logistics, safehouses, runners, and codes. He knew where the gear was stashed, who had access to the cash, and which phones were safe. When the initial four arrests hadn’t provided the whole picture, Quast complied and filled in the gaps, not just confirming what they already knew but also revealing everything they hadn’t. The jig was well and truly up.

At that moment, the voice of my long-lost friend Billy Woo invaded my thoughts, providing an eerily fitting sound bite from my memory banks.

“Loyalty,” he used to say, “isn’t tested when things are good—it’s tested when everything goes to hell in a handcart. That’s when you see who was real and who was renting space.”

Quast had done nothing but rent space the entire time. In hindsight, the signs had always been there, and just like all the other red flags over the past few years, they were ignored by our arrogance.

The Penguin—we used to laugh at the nickname we’d given him when we thought we were on top of everything. That guy with a barn full of shiny, expensive cars and an odd appearance seemed like a joke, but behind the sunglasses he always wore, there was something more: patience, discipline, and a sense of purpose.

He wasn’t a clown; he was an agent, working deep undercover for Homeland Security.

Quast was the first to fall for it—hook, line, and sinker. He was taken in by both the Penguin and his handler, Agent Greg Small, also from Homeland Security, who played his role flawlessly. He moved with the confidence of someone who had long crossed the line; slick, cynical, and just burnt out enough to appear convincing. He dropped hints about internal corruption and spoke of greasing wheels, bending policy, and making problems vanish. He communicated in half-truths, vague enough to sound ominous yet detailed enough to lend authenticity. Quast, always eager for shortcuts and seduced by the illusion of power, devoured it with relish.

Rob is the type of guy who bears the weight for those he cares about. He had done it quietly his entire life, but this time he was stepping into quicksand —and he knew it. His cryptic message to me confirmed all my fears; he went along, not out of conviction, but out of loyalty, a deeply ingrained sense of duty to someone he considered a friend. He didn’t believe in the plan, but he trusted Quast. Ultimately, that would prove to be his undoing.

After they were taken into custody, Quast and Shannon were placed in separate units at the Sea-Tac Federal Detention Centre in Washington State. By chance—or perhaps by design—they encountered each other in the hallway during a scheduled legal visit. What happened next still blows my mind. Apparently, Quast leaned in, acting as casual as ever, and had the nerve to ask Rob to take the blame for everything. Just like that, no hesitation or shame. He pointed out that Rob didn’t have kids, as if fatherhood were some sort of moral exemption that made him the more logical survivor.

That was Quast, selfish and self-serving to his core. He wore loyalty like a disguise, something to don when it served his purpose, but the instant the situation shifted, he cast it aside and scrambled onto the back of whoever was closest to keep his own head above water. For him, loyalty wasn’t something to be repaid; it was an opportunity for exploitation, regardless of who you were or had been to him.

Quast’s cooperation didn’t merely expose our vulnerabilities—it defined them. He filled intelligence gaps and transformed them into prosecution strategies, with our blind spots becoming their blueprints. That was the cost of his betrayal, and I knew I’d be paying it for a long, long time.

It wasn’t just about Shannon and Quast, Jezequel and Anderson, or Vendoeris and Skafidas; it was everything that had led me here: every rationalization and compromise, every time I told myself, “this is just how the game works,” while stepping further away from the man I once was. I had spent years navigating two lives—one built on duty, the other on deception—and somewhere along the way, I stopped being able to discern where one ended and the other began.

Professionally, I had ascended through an institution that valued compliance and discouraged independent thinking. I had learned to stifle my doubts, conform to expectations, and hide behind a facade. Then I entered a world where appearances were paramount, and the only rule that really mattered was influence. Initially, it felt like liberation, being in control on my own terms; however, the reality is that I had merely exchanged one set of constraints for another. This one just came with a more refined fit and greater payoff.

Yes, I was aware of the price I was paying. I’d been shouldering it quietly for years—through sleepless nights that gave way to numb mornings, strained relationships I no longer had the energy to fix, and the slow, steady hardening of who I’d become. Each compromise had chipped away at the person I once believed in. I carried all this in silence, telling myself it was the cost of survival, ambition, and control. But now, the debt had finally come due—and it wasn’t just financial or legal. It was personal. It was everything I’d buried coming back to claim me.

Chapter 21

All Bets Are Off

In the early morning hours of April 1, 2009, I received a text from the Pharmacist on my PGP BlackBerry, stating that he needed to meet urgently. That kind of message never came without some consequence attached. At the time, I was staying at a rundown hotel in Wilcox, Saskatchewan, with my son, who was playing in the Western Canadian Bantam Hockey Championships.

Before I called him back, I paused and took a deep breath. I glanced over at my son in the other bed, curled up under the blankets, sleeping as if the world couldn’t touch him. After receiving that message, the silence in the room felt heavier and the air thicker, as if telling me to brace myself. These hockey trips had always been so much more than just games; they were stolen moments of normalcy, small reprieves from a life I couldn’t explain to him. They were our way of holding on—him to a father who kept disappearing, and me to a version of myself I wasn’t sure I could keep alive much longer.

Yes, I felt proud, but that pride had to fight hard not to be overshadowed by guilt—the kind that creeps in when you consider how you’ve been trying to evade the consequences, knowing they’d always catch up. He had no idea about the kinds of calls I received, the burden they carried, or how each one ultimately took me further away from him, no matter how many road trips we took.

That moment was a glimpse into everything I stood to lose, and that I already felt was slipping away; not in one dramatic crash, but slowly and gradually. I sat there watching him sleep, and all I could think was, “He deserves better. Have I already taken too much from him without meaning to?”

I knew this call was an obvious warning sign; time was running out, and the choices I had made were finally coming back to haunt me. As I sat there clutching my phone, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this fragile, quiet moment was already over, and I had no idea how to live with that.

“Hey, we got a serious problem,” the Pharmacist’s voice cracked over the line. “The cops down south are telling our friend that he’s indicted, and they’re going to extradite him. I need to meet up with you right away.”

My heart skipped a beat. I recognized that tone—the mix of fear and desperation that often followed damage that was already done. The Pharmacist wanted to sit down, but we both knew it wouldn’t solve anything for Grewal. Meetings were just empty gestures to fool ourselves into thinking we were still in control. Usually, the people around the table weren’t looking to fix anything—they were trying to shift the blame onto someone else.

I told the Pharmacist I couldn’t meet until I got back from Saskatchewan, which only served to heighten his anxiety. To calm him, I offered to send AJ in my place. I asked for details, and he relayed that Grewal had contacted him the day before. The Pharmacist had been spending time in California, trying to distance himself from the growing tension back home. He hoped that putting a thousand miles between himself and the fallout would insulate him from what was coming, but the Golden State didn’t offer refuge; it merely delayed the inevitable. When Grewal’s call came, it yanked him out of whatever illusion of safety he’d been clinging to and prompted his panicked return to Canada. Grewal had informed him that Special Agent Greg Small from ICE had confirmed the existence of an indictment against him. He thought it was a joke until Small offered to meet him in no man’s land at the Peace Arch border crossing, where he showed him the paperwork and laid it all out: cooperate or face severe consequences. Give them names, and he’ll never see the inside of a prison cell.

I asked AJ to meet with the Pharmacist as soon as possible because if we left him hanging, he might advise Grewal to take Small’s offer seriously. AJ agreed and suggested a hotel we’d used before. Just before hanging up, he asked, “What if he’s wearing a wire?” We both knew the Pharmacist wasn’t suited to this world. He tried to play at it, sure, but when things got real, his instincts were always about self-preservation.

“Tell him to leave his phone in the car,” I said, “and when he gets up to the room, put a strap to his head and make him strip. We’re not fucking playing games with these fucking clowns.”

Three hours later, I received his text: “Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, we’re all getting extradited!!!”

“What happened?” was all I messaged back. AJ had used up all the expletives.

He informed me that the Pharmacist and Grewal had shown up at the hotel together. He forced them to strip, apparently bringing them to the verge of tears. There were no wires, but Grewal confirmed our worst fears—Small had officially made him an offer; if he gave up the names, he’d avoid the time. The name he wanted most was mine.

“They’re not built for this,” AJ relayed, “the Pharmacist is shit scared. All he’s worried about is whether he’s going down too.”

Small had done his job—plant the seed and let the panic grow.

When I returned to B.C. a couple of days later, I met the Pharmacist in the parking lot of the Starbucks on Sumas Way in Abbotsford. His tone had changed: sharper, angrier, stripped of the panic I had heard in his voice when he had initially made contact. It was as if a switch had been flipped—from frightened to furious, from ally to accuser. He raged about Grewal’s indictment and blamed the guys who had been picked up in California and Washington. “Our bro is going down because your people couldn’t keep their mouths shut.”

I stood there silently as he let his emotional hostility pour out. He spoke like someone whose life was falling apart, but wouldn’t acknowledge that he was more than partially responsible, just wanting someone else to lay blame on. He brought up Grewal’s wife and how her job as a corrections officer might be in jeopardy. He worried about their investments, especially the Vancouver restaurant they’d partnered in, which was now at risk. In his mind, it was all about damage control, appearances, and repercussions.

Next, he made a ridiculous request: he wanted me to take care of Grewal’s family while he was away, pay a monthly allowance, and sign a formal agreement. His voice faltered slightly when he brought it up, but I saw right through his charade. This wasn’t about loyalty; it was about gaining control, a way to bind me to their sinking ship.

I nodded, pretending to listen, and said something vague about taking it to the higher-ups. That was a lie, though. The truth is, my colleagues and I had already discussed what needed to happen with the Pharmacist and Grewal. His demands only confirmed my suspicions, and raising them might have expedited what was already considered a necessary conclusion.

The last time we met was in the parking lot of Castle Fun, just before Grewal turned himself in. The Pharmacist handed me a letter—supposedly from Grewal—swearing loyalty and promising to keep quiet about me. I read it and felt a chill run through me, suspecting it wasn’t real. Later, I discovered it wasn’t; the Pharmacist had written it himself. He thought he was being clever, but there’s a difference between ingenuity and being unscrupulous. He never understood that, mistaking manipulation for strategy and deception for acumen.

During the 2011 Stanley Cup Finals, I spotted him in the crowd at GM Place, so I messaged him and we met up at a concession stand. Grewal had been in custody for months, and his sentencing had been continually delayed, which led me to suspect that he was complying with their terms, so I asked the Pharmacist about it.

He didn’t mince words. “He’s cooperating with them. They’re going to one hundred percent indict you.” Just the cold, hard truth, delivered in an irritatingly flat tone, as if it were simply a fact that didn’t directly affect me. Then, he offered a half-assed excuse about needing to be somewhere and vanished into the crowd.

As he walked away, I stood there watching him go, his back ramrod straight and steps quick, like a coward who throws the first punch and then runs off before anyone can fight back. I should’ve stepped up, called him out, and burned it all down, but I didn’t. I just let him scamper away.

Initially, I tried to convince myself I was gathering my thoughts and staying calm, but it was just a facade. The truth is, I froze like a kid being bullied in the schoolyard, unsure whether to fight back or break down in tears. My jaw tightened and my fists clenched, but my feet remained glued to the ground. I stood there like a statue, swallowing my anger and pretending it didn’t taste bitterly vile.

By the time I found my voice, he was long gone. Maybe that was always the pattern: me taking the hit, him vanishing into the ether, and both of us acting like it never happened.

The Coward’s Proxy

Months later, Satnam Singh Gill—Suthi—called me. We’d known each other since kindergarten. Distantly related on my father’s side, we grew up together in a tight-knit circle of immigrant families where bloodlines blurred and loyal friends meant everything. We played street hockey, tore through berry fields on rusted bikes, and shared the kind of childhood that leaves a bright, colourful imprint. Even now, despite our similar ages, I call him Chacha Ji (paternal uncle in Punjabi), a name that carries more than just unwavering respect. It represents our shared history.

We hadn’t talked in a while, not meaningfully anyway, so when his name appeared on my phone, my mind raced; sure enough, it wasn’t a social call.

“[The Pharmacist] wants to meet,” he said.

I paused, “Why can’t he call me himself?”

There was a beat of silence, then, “He’s worried about his safety.” I detected a faint question mark attached to the end of his reply.

It landed like a brick to the back of the head, not because it surprised me, but on account of how it was so ludicrously on brand. The Pharmacist had always been exceedingly calculating, a master in the art of distancing himself from consequences. Now, he was sending in someone familiar, hoping that our shared past would soften the blow of whatever he had to say.

I recognized it for what it was: fear wrapped in manipulation, a proxy call from a man who no longer had the spine to confront me himself. Not even over the phone.

I stared at the wall and tried to determine what bothered me more—the cowardice of the man making the request, or the fact that Suthi had agreed to be the messenger. He couldn’t know all the details, but the Pharmacist believed that invoking our childhood bond would smooth the way. Unfortunately for him, the exact opposite was true.

About a week later, I met Suthi and the Pharmacist at the Original Joe’s on South Fraser Way in Abbotsford. The moment we sat down, I cut through the bullshit and asked the Pharmacist straight up: “Why did you need Chacha Ji here?”

He paused dramatically. “Because I’m concerned about what I’m going to tell you. Grewal’s planning to pin everything on you. He’s been cooperating with the cops since he surrendered to the U.S.”

I coldly maintained eye contact. “How long have you known this?”

He said it was news to him—that he had only found out during his recent phone calls with Grewal, but I didn’t buy it, not for a second. I leaned in, my voice low and menacing. “How the hell is he supposed to incriminate me without bringing you into it? You’re in just as deep as I am.”

He shrugged a pathetic gesture of denial, shaking his head like it wasn’t his problem.

“Let me get this straight,” I said, “Grewal’s going to perjure himself under oath, dump this whole thing on me, and somehow you come out clean?”

“Yes,” he replied flatly.

“And the letter you gave me the day before he surrendered—did you write it?”

“No,” he said quickly, repeating the original lie, claiming it was Grewal, but I knew the truth.

“What do you want from me?” I asked.

“I just want to live my life, not worry about my kids.”

It was classic Pharmacist—slippery and evasive. He was already trying to extricate himself from the wreckage, rewriting his role as if he’d just been an innocent bystander. I could feel the flames rising in my eyes. I didn’t want to hear another word from him.

I switched to Punjabi—my tone sharper, colder, stripped of all pretense. “Since you brought my family into this, I want him to hear it loud and clear. I’ll carry the weight. I’ll take the charge and do my time. They can skin me alive and throw what’s left in a cage—I still won’t say your name.”

I let that hang for a second, watching his eyes dart uncomfortably away. I wasn’t done, continuing in Punjabi:

“But understand this—if I find out you and Grewal cooked this up together, and your name somehow doesn’t land on any indictment, then all bets are off—Sab kuch khatam (everything is finished). I won’t care about family, history, blood, none of it. I’ll burn every bridge of lies you ever built to keep yourself clean.”

My voice was steady, and every word landed like a sledgehammer. This wasn’t a threat made in anger, but a promise born of clarity. Because if there was one thing I hated more than betrayal, it was cowards who sent other men to take the fall while they played innocent in the shadows.

This meeting was over. I wanted him out of my sight before I did something I could not undo.

Soon after, I received the confirmation I’d been dreading; Grewal had testified before a grand jury, telling the story, under oath, that he and the Pharmacist had concocted. He pointed the finger only at me, naming me as his contact, his handler, and the link that tied everything together.

On January 3, 2014, Brian K. Facklam of the United States Probation Office presented a Presentencing Investigation Report¹⁷ in which he references the following:

“According to Grewal, the CBSA inspector, the defendant recruited him into the conspiracy after the defendant assisted him with troubles which began with his involvement in a significant drug bust of an individual he knew well in the Abbotsford East Indian community. Shortly after the event, Grewal and his family were subjected to repeated threats and intimidation by other members of the community. As a result, Grewal ultimately sought the help of a the defendant, who was known in the community to be a “fixer”. The threats were soon stopped and shortly thereafter Sidhu contacted the defendant and asked him to “return the favor”. Grewal felt obliged to repay Sidhu, and he cooperated with Sidhu’s instructions to allow a vehicle, which he knew contained drugs, to pass into Canada without inspection. The defendant coordinated the loads of drugs going across the border with Grewal, according to his schedule and location at the border. The defendant would then communicate with the organization and the runners to advise when Grewal was in place and at which lane. Grewal would then make sure that the vehicle could get through the border uninspected. Grewal reported that he was paid between $7,000 and $20,000 per load of cocaine that he allowed to pass into Canada.”

As I read the summary, my jaw clenched so tightly that I could feel my pulse in my temples. Grewal had premeditated, rehearsed, and packaged his duplicity in a way that the feds would readily devour. The Pharmacist was entirely erased, leaving no trace of the man who had conceived the plot and helped write the entire script.

I was less than halfway through my stint inside when I had one final conversation with the Pharmacist on a contraband cellphone.

“You were complicit in everything that took place with your rat buddy. Explain how you skated on this. Maybe you’re a fucking rat too?”

No response from the other end, but I could hear his shallow, panicked breaths.

“I want you to remember the promise I made,” I said, my voice low and steady. “All bets are now off.”

A faint voice whined, “What are you talking about, Rob?” Then he hung up without waiting for my answer.

Reflecting on it now, that was their plan all along. I didn’t want to admit it, and had convinced myself I was being loyal, protecting something bigger than myself. But loyalty without conviction is nothing more than dependence and bullshit disguised as virtue, and that is precisely what the Pharmacist and Grewal excelled in. When you use silence and twist the truth as a shield for the guilty, it doesn’t make you noble—it makes you complicit.

I was a rogue ex-cop with deep ties to organized crime, and Grewal and the Pharmacist knew precisely what they had: a scapegoat with just enough history to make the whole situation stick.

Once again, Billy Woo’s words came back to haunt me. “For fuck’s sake, Rob... he’s going to deliver your head on a platter.”

And he did. They both did.

They played me. Grewal sold the story, and the Pharmacist tidied up the loose ends. Together, they choreographed the entire affair with precision—one whispering in the courtroom, the other vanishing into the shadows. It wasn’t just betrayal; it was a deliberate strategy. They handed me over like a gift. And the worst part? I made it easy for them, and that is entirely on me.

17 United States of America vs. Rapinder Singh Sidhu, Docket No:0981 2:11CR00275-001.

Chapter 22

A Voice and the Sudden Silence

August 29, 2012, the day of my arrest is seared into my memory, not because of the fear I faced, but because of who stood frozen just a few feet away. My daughter. She shouldn’t have had to see it—the sharp commands, the weapons aimed at her father, the cold click of steel closing around my wrists. From where she stood, it must have felt like the world had betrayed her, and I was powerless to protect her. I was the reason it was happening.

The look on her face will never leave me. It wasn’t just fear or anger—it was the kind of confusion that eats into innocence and never gives it back. Betrayal, collapse, the shattering of a bond I had sworn to protect. That silence between us cut through me, leaving me hollow and ashamed.

As they pulled me away, I told myself I’d explain it to her one day, that somehow I’d find the words to make her understand. But deep down, I knew no words could ever fully repair that moment. I had destroyed something sacred. Her world tilted because of me, and mine had already caved in long before the cuffs closed around my wrists. That look in her eyes followed me, haunted me, reminding me of what I’d lost and what I had become.

Before I faced the courtroom, the lawyers, the statements, and the crushing weight of the American judicial system, there was the Rivière-des-Prairies Detention Centre (RDP). It was a concrete cage on the outskirts of Montreal where the walls were the colour of stale smoke, and the cold from the metal bunk seeped straight into your bones. Time lost all meaning inside those depressingly grey walls. Hours bled into days, days blurred into weeks, and sleep was fleeting, shattered by the metallic clang of slamming cell doors or the cries of inmates sinking into a despair deeper than I was ready to confront.

Rivière-des-Prairies was more than just bleak architecture; it was a place where life felt permanently on hold. Most of the time, my thoughts were mired in a layer of numbness, where my emotions simmered with alternating fear, anger, regret, and a desperate hunger for human connection. Sometimes, you’d catch another prisoner’s eye and see the same haunted questions grimly reflected back — Who am I in here? What will be left of me when I get out?

Stripped of routine and even the most basic choices, you quickly ceased to be a person and became a case file number, just a judicial problem waiting to be processed. There was a quiet humiliation to it. One that settled under your skin and reminded you that nothing belonged to you anymore — not your actions, not your dignity, not even your thoughts.

RDP reshaped my understanding of hope and despair. The monotony, the sensory deprivation, the erasure of time—all blurred the line between waiting and punishment. Every day, it felt as if a piece of you was chipped away, making you question whether the person you used to be could survive the person you were becoming. Optimism was a fragile, flickering thing, easily obliterated by brutal circumstances. The isolation wasn’t just physical; it was psychological.

I had been in lockup before, having spent almost two months awaiting my assault trial in 2003. Until now, I thought that was long enough to know the pain of being stripped down to nothing, but RDP was a different story. It felt like the end of the line. My previous stint had been tough, but there was always a glimmer of hope that life would continue when the doors opened.

Every legal holdup, every procedural move, and every call from my lawyer all took a toll on me. I was living in a fog of uncertainty, where each conversation felt like it could be my last before I landed in a maximum-security prison. This time, the system wasn’t just detaining me; it was swallowing me whole. The anticipation of the upcoming proceedings in the US pressed down on me like a weight, a slow suffocation that robbed each hour of meaning. I became a bystander in my own life, waiting for foreign decisions to dictate my future.

The looming extradition to the United States cast a much darker shadow. I wasn’t navigating only one legal battlefield; I was caught between two nations, both circling like sharks. Canada had kept me tethered for years, but the Americans demanded their pound of flesh. They were preparing to make their allegations as part of a massive investigation into drug trafficking and conspiracy across the border; a case that was meticulously planned, tactical, and designed for maximum impact.

The only charge still hanging over me in Canada was impersonating a peace officer, as per Section 130(1) of the Criminal Code of Canada. The Crown prosecutor elected to proceed by way of summary conviction, meaning it was considered a minor offence, but you wouldn’t know it from how they handled the case. Over the years, I had made appearance after appearance, each one becoming less about justice and more about endurance. It wasn’t a case anymore; it was background noise, stretched thin over almost half a decade, reminding me that in this system, even the most insignificant cases can be dragged out like a slow punishment.

It all began with a single phone call. No dramatic takedown, no wiretap, no concrete evidence—just a vague and unverified voice on the line. The RCMP focused their attention on it and refused to look away; not only did they want to secure a win, they also wanted me to be held accountable.

November 11th, 2012, was the day I was transported from Montreal to Surrey as a prisoner, four years after the charge had initially been laid. I stepped into that courtroom wearing an orange jumpsuit and shackles, but the real weight wasn’t on my wrists or ankles; it was in the air, in the stares, and in the headlines.

My appearance sparked a media frenzy. I’ve never denied the significance of the media. At its best, it can shine a light on abuse of power, give a voice to those without one, and bring clarity where institutions prefer confusion. However, in my experience, that ideal rarely matches reality.

Too often, the story has mattered more than the truth, and I’ve found myself reduced to a headline, a soundbite, or a character in a narrative that someone else needed to sell. I remember reading about myself and not recognizing the person on the page—just a caricature crafted to fit someone else’s storyline.

What frustrates me most is the imbalance. Accuracy is sacrificed for impact, nuance disappears for the sake of a more straightforward storyline, and reputations are treated like disposable currency in the race for attention. I’ve experienced that distortion firsthand. I know what it feels like to have complexity stripped away so an audience can consume something simple and sensational.

Part of the problem is that too many journalists act more like court stenographers for law enforcement than independent investigators. Instead of questioning authority, they echo it. Official statements are repackaged as news, while the deeper truths that deserve examination are left untouched. This dynamic doesn’t foster accountability; it reinforces the very systems that should be challenged. The consequences are real: public perception is shaped by half-truths, trust diminishes, and those caught in the middle pay the price.

I’ve also witnessed how what’s been printed bleeds into real-world consequences in the world of organized crime. Narratives crafted on the page don’t stay on the page—they fuel egos, reputations, spark retaliation, and ripple into lives already hanging by a thread. Words can harden into violence, and sensational stories can become the spark that escalates real-world conflict.

My issue has never been with scrutiny itself. I’ve spent my life around accountability—sometimes on the giving end and sometimes on the receiving end. What I can’t respect is when the media mistakes spectacle for truth, when they frame optics as fact and call it reporting, and when they trade in drama instead of fairness.

Again, I acknowledge that the media plays a vital role in society. However, I am deeply critical of how often it prioritizes immediacy over integrity and how easily it can reinforce the very power structures it claims to challenge. To me, the media has been less a guardian of truth than a mirror reflecting what sells. And the toll of that, for people like me, has never been abstract—it’s been deeply personal.

That said, I’ve also seen moments when journalism lives up to its promise—when someone takes the time to dig deeper, ask the tough questions, and tell the story in its full complexity. Those moments show what’s possible, even if, in my opinion, they’re too few and far between.

Prosecutor Donna Balyk’s pursuit of the case extended beyond professional boundaries. It was personal for her, evident in her body language, the clipped cadence of her questions, and the way she paced the courtroom. My lawyer, Matt Nathanson, recognized this early in the process and used it to his advantage. He didn’t overdo it, maintaining his approach, knowing that her intensity would influence her strategy. Every time he allowed a witness to fumble or casually revealed a contradiction, it struck her like a blow to the ego.

Repeated delays in the continuations meant that my trial remained in a constant state of flux. The Crown introduced new angles and witness statements, only for them to be dismantled by my defence counsel. At times in the hallways outside the courtroom, things often bordered on the bizarre. During breaks, Balyk confronted Nathanson directly, issuing thinly veiled threats about raising procedural concerns with the judge. She attempted to rattle him and assert control beyond the trial itself, but he never took the bait, allowing her to spin in frustration. At the same time, he calmly stepped aside as she grew increasingly agitated.

What unfolded over the next several years was excruciating. Balyk relied heavily on the testimony of former RCMP colleagues who claimed they recognized my voice on the tape. Five of them lined up, eager to point the finger, each more unshakeable than the last. However, that confidence began to erode under pressure. There was no solid evidence to support their case: no phone number linked to me, no digital footprint, no confession, and no witness who could place me at the scene or say where the scene actually was. What they had to go on was just one call to the RCMP dispatch line from someone claiming to be “Roberts from IHIT.¹⁸”

“Can you run a name for me? It’s fairly important,” the voice said, “Surname is Bacon. Should be Johnathan, James, or Jarrod.”

It was 2007, and the Bacons were already notorious in the gang landscape, a name that rang alarm bells across the Lower Mainland. The dispatcher, Julie Sanghera, read back an address, asking “Did you want their other address in the south?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Then she asked for a call sign — a standard verification step.

Click. The line went dead.

That click resonated louder than any physical evidence could. It wasn’t what was said, but what wasn’t. Sanghera reported it, thinking she might have made a mistake. That abrupt hang-up and sudden silence triggered a chain reaction of panic that escalated into a full-blown investigation into a security breach. Somewhere along the way, my name ended up on a piece of paper.

The five Surrey officers, each with years of experience, were brought in to listen to the brief recording early on in the investigation. They were asked if they recognized the voice, and in some cases, “Is that Rob Sidhu?” Unfortunately for the prosecution, the voice identification process fell short; there were no audio experts or voice comparison techniques implemented, just a possibly familiar voice. One by one, they pointed at me from the witness box, confidently and without question, but the methodology had significant flaws. It was less about unbiased confirmation and more about circumstantial affirmation, a room full of people reinforcing what they’d been led to believe.

My lawyer didn’t let it go, leaning into the shortcomings of voice recognition technology, the absence of forensic evidence, and the ambient office chatter that could have compromised the witnesses. Nowhere did that become clearer than with Sergeant Vince Arsenault, who had worked with me during my time in the Surrey Drug Section. He was brought in to listen to the recording and afterward wrote in his notebook: “Hi, this is Rob.” That’s what he claimed he heard.

In court, Nathanson played the recording back for him — slow, deliberate, undeniable.

“Hi, this is Rob,” he repeated, letting the silence that followed sink in with the judge. “Where exactly in this call do you hear that?”

Arsenault shifted in the witness box, clearly uneasy. “I didn’t,” he finally admitted, “I absolutely did not.”

His notes, whether made in error or with malicious intent, didn’t match the tape. The result was another quiet collapse of the prosecutor’s case. One sentence had become a phantom memory, recorded as fact and recycled as truth. The RCMP was so eager for a conviction that they began to fabricate evidence.

My lawyer seized on it, not only to discredit Arsenault but also to expose the RCMP’s broader conduct. He argued that their pursuit of a conviction had blinded them and that their anger over my perceived betrayal led them to distort recollections, fabricate facts, and record only what they found convenient. This wasn’t simply a case of flawed memory; it represented a systematic failure to maintain objectivity. In Nathanson’s hands, the witnesses’ wavering testimony wasn’t an isolated mistake; it was the foundation of a larger, more dangerous pattern, with investigators reshaping their memories and notes to fit a narrative they were eager to validate. In that moment, I could sense the Crown’s case beginning to falter.

Then came Chief Superintendent Wayne Rideout, whom I had worked with on several high-profile homicide cases within the South Asian community. I remember one case in particular — a brutal execution linked to a turf war. Rideout stood off to the side and watched as I interviewed several reluctant witnesses connected to a suspected murderer. I probed deeply, layered my questions, and circled to obtain the necessary information to identify and charge the individual responsible.

When the interview ended, Rideout didn’t say much; he just pulled me aside, looked me in the eye, and said, “They have plans for you.” It wasn’t just a compliment; it was an indication that I was being groomed for something bigger. He saw potential, and for a very brief moment in my career, I believed I had a real future in the upper ranks of the RCMP.

Now, Rideout had taken the stand, presented by the Crown as the voice of authority. C/Supt. Rideout stepped into the box, exuding the arrogance of someone who believed his badge made him invincible. He was the prosecution’s hammer, a senior officer from IHIT; polished, calculated, and poised like a man accustomed to controlling the narrative. His presence alone was meant to carry weight. He swore irrefutably and without hesitation that the voice on the call belonged to me.

Nathanson seemed unfazed. Methodical and meticulous, he dissected Rideout’s character and testimony piece by piece, concentrating on one aspect Rideout couldn’t evade — the Braidwood Inquiry.¹⁹

Robert Dziekanski was a Polish immigrant who arrived in Vancouver to reunite with his mother, only to die alone on the floor of the international arrivals terminal after being tasered five times by RCMP officers. The footage, captured by a bystander, sparked national outrage. It showed Dziekanski, disoriented and non-threatening, being swarmed, dropped, and left in need of medical attention. The response from the RCMP wasn’t only inadequate but also deceptive.

Misleading statements were issued, timelines were modified, and critical facts were omitted to shield the institution from scrutiny.

Rideout, as one of the senior officers managing the aftermath, played a key role in shaping that narrative, tasked with coordinating the public messaging and ensuring a controlled media response. However, when the Braidwood Inquiry began — an independent public inquiry into Dziekanski’s death and the RCMP’s role — it became evident that Rideout had allowed falsehoods to persist. He failed to correct misstatements, clarify what the RCMP knew, and ultimately helped maintain a version of events that contradicted what the video depicted.

His reputation may have taken a hit with the general public, but not within the force. Inside those walls, Rideout was precisely the kind of officer the RCMP valued — obedient and loyal to the institution above all else. They mistook his conformity for integrity, as if following orders without question was a moral virtue. It was inconsequential that his credibility had been publicly challenged or that his actions had drawn national scrutiny. What mattered was that he played the game, adhered to the chain of command, and never embarrassed the organization.

For the senior executives at the RCMP National Headquarters, that type of loyalty—quiet, unwavering, and willing to speak the truth when necessary—wasn’t seen as a weakness; it was regarded as a strength.

Rideout didn’t break the rules outright; instead, he discovered ways around them, always keeping one foot inside the line. Consequently, the RCMP rallied behind him as one of their own, meaning that he would always be protected, even when the truth suggested he shouldn’t be. At one point, referencing Rideout’s role in the Braidwood Inquiry, my lawyer turned to the judge and delivered a line so scathing it seemed to suck all of the air out of the room: “This officer has a tendency to tap dance around the truth while under oath.”

Nathanson spoke with quiet conviction, delivering his statement not as a personal opinion but as a known fact. The judge didn’t raise an eyebrow, nor did Rideout, but the damage had been done. The weight of that sentence lingered in the air, affecting everyone in the courtroom. For all the brass Rideout had collected over the years, his credibility at that moment was unravelling in real time.

Rideout’s stance stiffened, but the cracks in his facade were already visible. The polished armour that was supposed to protect him was beginning to wear under the weight of his past. What was the Crown’s most reliable witness now seemed vulnerable and human.

For me, it wasn’t just legal theatrics; this was personal. A man who once saw a future in me was now standing in the witness box across the courtroom to help bury it. Watching him falter under cross-examination wasn’t merely a strategic win; it was a bitter-sweet reckoning.

One of the few moments of clarity came from an unexpected source; Cathy Mathews had once been part of the same Watch I had worked at the Surrey detachment. As a dispatcher, she was regularly exposed to my voice throughout the years I worked in General Duty—across countless shifts, calls, and radio transmissions.

By the time this phase of the trial arrived, she had been promoted to manage the Operational Communications Centre, overseeing the dispatchers who handled calls like the one at the heart of my case. Her role on the stand was meant to be technical—explaining procedures, guiding the court through how calls were routed, and detailing the protocols followed. It was intended to be straightforward and clinical.

As she prepared to testify, Mathews reviewed the recording. In a pre-trial interview, she had quietly informed the Crown that she had worked with me long enough and didn’t recognize the voice on the call. She firmly asserted that if she had to identify the person, she wouldn’t be able to. Unlike the other five, who had been paraded in confidently and unhesitatingly, Mathews wouldn’t conform to the script.

By law, that admission had to be disclosed to the defence. Nathanson pounced on it immediately; this wasn’t just a minor detail; it was another significant crack in their wall of certainty. A veteran dispatcher, a Crown witness no less, openly acknowledged absolute doubt. In a case built entirely on voice recognition and circumstantial evidence, that kind of testimony was crucial. As Cathy Mathews stepped into the witness box, a hush crept through the courtroom. She sat with quiet confidence, and when my lawyer asked the crucial question, she didn’t hesitate. “I didn’t recognize the voice,” she said in a tone flat and direct, simply stating a fact.

Instead of looking at her, I watched Donna Balyk.

There was a subtle yet unmistakable change in Balyk’s expression as Mathews calmly made her claim; her jawline rippled as she clenched it, her eyes flashed with disbelief, and her lips pursed into a tight, pinched frown. There was no panic or whispered strategy, just a heavy pause as the realization sank in. One of her own had unexpectedly stepped out of line, and the tables were suddenly turned.

There was no redirect or flustered attempt to salvage the situation, just the quiet epiphany that her entire case had entirely slipped out of alignment, and nothing she did at that moment could rectify its course. Everyone in the room also knew.

As Mathews exited, she caught my eye and gave me a small, almost apologetic wave. No words, just a gesture. In a trial where everything felt rehearsed and hostile, that quiet signal resonated more than any testimony. It was human, and in that moment, it was what I needed.

Nathanson watched her closely as she left the courtroom, waiting for the door to click shut behind her. Without missing a beat, letting the silence hang for a moment before turning back to the judge, his tone calm but resolute.

“Your Honour,” he said, “this case should be immediately dismissed based on the testimony of that witness alone.”

Then he added the part that made the weight of it land even harder.

“Of everyone who testified, Cathy Mathews was the one person in this courtroom most qualified to recognize my client’s voice. Not just because of rank or training, but because of exposure.

During his years in General Duty, she heard his voice daily. Dozens of times a shift. In routine calls, high-stress situations, and officer safety checks, her ears were trained to pick up subtle inflections under pressure. That wasn’t occasional contact, that is familiarity.”

He glanced toward the prosecution table, giving Balyk a moment to absorb the point.

“And yet she took the stand and said, without hesitation, that she could not identify the voice on the tape. That matters. Because if she can’t make a positive identification—someone with that level of direct, prolonged exposure—then any suggestion of certainty from the other witnesses becomes irrelevant.”

I looked directly at the judge and knew it resonated. Nathenson paused just long enough for the weight of it to settle. “And with that, the defence rests.”

As the judge prepared to render his decision, the room was heavy with anticipation. In his final remarks, he stated plainly, “Any trier of fact would find it difficult to place any credibility in the testimony of Constable Rideout,” who was, in fact, a Chief Superintendent at the time. That was a revealing mischaracterization of one of the RCMP’s top brass; the judge reduced him to rank-and-file status with a single comment, stripping away any sense of authority. The message was clear: not even a senior officer was above scrutiny, especially one who had twisted the truth under oath. It was a harsh dressing down of the Crown’s key witness, the kind of rebuke that not only hurts but also reverberates within a system that relies on manufactured certitude and forced narratives.

In the end, Judge Lenaghan agreed; the case didn’t meet the standard of “beyond a reasonable doubt,” and I was acquitted. Incidentally, this was the same man who had presided over my assault case nine years earlier and deemed me to be despicable before delivering the same verdict. The small victory felt hollow, as I didn’t walk out of that courtroom a free man, nor did it make me whole; instead, I was immediately returned to the custody of the Canadian government and sent back to Rivière-des-Prairies to await my extradition.

One of my former colleagues, Heinz Kraus, had called me treacherous during his testimony, meaning it as an insult, and he was right. I’d learned to move in ways they didn’t expect — to think around corners, stay one step ahead, and see through the polished mask of the institution. They kept control by rewarding those who remained within the lines, but I didn’t fit that mould, and I never pretended to, which made me unpredictable. In their world, unpredictable was synonymous with dangerous.

They weren’t just after a conviction; they needed one for the sake of the ever-important optics. Their frustration was evident in every move they made, from the constant court delays to the failed attempt to plant an undercover operative, McNamara, into my circle. Nothing yielded the results they sought, which only made them push harder. This wasn’t about merely prosecuting me; it was about trying to make an example of me once again.

For the RCMP, the message was unmistakable: if you betray the Force, we’ll pursue you and endeavour to destroy you; however, they overlooked one crucial point: I was already broken. They had spent years trying to strip me of my identity, my will, and my defiance. What they failed to consider was that I had nothing left to lose, and men like that don’t intimidate easily.

18 bc-cb.rcmp-grc.ca (IHIT) The Integrated Homicide Investigation Team is the largest homicide unit in Canada with jurisdiction throughout many areas of British Columbia.

19 Braidwood, Thomas R. Restoring Public Confidence: Restricting the Use of Conducted Energy Weapons in British Columbia. Vancouver:Braidwood Commission on the Conducted Energy Use, 2009.

Part Three

Scars to Scripture

Chapter 23

The Long Road Ahead

“Accept whatever comes to you woven in the pattern of your destiny, for what could more aptly fit your needs?”

— Marcus Aurelius

There’s a pivotal moment when you stop fighting the tide and allow it to carry you away, not as a consequence of giving up, but because you’ve finally accepted the reality that the current is stronger than your resistance. That surrender arrived as I sat in my cell after my impersonation trial at Surrey Pre-Trial Centre.

The time for an empty protest was over. I had spent years dodging the past, navigating systems, and attempting to reclaim my sense of control, but in that instant, something shifted. I wasn’t contemplating court dates or legal technicalities anymore; I was thinking about the concrete floors, steel bars, and the dull beat of institutional time I knew was ahead of me.

This wasn’t my first incarceration, but it felt different. There was no sting of surprise or adrenaline spike — just a subdued acceptance. I would need to adapt again; strip everything back, silence my ego, settle into the new routine, and become invisible when necessary, dangerous when required.

Acceptance didn’t indicate weakness; it signified recalibration. It involved understanding that within those walls, your world shrinks to what you can control: your breath, your posture, your silence, and most importantly, your response. Once again, I would have to live by institutional rules.

The two sheriffs who escorted me on the flight back to Montreal didn’t say much. There was just the occasional casual banter and the crackle of a radio spouting codes I’d stopped trying to decipher. Strapped into a window seat, I watched British Columbia slip away behind the clouds. The trees, the mountains, and the memories all disappeared as the plane returned me to Quebec and the cold, concrete landscape of Rivière-des-Prairies.

Before leaving Surrey, I made the call that would set the next chapter of my life in motion. I had contacted my lawyer in Montreal, Loris Cavaliere, and told him straight out that I was done fighting; I had made my decision. I would waive the extradition process.

There was no drama or theatrics, just a quiet resignation — the kind that comes after you’ve studied the options and realize none of them lead back to freedom. You might discover a path that meanders through wasted time and procrastination, but it doesn’t lead to freedom.

There’s a strange sense of calm that washes over you when you know the fight is at least partly over. It doesn’t bring a sense of peace, but rather a cold, pragmatic acceptance. I wasn’t naive; I knew what extradition meant. There would be no warm welcome; the plan was to make an example of me. The RCMP and Canadian justice system had done their part—washed their hands, checked the box, and now I was being handed over to the Americans like a discarded shell casing, just another body to process, another name on a docket. No ceremony, no hesitation. Just cold, bureaucratic efficiency.

What really worried me was how desensitized I’d become to chains and cages, to being treated like state property. That numbness was its own kind of prison, a coping mechanism shaped by years of adapting to environments meant to break you.

When the plane touched down in Montreal, the unavoidable reality thudded in my chest, and I found myself in the world of grey once more. RDP welcomed me like an old acquaintance, albeit not a particularly close one, with the guards barely glancing up. The fluorescent buzz still grated on my nerves, and the air was still acrid with the smell of disinfectant and stale sweat.

My intake paperwork was dealt with quickly, who I was hadn’t been forgotten during my brief absence. Then came the familiar rattle of the cell door sliding open to reveal another rectangle of concrete and steel containing a bed that wasn’t a bed, a toilet facing the world, and a window that mocked the notion of freedom.

That night I didn’t sleep much. I wasn’t afraid, I was aware. Aware of where I was, what it meant, and what came next. Not in court, but in here; the politics and etiquette of the caged.

Back inside, back to the routine. That dull, mechanical cycle that wraps around you like a straitjacket you begrudgingly slip into every morning, because the alternative is chaos. In prison, rhythm is what keeps you alive, and adaptation becomes second nature, a necessity. You learn to switch gears without thinking — adjusting your posture, gaze, and tone to accommodate the constantly changing landscape of the tier.²⁰ A little part of you disappears each time. You can feel it in the slow dulling of your innate instincts and perceived priorities.

You stop feeling like a human being and start not feeling, like an inmate.

Cold, calculating, and always vigilant.

It didn’t originate as a conscious choice, but something that evolved over time, like scar tissue forming over a wound that will never fully heal. You start sensing a change — joy, guilt, hope — they all become muted, like someone has turned down the volume of your emotions just enough that nothing has much impact anymore. What takes its place is a harsh efficiency. You assess threats before they can appear. You read every movement, every pause in conversation, and flicker in someone’s eyes, not out of curiosity, but because you have to.

Trust becomes a liability, and vulnerability makes you a target, so you put on a mask of stony silence. You adopt a stillness that conceals the turmoil within; nodding when necessary, remaining neutral when challenged, and never, ever sharing more than the situation requires. If you slip — if you let your guard down for even a moment — prison will find the crack and exploit it.

That constant scanning — it’s not just for safety, it becomes a factor in your whole way of life. You start anticipating betrayal before it happens and see danger where there might be none because your mind has been trained to expect it. There’s no paranoia off-switch. Even when the cell door closes behind you at night, your thoughts are still pacing the range²¹, working through the angles, cataloging the tensions, and rehearsing the worst-case scenarios.

Body language becomes part of your vernacular; every gesture, pause, cough, and glance is data for you to analyze. Nothing is random or insignificant. Judgment comes before questions are contemplated, and you don’t react — you bide your time and plan your next move. Time is one of the few commodities that is in ample supply.

It’s a form of hyper-awareness that keeps you breathing, but costs you pieces of your soul, stripping away every soft edge you once had. You forget how to laugh without suspicion, or even to trust your own reflection in the mirror. To survive, you become someone the outside world would also barely recognize.

Time as a Concept

Time is not merely something to endure in prison; it transforms into the very fabric of your experience; every second seeming to stretch, bend, and fold in on itself. Time is defined as a succession of experiences, but during incarceration, it becomes cyclical — a loop of hope and despair that defines the rhythm of each day. It’s not just measured by clocks or calendars but by emotional tides. Some might find it surprising that I include the opposite of despair, but hope is absolutely necessary; otherwise, negativity will prevail. Even the thinnest, sharpest shard is a life preserver that you cling to, keeping your head above the black waters of depression. Because in prison, survival isn’t just physical, it’s psychological, where the battle is always in the abstract.

Over time, your mind starts to focus on only what’s directly in front of you, tuning out everything else.

Early on in lockup, you realize it’s not really time that wears you down, but its evil offspring: waiting. Waiting for updates. Waiting for someone to knock on your door. Waiting for your name to be called by someone who doesn’t care if you’re innocent, guilty, or somewhere in between. It messes with your head, chipping away at your already fragile mental defenses. When you’re waiting for extradition, it’s even tougher. Stuck in limbo between two systems, two countries, and two versions of your life — both of which want to claim you, not for who you are, but for what you represent.

There were nights when I would lie on my bunk, wondering why I had ended up where I was, trying to repress any feelings of regret. Regret can drag you down into the abyss as quickly as hopelessness. It felt like I was observing my own downfall from a distance; replaying the choices, the betrayals, the schemes, and contemplating whether I had ever really had a chance to succeed within the RCMP, or if I was always meant to end up here.

It all starts to feel overwhelming with uncertainty. It’s not that you question your own abilities, but the unknowns become too much to manage. When will the Americans come for me? What kind of welcome can I expect on their side of the line? How long will I be stuck in their system before anyone even pretends to listen to me?

I kept my daily routine tight: push-ups, reading, and writing whenever I could think of something worthy of my limited supply of stationery. It wasn’t about staying fit or productive, but about control — about carving out small pockets of autonomy in a world designed to erase it. You adhere to those rituals because they remind you that no matter what uniform they put you in, underneath, you’re still you. They can’t take that — not unless you willingly hand it over.

Beneath all my composure, a constant hum of tension persisted, because, despite the calm I projected, my mind was a war zone. A quiet battle between acceptance and fury, endurance and collapse. Every day that passed without resolution was another day I had to continue in limbo, outthinking the darkness.

By the time the walls finally closed in, I wasn’t the same person I had been when I first arrived. I could sense it deep down, and it struck me hard. I realized this wasn’t just about punishment; it was all about transformation —not the kind you choose, but the one that’s forced upon you. The system didn’t care whether I was guilty, innocent, broken, or dangerous—it wasn’t designed to care. Its only goal was to grind me down, piece by piece, until I was just another docile, numbered unit. Not a man. Just parts—stackable, disposable and institutionalized.

If I wanted to make it through, I had to stop fighting and learn to work within it.

Looking back, I can map out the psychological terrain into three distinct stages — milestones not of progress, but of loss, reckoning, and the slow, painful climb back toward something resembling self. These phases weren’t affected by the amount of time I served. Instead, they were defined by what I was forced to confront, and what, against all odds, I managed to reclaim.

Conformity

I soon came to understand that conforming wasn’t just expected — it was demanded. You adapt to the institution’s rhythms, the unwritten rules of the range, and the hierarchy that decides who can speak and who must stay silent. Coming from a life where I was accustomed to making my own rules, this adjustment was tough. It forced me to accept that in prison, the social dynamics were raw and brutal, with power and control governing every interaction. If you didn’t learn quickly, you didn’t last long.

Marking Time

Once you’ve settled into the environment, the next challenge is combatting the emptiness; that void where nothing seems to happen, but everything catches up with you. I found myself analyzing the most ordinary details, trying to give meaning to the monotony. Writing became my lifeline, not just a way to pass the time, but a means to track and make sense of it. It brought structure to the shapelessness and gave me a way to reflect on what I’d done, what I’d lost, and what I still hoped to become.

Through writing, I unearthed truths I had spent years trying to keep buried. It tore down the facade I’d carefully constructed — the cop, the undercover operator, the outlaw — and left me face-to-face with the one thing I couldn’t manipulate: myself. The silence was harsh and unforgiving, but it created space for something I hadn’t done in a long time: honest self-reflection. In that stillness, the lies I told the world — and worse, the ones I told myself — finally began to unravel, and somewhere in that discord, clarity started to take root.

Purpose

There was no way to undo what had been done, no story rewrite that could absolve me. I now recognize that the only path forward is through accountability. This meant letting go of the man who clung to being a victim. For years, I had told my story as someone who had been wronged the good cop burned by the system, pushed out, and stabbed in the back. To some extent, that was true, but it wasn’t the whole story. I had made choices and crossed lines; while the RCMP may have played a part, it was my own hand that steered the wheel.

Accepting that was the start of something new — not redemption, not yet, but responsibility. With that, I found the seeds of purpose: the freedom to write the ending, not through revenge, but truth.

That truth, as harsh as it was, became the foundation on which I could stand. The unvarnished reality was that I had to own every part of it; the betrayals, the anger, the consequences — they all belonged to me. During that time, I stopped searching for someone else to blame and ceased trying to justify the person I used to be. That version the one still trying to make excuses and force understanding — had to die in that cell. Because merely surviving wasn’t enough, I wanted something more. I wanted to live in my truth.

Redemption is a term that is often used too casually. This experience felt more understated, more solitary. It was me taking ownership, and perhaps the start of becoming someone worth saving.

20 “Tier” refers to the floor or level within a prison cell block, often with specific social dynamics attached.

21 “Pacing the range” refers to mentally or physically moving through the corridor or common area in a prison unit, often as a form of hyper-vigilance or mental rehearsal.

Chapter 24

The Shot Caller’s Blessing

“The worst prison is not the one with bars, but the one where you forget who you were to survive.”

— Unknown.

On Thursday, February 14, 2013, I was awakened early in my cell, and for a microsecond, forgot where I was before slamming back onto my bunk in the Rivières-des-Prairies Detention Centre. During my stay at the facility, I found the correctional staff to be professional, friendly, and inquisitive. Some had asked why I had chosen a life of organized crime over a promising career in law enforcement. My response, laced with arrogance, was always the same: “You’ll have to wait for the book,” a deflection that spared me from confronting the truth about the choices I had made.

On that day, a guard entered my cell and said, “Mr Sidhu, I’m not supposed to tell you this, but the marshals are coming for you today. You should prepare yourself to leave.” Forgetting that the calls were monitored and that I might have jeopardized the guard who told me of my departure, I called Lianna and informed her of the news. There was little substance to our conversation; an exchange of superficial remarks followed by uncomfortable silences, but each silence carried a heavy weight. They revealed the damage I’d caused between us—wounds I had inflicted and she had endured. Our relationship had become a haunted landscape of mistrust, trauma, and volatility. We had initially bonded through chaos, attracted to the storm we sensed in each other, but neither of us was strong enough to be the anchor.

There was no excuse for my behaviour; years of heavy drug use had clouded my judgment, stripped me of empathy, and fueled my anger. I had become unpredictable, violent, and paranoid. Lianna didn’t deserve to suffer my outbursts and manipulation, or the nights spent in fear and confusion. Now, with the benefit of hindsight and a clearer, sober perspective, I see it all with greater clarity than I ever could at the time. My actions had built the walls between us, and now we were thousands of miles apart with the barricades still standing tall, blocking any chance of a meaningful conversation.

Before ending the call, she said, “Happy Valentine’s Day, take care of yourself.”

“Please take care of yourself and Kaelyn,” I replied, unable to think of anything else to say.

That day, the U.S. Marshals arrived at the facility, accompanied by an RCMP officer. As soon as they saw me, one of the marshals shook my hand and said, “Mr. Sidhu, Agent Small has been waiting for this day for a very long time.”

“Is that so? Well, when you see Agent Small, tell him he can eat my shorts,” I shot back, deadpan and unapologetic.

That didn’t sit well with the RCMP escort, who smugly chimed in, “You talk a lot of shit for someone staring down a life sentence.” I turned to him, calm but sharp. “If you understood extradition law, you’d know the maximum I can get is 25 years. But I guess you’re too busy transporting prisoners around to learn what real police work looks like.”

He said nothing, but contempt was etched all over his face; to him, I was a turncoat, a traitor to the red serge. To me, he represented everything I had come to despise about the Force. His ignorant comments and arrogant tone accompanied me as I departed RDP.

Before leaving, a few guards—men and women I had become friends with over the long months —stopped by my cell with words that were sympathetic and heartfelt, full of empathy and kindness. They weren’t following protocol; they came because they genuinely cared, in stark contrast to the cold reception I would receive from my former colleagues in the RCMP.

As I left RDP, I was escorted by marshals and RCMP officers, followed by several unmarked police vehicles carrying Emergency Response Team (ERT) members. A sarcastic thought about being flattered by the size of my escort crossed my mind before being suppressed by my common sense. I sat between two marshals, who started asking me about any recent contacts I might have had with my organized crime associates. “Yeah, I told Vito (Rizzuto) to get the cell ready,” I said. The marshals chuckled while the RCMP officer gave me a look of disdain. Our motorcade eventually arrived at the Service de police de la Ville de Montréal (SPVM) Centre Opérationnel-Sud, where I was informed I would be staying until the next day. The marshals instructed the SPVM officers to block outside communication before placing me in a cell.

The following morning, the marshals returned, accompanied by the same RCMP officer who sarcastically asked, “Sleep well?” I deliberately ignored his comment as I was handcuffed and shackled by the marshals, then loaded into an unmarked prisoner transport van and taken to Trudeau International. At the airport, I was seated in a wheelchair and escorted to the USA Departures area, which is under the control of American Homeland Security. The thorough search I had already undergone at the SPVM facility wasn’t enough for the customs officials at the airport, who insisted on repeating the tedious examination.

I then spent several hours in a holding cell before they wheeled me back up to the departures level. I remained sullenly seated in the chair, shackled and silent. One of the marshals, to his credit, had the decency to drape my coat over my lap to conceal the handcuffs. A small gesture, maybe, but it meant something. There wasn’t much he could do about the leg irons, clanking with every move, announcing my presence like a warning bell.

Law enforcement has its rituals—one of them being the ceremonial exchange of shoulder flashes and insignia when collaborating with other agencies. It’s a display of jurisdiction, tradition, and authority, and this handoff was no different. Flashers were exchanged, paperwork signed, and egos subtly paraded. As the formalities concluded, the RCMP officer, still basking in his sense of self-importance, moved closer to me with a tone that was contemptuous and confrontational.

“You made us look really stupid with that impersonation case in Surrey. Everyone knows you’re guilty. You’re not walking away from this. Enjoy rotting in prison.”

He was hoping for a reaction, and he got one.

I stood up from the wheelchair, locking eyes with him, and responded, “Have you ever wondered why you’re stuck on prisoner transport duty? It’s because you couldn’t investigate a shit in your own pants, you fucking clown.”

The tension in the air thickened immediately, but the U.S. Marshals didn’t miss a beat. One of them stepped in, voice firm and measured, instructing him to back off. “That’s enough,” he said, “We’re not here for your personal grievance with this man.”

The RCMP member retreated, but not before giving me one final look - a bitter, helpless stare that unsuccessfully tried to cling to some ounce of authority. By then, however, the balance of power had already shifted, and he had become mere background noise.

The Delta Airlines flight was full, with the two marshals and I being the last to board. My dishevelled appearance, along with the noise from my leg shackles, not to mention my travel companions, didn’t help me blend in. The plane fell utterly silent as I walked past the staring eyes and eventually settled into my seat at the very back row.

After a brief stopover at Chicago’s O’Hare International, we arrived in Seattle, Washington. I was taken straight to the Federal Detention Centre, known as FDC Sea-Tac, where the intake process differed significantly from that of the Canadian system. I was given a bedroll, a green jumpsuit, and a pair of Crocs. The correctional officer told me I’d get my “khakis” within the week, which I wouldn’t fully understand the importance of until I settled into the general population.

The staff nurse briefly reviewed my medical history with me, and then an on-duty lieutenant came to speak with me. During our conversation, he informed me that I would be placed in segregation while the Special Investigation Unit (SIU), the facility’s internal police force, assessed my situation. Before we finished, he handed me a document to read carefully and complete the relevant sections.

Buried in the paperwork from the Bureau of Prisons was a question that stopped me cold: who they should release my body to if I died in custody, whether by violence or natural causes. It was a clinical procedural form—just another box to tick—but it hit like a punch to the gut. My mind went blank, my body froze in place as I absorbed the full weight of a question that wasn’t just hypothetical; it was a reality. It acknowledged that death was not only a real possibility but an expectation, and that the system had already made arrangements for it.

My thoughts drifted to my upbringing and the teachings of my Sikh heritage. I understood that tradition often expects the eldest son to perform the funeral rites of a parent. My eldest son was only nineteen, still relatively young himself, and I hesitated at the idea of placing that burden on him, of forcing him to confront my mortality in such a stern, bureaucratic setting. There was no one else I trusted to fulfill that final wish, so I wrote his name, my hand trembling slightly, and sealed him into that possible reality. It felt like a betrayal – as if I were reaching out from the grave to impose a burden he never asked for, but it was also the only way I could preserve some dignity if the worst were to happen.

The Segregated Housing Unit, or SHU, is located on the top floor of the institution. As I exited the elevator, the CO on duty asked my escort, “Is this the Mountie from Canada?”

“Yes, he is. I understand you may have a special cell for him.”

“Oh yes, very special indeed.”

I was instructed to disrobe for yet another search, after which he provided me with the orange jumpsuit designated for all individuals in the SHU. As I made my way to my cell, the sterile hallway seemed to close in around me with each step. The only light came from the harsh glow of overhead fluorescents, casting everything in a cold blue tone. The air was thick with the pungent smell of jet fuel, a constant reminder that the prison was located right on the edge of Sea-Tac International Airport.

The sounds that followed me down the tier were unlike anything I had ever experienced. Raw, unfiltered human suffering echoed from behind every steel door; wails, curses, guttural pleas. Some yelled at the guards, while others shouted at me just for walking past. Each cell had a face pressed against the reinforced window - eyes hollow, rage simmering just beneath the surface, like animals caged for too long.

When I finally reached my cell, the guard accompanying me smirked, “This probably isn’t the kind of accommodations you’re used to out on the street... but hey, it’s home sweet home now.”

He yanked the door open and grandly gestured for me to enter. The instant I crossed the threshold, a rancid wave assaulted me; thick, sour, and layered with decay. It was worse than the jet fuel—the kind of stench that permeated your skin and invaded your nasal cavities. I scanned the walls and saw smears that could only be human feces, dried into brown handprints across the cinder blocks—a grotesque mural created by a fractured mind.

With a resounding clang, the door slammed shut behind me. That harsh, metallic thud echoed through my chest, like a final, inescapable toll. I stood frozen, gazing at the walls, trying to make sense of my surroundings. Not just my physical location, but the grim situation and what it all meant. This wasn’t just a possibility anymore; it was happening in real-time, right before my eyes.

In that moment of utter despair, my thoughts turned to my father.

His face flashed before me, tears shining in his eyes as I crossed the stage at Depot, my badge gleaming, pride beaming from him like a beacon, just as vivid as the day it happened. He had spent his entire life setting me up to succeed, and that moment meant everything to him and my whole family. And now... this. From RCMP Corporal to prison inmate, from salutes to shackles, I had fallen farther than I ever thought possible.

The reality of everything became overwhelming. I sat on the edge of the filthy bunk and then lay down slowly, trying not to gag at the smell. I didn’t even try to stop the tears as my eyes welled up and overflowed. I wept quietly, my face turned toward the wall. I began to examine the carvings and scribbled messages left by those who came before me, reading the words of lingering ghosts: names, dates, prayers, pleas, and angry curses—a desperate mosaic of pain and survival. One line stood out from the other graffiti, etched into the concrete like a whisper waiting for me to hear.

“This too shall pass.”

At the time, I had no idea those four words would resonate with me through every tough chapter that came after. Not as a source of comfort, but as a reminder of my harsh reality - a lesson I’d have to learn the hard way.

The next day, I was awakened by the sound of the “sally port” in my cell door being unlocked. A nurse, accompanied by one of the guards, needed to check my blood sugar and administer my insulin. “What is that smell?” she exclaimed.

“That would be shit on the walls,” replied the guard.

“Can I get some cleaning supplies?” I inquired.

“Yeah, let me see what I can do.”

I didn’t leave that cell for thirty-two straight days. Every day, I asked for cleaning supplies - anything, really - to disinfect the filth I was forced to live in. Every day, I received the same response: a shrug, a dismissive glance, sometimes not even that. It didn’t matter who was walking by — correctional officers, administrative staff, or medical personnel — they all shared the same dead-eyed look, conveying the same silent message: you don’t matter.

That cell was more than just confinement; it was a harsh lesson in humility—one that peeled away layers until you stopped asking, hoping, and expecting anything close to dignity. Sadly, the harsh truth is that no one truly cares. It’s not personal; it’s deeply woven into the culture of the Bureau of Prisons. Indifference isn’t a flaw in the system; it’s its very foundation. Over time, I gradually accepted this as fact, and as the years went by, I kept noticing it—each time a little less shocked, a bit more desensitized.

In the SHU, you’re allowed one fifteen-minute phone call every thirty days. Fifteen minutes to try and hold on to some semblance of your humanity—thirty days of silence, broken only by a brief moment of connection. On the thirtieth day, I called Lianna. Instead of a greeting when she answered, there was a pause, long enough to remind us both just how far apart we were now, not in miles, but in every meaningful way. Her voice was tired and hollow. “Was it worth all this?” she asked. Before she could say more, I blurted out, “Nothing is worth being away from my family.”

Then came the hardest part: she handed the phone to Kaelyn. Her voice broke the moment she spoke. “Dad... I’m not used to being without you... When are you coming home?” I tried to respond, but the words caught in my throat. We both cried, not gentle tears but the kind that tighten your ribs and twist your stomach. Hearing her pain, knowing I was the cause of it, was worse than any cell they could lock me in. She was my precious girl, trying to make sense of something no child should ever have to endure.

I told her I loved her and to be strong, but it all felt empty. There was no way to comfort her through the phone, no way to shield her from this.

And just like that, the call was suddenly over. Fifteen minutes had flown by in what felt like seconds. No warning. No opportunity for goodbye. Just silence. I sat there in that silence, crushed by the weight I’d created, knowing that the pain I’d heard in my daughter’s voice would echo in my mind long after the lights went out that night.

It wasn’t until I was released from solitary and moved into the general population that the pressure to conform truly hit home. That’s when the unspoken rules—the tribal lines, alliances, and pecking order—became impossible to ignore. The green jumpsuit was returned to me before I left the SHU, but it felt different now, weighted down, as if it were made of more than just fabric, embodying the circumstances I was about to enter.

My entry into the “pod” was far from exceptional. New inmates arrive all the time; some quiet, some loud, most trying to conceal their panic beneath a hard-faced mask. What was significant, however, was the reaction. Acceptance of an unknown prisoner is never automatic; you have to earn it, or pay the price for failing to do so.

The pod buzzed with tension; shouts echoed off the concrete walls, TVs blared from opposite corners, and a hundred stares followed me as I made my way toward the “CO shack” - the glasswalled perch where correctional officers lorded over the chaos. The CO barely looked up when I approached. “Which car are you in?” he asked flatly. I must’ve looked like a deer caught in the headlights because he immediately rolled his eyes and muttered, “You don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about, do you?”

He clarified. “Who do you run with on the street?”

It wasn’t just a casual question; it was about identity, race, and who you are within that concrete world. In this scenario, “car” wasn’t a means of transport; it was a symbol of allegiance, a line drawn not in ink but in blood. Before I could fumble an answer, he said, “Never mind, give me your inmate number.” I handed him my inmate card, and he began typing on the keyboard of his computer, his eyes scanning the screen with a certain level of detachment. To him, this was all part of the show.

“Okay, I got it,” he said, then pointed across the pod toward a corner where a group of inmates sat half-watching, half-measuring me up. “Your guys are over there. See the dude with the face that looks like a can of smashed assholes? That’s the shot-caller. Name’s Brick.” My eyes followed his finger and locked with those of the man he’d identified. The nickname was fitting - his face was rough and pockmarked, bearing the kind of damage that doesn’t stem from teenage acne, but rather originates in a life filled with mayhem.

He was already observing me, deciding on something I hadn’t yet grasped. As I moved toward my assigned cell, I saw Brick standing and starting to come toward me. At that moment, I was fully aware that I was entering a new social order, one governed by rules much older and less forgiving than any flimsy policy manual. This wasn’t just imprisonment; it was a complete redefinition of my world and myself, seen through the eyes of strangers who would judge me not for who I used to be, but for who I would now be forced to become.

I stepped into the cell and was immediately hit by a wall of stench - sour sweat, unwashed flesh, and something darkly primal that clung to the air like rot. Sprawled out on the bottom bunk was a morbidly obese white male, his vast, pale gut protruding out from beneath a stained t-shirt. He just lay there wheezing, eyes glazed over like he’d already checked out of the world. The smell emanating from him was nauseatingly thick, almost enough to taste. Before I had time to process the filth I was to share a space with, a sharp knock rattled the doorframe.

Brick stepped in without hesitation, like he owned the place - because in many ways, he did. His presence filled the cell as the guy on the bunk struggled to sit up slightly. Brick didn’t waste words, looking at him with disinterested eyes, and said, “Kick rocks, asshole. I need a word with my friend.” Without protest, the guy awkwardly hauled himself up and waddled out, leaving a trail of funk in his wake. Brick turned to me, reaching out, and gave a firm handshake, the kind that said, ‘This is more than courtesy - it’s an assessment.’

“I’m Brick,” he said, “Full patch outta Cali.”

His face told a story of violence - scars, old and jagged, crossed his skin like paths to hell. I later learned they were the result of being beaten with a brick, a brutal past that bestowed an appropriate moniker.

He got straight to the point. “SIU came to see me before they cleared you for GP,” he said, “Wanted to know if you’d be safe coming in here. I didn’t know shit about you, so I told ‘em I had to check with my people first.”

Then he hit me with it.

“So, they tell me you used to be a cop up there in Canada?”

There was no point in lying. I didn’t know if it was the SIU, someone on the inside, or even the outside, who had passed the word, but either way, it was out.

“Yeah,” I said quietly, “I was.”

He fixed me with an appraising stare; reading my eyes, my body, and maybe the extra pounds I was carrying. Then he let out a low whistle. “Man... that’s some fucked up shit,” he said with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Alright, let’s get you the fuck outta here.” He motioned to the door. “I’ll introduce you to the rest of the guys. Dano’s got a lower bunk free in his cell. You’re not stayin’ in here with this chomo²². I’ll straighten it out with the guard.”

He didn’t wait for me to respond. “Grab your shit. Let’s go.” I gathered my meagre belongings, still shaken by the sudden swerve in my reality. Brick may have been many things, but in this world, he represented order amidst chaos. He hadn’t just forged a path for me; he’d marked me as under his watch, and in here, that carried the weight of survival.

I followed him through the pod, keeping my head down but my senses wide open. The place felt like a pressure cooker - loud, chaotic, a tangle of brawn, bravado, and barely concealed threats. Brick marched straight up to the CO’s post, as I trailed closely behind. “He’s with us,” he said flatly, “Put him in with Richardson.” The CO shot him a quick glance, then nodded without argument. No paperwork, no need to confirm with a superior, just a silent understanding between two people who knew exactly how this place worked. It was clear that Brick had clout.

We headed back to his table - our table now - and I was introduced to the rest of the crew, my new car. They sized me up with the kind of expressions you’d expect from men who’d seen a lot of people come and go, equal parts curiosity and calculation. One by one, they approached me with small gifts: packets of ramen noodles, instant coffee, a few chocolate bars, a bar of soap, and a partially used tube of toothpaste: a welcome wagon package, prison-style. No words, just silent gestures. Then a man about my size stepped forward, tossing me a folded pair of khaki pants and a brown t-shirt.

“Lose that jumpsuit, you’re riding in my car now,” Brick barked. He turned to another man - Dano - and gave him a nod. “Get him set up. I’ll be by in a bit.” Dano gave me a quick up-anddown, then gestured toward my new cell. As I followed him, I could sense a shift occurring - one identity slipping away, another taking its place.

I quickly realized that Dano was no small-time player; he was a full patch from New York and Brick’s second-in-command. His eyes were passive yet alert, the kind of cool gaze that had witnessed countless lies and outlasted them all. He’d been in and out of the system more times than he could count and moved through the unit with the confidence of someone who understood every angle.

As we talked, it became clear that my history wasn’t a mystery to anyone. Everyone in the car already knew I’d been in law enforcement, but what was more interesting was the latter part of my story—the life I had pivoted into, the bricks of coke, and the weight of the indictment. In this context, pasts can be complicated. If you carry yourself to their standards, people make room for that complexity. If not, they will probably beat it out of you.

I was unpacking my new bounty when Brick stepped into the cell, and without wasting any time, reached into his waistband and handed me something wrapped in a cloth. I unrolled it and caught the glint of metal. “Canada, keep this on you unless you’re leaving the pod. Ain’t no telling when shit’s gonna pop off in this bitch.” A handcrafted shank, carefully and intentionally shaped, crude yet effective, and a terrible reminder that survival here was literally a daily concern and could depend on split-second reactions.

There’s an unspoken rule in prison - something every inmate figures out without being told. When a new prisoner arrives, there is a ceremony and a test. If you’re taken under someone’s wing, brought in, and accepted, then you’re part of something. It’s not about friendship, but protection, structure, and code.

If no one steps up to claim you, then you’re considered no good; a rat, a sex offender, deemed a liability. In this place, that kind of label is a death sentence waiting to be signed. If you’re wearing one of those tags, your only option is to “check in”—voluntarily request to be placed in the SHU for your safety. That’s if you’re given the chance.

I had been claimed, not out of kindness or because they trusted me, but because Brick had done his homework. Within less than an hour of my arrival, I wasn’t just another inmate—I was “Canada,” I was in his car, and I was armed.

A few weeks later, a new inmate-a middle-aged white man-walked into the pod and was assigned to Brick’s cell. He was instantly furious. “Canada,” he fumed, pacing in front of me, “I think this guy’s a chomo. Won’t show me his paperwork, won’t tell me what he’s in for. I got my people checking it out - I’ll know for sure after my visit tomorrow.”

His voice carried the weight of something heavier than mere suspicion. In prison, labels hold immense significance, and none is more despised than child molester. To have one assigned to bunk with the shot caller? That wasn’t merely a mistake - it was a threat to his reputation, a challenge to the unspoken order. In prison, perception wields power, and silence can be interpreted as complicity. Brick understood that. We all did.

The following morning, the atmosphere in the pod was tense. Brick made it clear: if his suspicions were confirmed, we would need to be ready. Everyone in the car understood the message; it might be necessary to remind the pod of who we were, what we stood for, and what consequences awaited anyone who crossed that invisible line. When Brick returned from his visit, he walked straight over to the CO, who barely looked up, with a stony expression. No words were exchanged, only the briefest eye contact and a nod. That minimal interaction said a lot; the guard understood what was about to happen and had chosen to look the other way.

Brick approached our table and said calmly, “It’s confirmed.” Then he turned to me. “Canada, post up outside my cell. The CO knows what time it is. If you see the lieutenant, yell or kick the door.” I nodded, heart thudding, and moved into position.

As the others filed into the cell, I leaned against the wall, eyes fixed on the hallway. From my vantage point, I could see and hear what was happening inside. First came the thud of flesh hitting concrete as Brick pulled the man from the top bunk and slammed him into the ground. Then, chaos. Punches landed with sickening force, kicks crushed ribs, and a metal object - maybe a lock wrapped in a sock - cracked bone with every swing. The man screamed, pleaded, and choked on his panic, but no one came to his aid. The pod, usually a cacophony of shouting, fell into a heavy silence - everyone knew what this was, and no one dared to intervene.

Then, something even worse.

One of the attackers defecated into the cell’s steel toilet, and Brick gave the order: “Make him eat it.”

I will never forget the look on the man’s face as they forced his head down. I had seen violence before; on the street, with the RCMP, in organized crime, but this was different. This was dehumanization - a deliberate obliteration of someone’s existence.

The cruellest irony was the aftermath. The man wasn’t allowed to leave the cell; Brick had ensured that. For weeks, he remained there - bruised, bloodied, and barely able to move. We were ordered to bring him food in shifts, placing a tray near the door without uttering a word. During count time, he was forced to stand with his back to the COs, never making eye contact, and never moving an inch. He was broken, and when Brick finally determined his wounds had healed sufficiently, the man checked himself into the SHU, vanishing without protest.

Let me be clear, I will never sympathize with anyone who harms a child; there is no redemption in that kind of darkness. However, what I saw that day had a profound impact on me. The brutal savagery and deliberate humiliation starkly reminded me of how thin the line is between punishment and cruelty. Prison doesn’t just deprive you of freedom; it strips away the layers of who you used to be, leaving only the version of yourself that can endure. Gang affiliation, criminal credentials, physical strength, and emotional detachment become your currency. Morality becomes a luxury. Compassion turns into a weakness.

In prison, identities are provisional. They shift according to threat, loyalty, and perception. You wear what you need to wear to endure the day, and you change it up tomorrow if the winds shift. Some call it adaptation. I called it erosion.

It stirred up memories of my time undercover—learning to blend into different roles, use fake voices, and hide behind masks. But there’s a crucial difference: on the streets, I chose who I wanted to be. Each persona was carefully crafted and had a clear plan for how to exit it. In prison, it’s all about reacting, not controlling the situation. You’re not creating a new identity; you’re slowly losing your own. The longer you keep up the act, the less you recall who you used to be. Undercover, you become someone else to meet operational objectives. In prison, you become someone else to get through the day. One is a deliberate choice driven by a mission. The other is about surviving by gradually eroding who you are.

I wasn’t immune. I had stood guard while a man was tortured. I didn’t participate, but I didn’t walk away either. I told myself I had no choice, that my survival required allegiance.

Fear in prison is not merely an occasional, fleeting sensation—it’s a daily companion. It’s reflected in your walk, the way you make eye contact, and who you avoid. It permeates how you eat, sleep, and breathe. Always calculating risk and continuously scanning for threats. Over time, that relentless fight for self-preservation transforms you, and whatever sense of dignity you once possessed is replaced with something more utilitarian and harsh. You cease to ask who you are and start accepting what you need to do to survive.

For many inmates, this transformation occurs quickly and without fanfare. They take on identities that align with the unit’s politics, the expectations of their cellmates, and the perceived threats surrounding them. Some become aggressors, while others fade into the background. Some find comfort in religion, others in their cultural identity, and still others in violence. What is considered right or wrong becomes a matter of perspective; integrity is no longer a fixed concept, and dignity—if it exists at all—becomes another secret.

What mattered to me now was fitting in and showing the right attitude. I had to become “Canada,” Brick’s guy, riding in his car. That identity didn’t allow for doubts or moral questions; it required staying quiet when violence broke out, being loyal when lines were crossed, and showing strength, even when I felt empty inside.

That kind of survival will eventually come at a cost. Prison didn’t just confine my body; it carved into my identity, forcing me to cut away the reflective, vulnerable parts of myself and replace them with something colder, harder—someone even more menacing than who I had been on the street. The violence in prison wasn’t limited to bruised flesh or broken bones; it was psychological and spiritual, creeping in silently, day by day.

During quiet moments, when the weight of everything I’d done pressed in from all sides, I’d sometimes wonder if I could ever return to being the man I once was, but deep down, I knew the truth. That version of me didn’t just disappear; I killed him off, slowly, one choice and one lie at a time. When the cell door finally slammed shut, it wasn’t just the end of freedom; it was a call to action. What was left behind wasn’t redemption, but the hollow outline of someone who started with good intentions and still lost himself anyway.

22 Prison vernacular for a child molester.

Chapter 25

Terms of Surrender

“The prosecutor has more control over life, liberty, and reputation than any other person in America.”

—Justice Robert H. Jackson, former U.S. Attorney General & Nuremberg Chief Prosecutor

Marking Time.

Once you get used to your surroundings, the next hurdle isn’t the system itself—it’s the inner silence. The stark, overwhelming emptiness that follows you from cell to meal to count and back again. Days blend into one another, making it difficult to track their progress. Instead, you mark them off with small routines, rituals, and meanings you create to cling to your sense of self.

For me, writing was a ritual, an essential lifeline. It wasn’t just a way to pass the time, but a means to make sense of it all, bringing structure to a world built on chaos. However, writing alone wasn’t sufficient; I needed to take the reins and have a sense of direction. So, I took control of my own legal defence.

What began as a means to survive evolved into an all-consuming obsession. I immersed myself in every piece of information the government had released, reading each line with care. I didn’t merely scan – I meticulously examined every detail, interpreting every inconsistency as a potential flaw and every footnote as a clue. I honed my ability to read between the lines of agent reports, catching the subtle hints in vague affidavits and procedural tricks. The Federal Rules of Criminal Procedure became my second language.

Most days, you could find me in the law library, immersed in worn casebooks and court decisions that spanned decades. I explored the evolution of American jurisprudence, examining due process and prosecutorial misconduct, probing deeper than most lawyers dared to. Not because I thought it would save me, but because I refused to be caught off guard again. If they were going to bury me, I’d ensure I knew exactly how—and with what.

But I wasn’t just getting ready for the courtroom; I was preparing for my foreseeable future as a guest of the Bureau of Prisons. I started studying the Bureau of Prisons’ policies, especially those related to discipline. I became familiar with the language of Program Statements and the different levels of administrative remedy, all the way up to the Central Office. I delved into disciplinary code violations and how sanctions were enforced inconsistently, as well as how the BOP stripped inmates of their dignity under the pretence of maintaining order. I came to realize that the Disciplinary Hearing Office (DHO) system wasn’t about justice; it was about appearances, primarily maintaining internal control while pretending to be impartial. Most inmates had no idea how to navigate the complex system they were in. I made it my goal to read every single line.

However, at night, that silence returned. After the noise of legal strategy faded and the fluorescent lights dimmed, I was left alone with the one case I couldn’t outmaneuver: myself.

Writing forced me to confront reality, stripping away the facade, revealing a man I hardly knew. In that silence, I began to accept what I had done, what I had lost, and what I might still save—if anything was worth saving at all.

The truth is, serving time isn’t solely about the number of months or years spent in prison. It’s about the realizations you gain, measured by the illusions you let go. With that clear-headed perspective, you begin to see that survival is just the beginning. What comes next—how you navigate your thought patterns—that’s the real sentence.

A Raft and A Bazooka: Drowning in American Justice

Having come from a country with its own shortcomings, I wasn’t prepared for the overwhelming power of prosecutors in the U.S. criminal justice system. In Canada, judges hold authority, defence lawyers stand their ground, and while some may consider the concept of justice to be flawed, it remains a goal pursued in theory. However, in the U.S., I realized there’s something more insidious at play.

Prosecutors in the American criminal justice system enjoy unfettered discretion, enabling them to exert more power and control in the criminal process than any other criminal justice official.²³ Contrary to the Canadian judicial system, I would soon discover that Judges and defence attorneys often find themselves in a reactive role in a weakened adversarial system dominated by prosecutors.

The unchecked authority, coupled with the implementation of mandatory minimum sentence regulations, has exacerbated the power imbalance, ultimately undermining the core values of equity and impartiality in the justice system.

The most remarkable feature of this power is that decisions are discretionary, and I can speak from my experience that its application is very much arbitrary. Self-regulation by prosecution offices is nonexistent, as most decisions are made away from public scrutiny and accountability. Consequently, the mechanisms to hold prosecutors accountable are ineffective and without merit. The only person they find themselves accountable to are their immediate supervisors.

The American Constitution requires that all criminal defendants have the right to a trial, but very few exercise this right. Defendants plead guilty in approximately 95 percent of all criminal cases through the plea-bargaining process, which is mainly under the prosecutor’s control. The layering of multiple charges and superseding indictments is a constant threat; however, prosecutors may be willing to offer a “deal” if the defendant agrees to cooperate or plead guilty. Defendants will often make a counteroffer to mitigate the severity of the sentence and negotiate the best deal possible. However, even in these circumstances, whether a prosecutor will agree to the terms is entirely discretionary.

Assistant United States Attorney Sarah Vogel and her handling of my prosecution exemplify the abuse of discretionary power. Vogel’s decision-making was often predicated on her disdain for me and the fiction spun by her star witness, Grewal, during his lengthy proffer sessions and Grand Jury testimony. The absence of meaningful checks on her prosecutorial power granted her a sense of entitlement to define justice as she saw fit, irrespective of the evidence or her failure to adhere to the rule of law.

According to Vogel, “It is important to note that a stipulated range of six to eight years’ imprisonment represents a hard-bargained compromise.” Before this “hard-bargained compromise,” Vogel showed a blatant disregard for my attorney, Michael Nance, often belittling him in their communications while threatening me with decades of incarceration. I was guilty and fully willing to accept responsibility for my role in the conspiracy as a leader. However, I was not prepared to take responsibility for the fiction manufactured by Grewal and Vogel, nor was I prepared to do the Pharmacist’s time.

For over a year, I remained in custody as Nance and Vogel’s discussions oscillated, the clock ticking louder with each passing month. Every time I requested an update, the response was always the same: “We’re waiting to hear back.” I found myself trapped in a cycle of waiting, watching, and hoping. This became the rhythm of my legal defence—a passive “wait and see” approach that left me vulnerable in a system where hesitation is a liability and silence is often perceived as weakness.

“I’m on a raft with a peashooter, and she’s standing on a battleship with a bazooka,” Nance remarked. It was a grim metaphor, but an honest one. He wasn’t making excuses; he was describing the reality of the terrain we were fighting on. The American system didn’t just favour the prosecution—it armed them, weaponized them, and granted them unchecked authority with no obligation to play fair. Nance was a capable attorney, methodical and thoughtful, but he was navigating a battlefield where logic and law took a back seat to prosecutorial leverage and discretion. I couldn’t help but compare it to my experience with Matthew Nathanson in Canada, where the fight still felt like it had rules, where defence counsel had standing, and where judges held the gavel, not prosecutors. In the United States, it was different; you weren’t arguing law, you were negotiating survival.

At issue was my assertion that I should receive a sentence comparable to that of the other leaders in the conspiracy. In my defence sentencing memorandum, Nance noted the following:

The court should impose a reasonable sentence crafted to fit the circumstances of the case and of Mr. Sidhu. Particularly in light of the sentences imposed on other members of the conspiracy, a prison sentence of seventy-two months would reasonably achieve the stated purposes of § 3553(a), as clarified by recent Supreme Court guidance.²⁴

However, Vogel’s animosity towards me and Grewal’s distortion of the facts compelled her to have me sentenced to decades of incarceration. In an email dated June 11, 2013, Vogel wrote the following to my attorney:

… the only person in this entire case who thinks Sidhu and Jurcev are similarly situated is Sidhu-who seems to be in la la land. Plus the offer to Jurcev was based in large part, on the paucity of admissible evidence against him. This is not a problem I have with Sidhu.²⁵

In her sentencing memorandum prepared for Jurcev, she contradicts this assertion by stating the following:

Specifically, in furtherance of this conspiracy Jurcev agreed to assist with loads of cocaine that were smuggled into Canada from the United States. Jurcev’s role in the conspiracy was to help Sidhu by relaying instructions and helping to coordinate the individuals that were transporting the cocaine for the smuggling organization, thus facilitating the transportation of cocaine. Jurcev knew that this scheme involved at least 5 kg of cocaine, knew and intended that it would be re-distributed to others, and profited from his involvement in the scheme. [Jurcev] worked directly with Sidhu to implement the scheme. Sidhu, of course, is the person who recruited the Canadian border inspector, who was also involved in the scheme. On the other hand, Jurcev’s role in the scheme is somewhat undefined²⁶

For nearly a decade, A.J. and I were partners. Regrettably, we were responsible for smuggling massive quantities of cocaine into Canada. It is also true that we worked directly together to implement our various schemes. Yet, after clearly delineating his responsibilities and simultaneously downplaying his culpability, Vogel characterized Jurcev’s role as “undefined.”

This statement also contradicts Agent Greg Small’s conclusions, as presented in the Record for Case for Prosecution (The Attorney General of Canada utilized this document to proceed with an order of committal pending my extradition).

According to Small’s findings, he showed Devron Quast a photo of Jurcev and noted the following:

Quast also identified a picture of Jurcev as a “partner” of Sidhu, and will testify that Jurcev was nicknamed “Omar” and “Governor.²⁷

Despite clear evidence from her own case agent—evidence that unequivocally described A.J. and me as “partners”—Vogel exercised her prosecutorial discretion to craft a sanitized narrative that downplayed Jurcev’s role in the conspiracy. This wasn’t due to a lack of information; it wasn’t a matter of conflicting testimony or evidentiary gaps. It was a calculated decision rooted in optics, strategy, and power—because she could.

That’s the dangerous truth about prosecutorial discretion in the American federal system: it isn’t just broad; it’s virtually absolute. There are no meaningful checks, no internal tribunal of accountability, and no judicial oversight that can override or interrogate the prosecutor’s version of events before trial. The defence can object, the judge can raise an eyebrow, but unless it’s a gross miscarriage of procedure, the prosecutor’s narrative prevails.

In Vogel’s case, the story relied on selective omission. Jurcev, by his own admission, was an active participant—relaying instructions, facilitating loads, and profiting from his proximity to the leadership. However, Vogel minimized all that, deliberately portraying him as peripheral. Why? Because it served her goal of isolating me as the central figure—the leader, the recruiter, the face of the conspiracy. Jurcev’s narrative was diluted, so mine could be fortified.

Since her authority went unquestioned, no one intervened. There was no evidentiary hearing to contest her claims and no obligation to reconcile the contradiction between her agent’s findings and the narrative she presented to the court. In the absence of a trial, Vogel’s testimony becomes the operative truth. In that void of accountability, discretion transforms into distortion, and that’s precisely what occurred.

Irwin Schwartz, a respected attorney from Seattle, represented A.J. during negotiations with Vogel. Schwartz soon realized Vogel’s sympathetic approach towards his client and made the case that Jurcev had a tough childhood and was often bullied because of his dyslexia. This defence strategy also struck a chord with Judge Lasnik, who showed empathy during Jurcev’s sentencing, stating, “Mr. Jurcev, my wife is a special ed teacher herself and I’m very sensitive to some of the issues that you’ve gone through.”²⁸

Furthermore, after initially agreeing to surrender to the United States, A.J. fled to Croatia. Vogel’s words once again provide evidence of her differential treatment of him.

“Jurcev was approached about entering a pre-indictment guilty plea in 2010 pursuant to the Information filed in U.S. v. York, et al. He initially agreed, but then changed his mind.”

That’s how Vogel framed it to the Court—clean, clinical, and devoid of context. But the truth was far less convenient. She knew full well that A.J. had fled to Croatia, effectively evading prosecution. This wasn’t a simple change of heart—it was a strategic flight from justice. Yet Vogel deliberately chose to omit that fact from the record. Instead, she characterized his disappearance as a mere reconsideration, softening the reality to preserve the narrative she was building.

It was a sleight of hand—technically legal, ethically suspect, and strategically powerful. In federal court, what a prosecutor chooses not to say often carries as much weight as what they do.

In the end, after telling Judge Lasnik he made $30.00 per kilo, totalling less than $100,000, A.J. was given a 24-month sentence and sent home with his parents, allowing him to self-surrender at a future date.

If Vogel had taken the time to do the math regarding his admission, she would have realized that he had essentially confessed to being part of a conspiracy in which he handled 3,333 kilos of cocaine. However, her discretionary power to shape the narrative allowed her to portray him as a minimalist, and her facts and evidence were relevant only when they supported her agenda.

Vogel repositioned A.J. as a peripheral figure on the fringes of the conspiracy and then handed that defence strategy over to Schwartz. A.J., true to form, remained silent. He didn’t create a scene or try to assert himself. Instead, he stayed quiet, observing, and let the situation unfold. This was his approach: he never got into arguments just to elevate his own ego. He wasn’t passive but rather deliberate—someone who understood the hand Vogel had dealt him and played it to his advantage.

Looking back now, I don’t believe A.J. ever consciously chose a side. He navigated the wreckage just like I did, trying to survive it in his own way with whatever tools he had left. Maybe he didn’t know how to help without sacrificing something essential, something he wasn’t willing or ready to give up, and I will never fault him for that.

After working together for nearly a decade, A.J. was more than just a friend; he was family. We had built something that was forged in trust, late nights, and moments only the two of us could truly understand.

He never betrayed me—not once. In a world where self-preservation outweighs principle, that kind of loyalty is rare. Whatever silence grew between us wasn’t rooted in disloyalty—it was founded on pain, confusion, and the burden of choices neither of us knew how to undo.

My only regret is that I didn’t steer him towards a better path. I noticed the warning signs before he did, but instead of guiding him away, I allowed both of us to get pulled closer. That’s on me. Even now, with all the time that has passed and the distance that has grown between us, I still have respect for A.J.—not just for the person he was, but for the loyalty he never abandoned, even when everything was falling apart.

On August 7, 2013, after having been in custody for nearly one full year, I sent my attorney the following email:

Mike, as you can well understand, I am frustrated in what I can only define as an incredible lack of progress with respect to my matter. As I have indicated to you, this “wait and see approach” is leaving me in an extremely uncomfortable position and, regrettably, one in which I lack confidence in your ability to provide a formidable defence on my behalf.

Therefore, I am once again asking you to give my matter your undivided attention. I will not bother you for the next 30 days; however, if, at the conclusion of this period, I am not satisfied that my matter is progressing, I will seek to have you removed as my Attorney. I have been fighting for equality and seeking the same treatment as my co-conspirators. I need you to be as diligent and responsive to my defence as I have been in my attempts to seek a successful resolution to my matter.²⁹

A few more weeks passed before I received a visit from Nance at the correctional facility. It had been months since we had last met, so I was taken aback. I was escorted to a private room designated for legal visits, where I found Nance seated across the table with a smirk on his face. I greeted him, “Hey Mike, what brings you here?” He replied, “Well, Rob, I think we may have some action; I did some digging around after reading your last email and found some very shocking details.” Although I had expressed concern about his ability to mount a formidable defence, I knew him to be highly pragmatic. So, when he said, “We may have some action,” I realized he must have thoroughly considered the matter before bringing it to my attention.

Nance told me that he had lunch with a colleague representing one of my co-accused. During their meeting, he mentioned my name to the attorney and asked, “I don’t understand why Vogel is trying to hammer my client so hard?”

The attorney replied, “You didn’t hear this from me, but she set up an off-the-record plea negotiation in front of Lasnik.” He explained that, according to the attorney, many of my co-accused had received target letters offering lenient sentences if they agreed to waive extradition and voluntarily surrender to the U.S. The defence lawyers representing these individuals felt that, given the large amount of marijuana and cocaine involved in the conspiracy, Vogel’s office was offering a “gift.” However, they were skeptical that Vogel would honour the spirit of these letters and not file additional charges once their clients had surrendered to the U.S. To address their concerns, Vogel had arranged a meeting with herself, the case agent, the defence lawyers, and Judge Lasnik. As told by the attorney, the meeting was actually a plea negotiation, where Vogel and Judge Lasnik provided assurances and protections to alleviate the defence lawyers’ concerns. The attorney also mentioned that Vogel had told the lawyers not to discuss the meeting with anyone outside of the participants at this meeting.

According to Nance, the issue was that a presiding judge is prohibited from participating in plea negotiations. Although plea negotiations are an integral part of the judicial process, they must take place in the presence of an alternate judge.

After his meeting, Nance consulted several appellate lawyers to confirm his understanding of the law. As expected, they were all astonished by the revelation and agreed that Vogel had orchestrated a significant breach of the rule of law.

I was filled with equal parts excitement and relief upon receiving this information. I was also hopeful that Vogel’s cavalier and arrogant disregard for the rule of law would finally be addressed and that she would be held accountable for her actions. “Ask for the charges to be dismissed,” I exclaimed. He leaned back and laughed. “Rob, Vogel hates you; there is no way she will dismiss this case. However, I believe we can use her gaffe to our advantage.” Nance’s strategy would consist of informing her that he was aware of the meeting and that under the rules of discovery, he would request all materials according to the Brady rule.

The Brady rule, named after Brady v Maryland, requires prosecutors to disclose material, exculpatory information in the government’s possession to the defence. Brady material, or the evidence the prosecutor is required to disclose under this rule, includes any information favourable to the accused which may reduce a defendant’s potential sentence, go against the credibility of an unfavourable, or otherwise allow a jury to infer against the defendant’s guilt.³⁰

“I have to be careful how I approach this with her; she is going to hate that she will no longer be able to dictate the terms of our negotiations.” Mike believed there was no escaping this for Vogel; however, allowing her to save face could be advantageous for me.

I saw it as prosecutorial misconduct and urged my attorney to put her on notice. “She may or may not suffer the consequences; more importantly, when Judge Lasnik discovers this, he may recuse himself from your matter. He is the most lenient Judge in the district; you will end up with someone far harsher in their approach and not limited by this error in judgment. I advise you to leverage the mistake made by both of them to your benefit,” he explained.

During my discussions with Mike, I realized the fight wasn’t about guilt or innocence, but about survival, both in a psychological sense and a legal one. After a year in jail, receiving threats disguised as offers and watching Vogel shape reality like clay, I came to understand that what was at stake wasn’t justice but rather how much of myself I was willing to give up to get out.

These weren’t terms of justice; they were terms of surrender, and surrender was the only thing that mattered in this system.

As Nance was about to leave, I had one last question. “You’ve been negotiating with her on my behalf for over a year now. How come she didn’t inform you about this meeting?” I asked. His reply was brief and direct. “That’s who she is,” he said.

On Sept 20, Nance sent the following email to Vogel:

From what I have been able to gather, many of the perceived participants, while still in Canada, received target letters from the government. Most of them obtained counsel and negotiated seemingly generous plea agreements. Indeed, of all the participants, only Robert Shannon received a mandatory minimum sentence. My sense is that many of these individuals did not cooperate in the classic sense but used their leverage of extradition (fighting or foregoing it) while still in Canada to obtain the deals they received.

Everybody else got marked reductions from their advisory guideline ranges/mandatories, and no one else received more than 75 months. They likely wanted commitments/ assurances from the government as to a probable sentence but also some assurance, prior to submitting to U.S. jurisdiction, that the court would actually follow a negotiated plea agreement and negotiated sentencing recommendations by the government.

Were there assurances made by the government to the defendants (or to their counsel) concerning what the court would likely do in their respective cases in exchange for their voluntarily appearing without invoking the extradition process? And, to your knowledge, was the court aware of these assurances or, conceivably, an implied party to these assurances or present during discussions of this nature? If so, I request that your office disclose all such communications/assurances and the full surrounding circumstances. I believe they would be relevant to equal protection/due process/Brady consideration and to establishing disparate treatment of similarly situated participants…31

On September 23, 2013, Vogel responded with the following email:

Hi Mike,

Part of me would really like to hear you try and give a straight-faced explanation for how plea negotiation communications between the government and non-testifying co-conspirators could possibly be discoverable by Sidhu as “relevant to equal protection/due process/Brady considerations and to establishing disparate treatment of similarly situated participants …”

Just because he wants to know doesn’t make something “Brady.” Just because some of his co-conspirators got a break and he feels like he didn’t get a break isn’t an equal protection/due process issue.

FIRST QUESTION

You asked: Were there assurances made by the government to the defendants (or to their counsel) concerning what the court would likely do in their respective cases in exchange for their voluntarily appearing without invoking the extradition process?

My answer: As you well know, I have no authority to give assurances about what the court will do. I can only give my opinion as to what a likely outcome might be.

SECOND QUESTION

You asked: And, to your knowledge, was the court aware of these assurances or present during discussions of this nature?

My answer: In CR10-313RSL, US v. York et al., many of these co-conspirators accepted our invitation to appear voluntarily prior to indictment (obviously, we can’t extradite until we indict, so this was even before that). They pled to information. Many (but not all) of those plea agreements, as you can see, included Rule 11(c)(1)(C), stipulated sentences or ranges which bound the court if the court agreed to accept them.

In that case, some of the defendants requested and obtained an opportunity to present the proposed plea agreements to the court in advance of the plea hearings and requested the court’s opinion as to whether they were likely to be accepted. Judge Lasnik granted the defendants’ request and indicated orally that he did not see anything that he deemed problematic. Of course, he did not make any promises and there was no guarantee of what would happen. Following that, seven of those defendants voluntarily travelled to the U.S., waived indictment, and pled guilty to the information. The court later accepted all of the plea agreements. This is the only case where this happened. It is also the only case in this larger Operation where individuals who had never been charge with any crime agreed to come to the U.S. and enter guilty pleas.³²

Vogel described this arrangement in a typical manner, veiled in vague, bureaucratic language that made the entire process sound clinical, even procedural. However, buried within that phrasing was a deeper truth: this wasn’t merely justice at work; it was strategy, control, and narrative engineering.

She stated, “Many (but not all) of those plea agreements... included Rule 11(c)(1)(C) stipulated sentences.” This kind of statement aims to sound impartial and objective. However, it glosses over the behind-the-scenes bargaining and the fact that this supposed pathway to resolution was only available to some. It was selective, and her language was deliberately vague, using legalese to conceal more than it revealed.

Even the way she portrayed Judge Lasnik’s informal review—“he didn’t see anything he considered problematic”—was deliberate. It was technically accurate, but without context, it created a misleading sense of agreement. No commitments, no assurances, just enough ambiguity to keep everything unclear. That’s how Vogel operated—always leaving herself a way to shift, obfuscate, and reframe.

This was the only case in the broader Operation where uncharged individuals were invited into the United States to plead guilty before an indictment was ever filed. That detail isn’t just legally significant—it’s ethically revealing. It underscores how uneven the process truly was. Some individuals were offered a structured path forward, a degree of predictability and negotiation.

Others, like me, were left navigating a far more precarious landscape without the benefit of early engagement or transparency.

Vogel played a central role in shaping that disparity. She controlled the framing, determined who received what, and decided which facts were emphasized—or witheld.

It wasn’t necessarily malicious, but it was deliberate. Her approach wasn’t grounded in fairness or consistency; it was based on strategy and discretion. This made it particularly difficult to challenge, because technically, it was all permissible. However, that doesn’t make it just.

At A.J.’s sentencing, Judge Lasnik offered further clarity by elaborating on the details of the meeting in the following statement:

I have been beaten up around the head and shoulders with these sentences I’ve imposed in this case and every other drug case that’s come before me, proving that no good deed goes unpunished.

There were very unique circumstances. Mr. Schwartz, you were at the meeting, weren’t you, in my conference room with all the lawyers sitting around, and Ms. Vogel. You know, the idea was floated that these Canadian defendants would like to come in and plead, but they would like some consistency in the way they are treated.

That was a highly unusual thing for me, the only time I’ve ever done it as a U.S. district judge, and I felt there were a lot of compromises being made around the table on both the government’s side and the defence side that led me to give some of the sentences that I gave that were not traditional sentences for me. And I refuse to be completely locked into consistency for matters that really are somewhat outside the mainstream³³

Lasnik’s intent appeared practical and grounded in the concept of judicial economy. He recognized a rare opportunity to resolve an international case without the costs and delays associated with extradition. However, his presence in that meeting, regardless of its good intentions, gave the process a semblance of fairness that would later be undermined by Vogel’s selective interpretation of the facts. What began as a gesture of consistency devolved into something far less principled. While Lasnik may have thought he was facilitating compromise, the resulting imbalance demonstrated just how fragile that compromise truly was.

In further negotiations with Vogel, Nance sent her the following email on October 3, 2013.

[Sidhu] realizes that most of the Canadians negotiated their deals pre-indictment, but still doesn’t think his situation is so different so as to warrant the hard-ball offer he has received. This is especially so, given that those defendants effectively had the court-sanctioned pleas before they risked coming to the U.S., and his co-defendant Jurcev thumbed his nose at the system for a year and still received the gift of 24 months.

To recall our thread of negotiations, you offered….a plea to a (b)(1)(B)with some unspecified floor above 5 years. Mr. Sidhu wants either the government to agree to no role enhancement under USSG 3B1.1 (which would make him safety valve eligible) or to plead to a (b)(1)(C). Under either of his proposals, each side would be able to argue to Judge Lasnik its idea of a fair sentence.

I am seeing Mr. Sidhu again tomorrow. If you have any other thoughts toward resolving this, I am as interested as you in hearing them.³⁴

Despite her gaffe, Vogel continued to insist on dictating the terms of the negotiations. On October 3, 2013, she responded to my attorney’s email in the following manner:

I understand that is what Mr. Sidhu wants, but he is not going to get it. Just like Grewal, Quast, Shannon, Docter, etc, didn’t get it. Grewal, for example, had to plead to an A-level offence and agree to testify against Sidhu to get below ten years. He’s convinced Sidhu is going to kill him and his family(a common theme). How could I possibly give Sidhu a deal where he could get less than Grewal got? Sidhu can profess his version of events all he wants, but everyone who dealt with him is unanimously united on a completely different version.

I am willing to meet him part way. I will advocate for the authority to enter a B-level plea, but it has to have a floor of something higher than 60 months.

He’s not going to convince me that he was comparable to Jurcev in role and I know he is not comparable to Jurcev in terms of my evidence against him. I barely had any evidence against Jurcev. Sidhu is not so lucky. He’s in denial and if he keeps it up he’s going to end up getting ten plus years. Trial is set for November 18. One week from today, I am required to start the lengthy process of getting my witnesses transferred from various BOP facilities here to testify. After that, no deals. This is the last opportunity to get below ten years. Firm Plea Deadline: October 10th.³⁵

The following day, Nance came to FDC Sea-Tac with Vogel’s offer of a stipulated plea with a sentence above the 60 months Grewal received. As I greeted him, I noticed the same boyish smirk on his face. “Well, she finally came to her senses and caved to what we had been asking for all along,” Nance commented.

As my attorney, he was also obligated to inform me that going to trial was entirely my decision. “I must caution you, though, if we lose, Vogel will seek to give you 20 years plus. The issues related to her conduct will most certainly be brought up on appeal, but you will do at least a decade before it’s even heard.”

Realizing the possibility of returning home within a decade instead of waiting for an appeal to navigate a heavily burdened legal system was a sobering and thought-provoking notion. “I’d still like you to stick it to Vogel,” I exclaimed. He rolled his eyes and laughed, “Rob, I will be addressing that with the court, but you need to let that go and focus on getting home to your family.”

Nance also addressed Grewal’s concern that I would kill him and his family once I returned home. “You know we have the death penalty here in Washington State³⁶, and he’s a government witness, so if he turns up dead one day, Vogel will be looking at you as the prime suspect. She will have you extradited even if you didn’t do it”. He was correct, I had already witnessed how Vogel could spin her fiction with relative impunity; more importantly, I needed to focus on getting home to my family. Regarding Grewal’s concerns, I replied, “You have my word Mike; I’m not giving Vogel another opportunity by going after that fucking rat piece of shit.”

We discussed what he felt would be an appropriate range for my sentencing. “How do you feel about a range of six to eight years? I will argue for the low end of 72 months, but Lasnik will have difficulty overcoming the fact that you were an ex-cop; you will need to prepare yourself for the full 96 months.”

I wanted to move forward and get beyond the sentencing phase; more importantly, I wanted to be done with Vogel, so I agreed with his recommendation. I made one last request: “Make sure she agrees not to oppose my treaty transfer back to Canada.” “That’s a valid point; I will discuss it with her and ensure it’s in the plea agreement.” With that comment, my attorney and I ended our conversation. After a year of listening to Vogel’s hellfire and damnation, it took less than ten minutes to determine my fate for the next eight years.

True to his word, Nance alluded to Vogel’s misconduct in my sentencing memorandum:

In an extraordinary process other defence counsel and a government prosecutor met with the court beforehand and apparently procured assurances that the negotiated plea agreements would be followed by the court.

In due time, the various defendants appeared and the agreements were accepted and applied by the court.³⁷

In keeping with the need to control the narrative and minimize her culpability, Vogel characterized the justification for the plea agreement as follows:

The United States respectfully requests that the Court accept the parties’ sentencing stipulation and impose a sentence with the agreed-upon range, which is a fraction of the low end of the applicable range and also years below the mandatory minimum that would have applied but for the concessions in the Plea Agreement. These concessions, and the stipulated below -Guidelines range, already take into consideration and apply credit for the years that have passed and the other somewhat mitigating factors the Defendant has raised to the United States.³⁸

As Vogel put it, the “hard-bargained compromise” was supposedly due to “other somewhat mitigating factors the Defendant has raised to the United States.” This line was filled with bureaucratic indifference, vague, sanitized, and deliberately empty. I understood what it represented: a self-serving nod to the illusion of fairness, her way of concealing an off-the-record negotiation she never had the courage or integrity to put in writing. It was her way to appear reasonable without relinquishing any control. On the surface, it seemed benign, but beneath that facade, it reeked of manipulation made under the threat of a loaded gun she never stopped pointing at my head.

In the theatre of justice, within the American federal judiciary, control of the narrative isn’t just influence - it’s absolute dominance. When the outcome hinges less on evidence and more on whose version is believed first, justice is compromised. Instead, it becomes a performance, one in which prosecutors like Vogel serve as both the playwright and director.

23 The Power and Discretion of the American Prosecutor - OpenEdition. https://journals.openedition.org/droitcultures/1580

24 United States of America vs. Rapinder Sidhu No. CR11-275 RSL. Defence Sentencing Memorandum. (January 10, 2014). Sentencing courts now have the authority and a Supreme Court mandate to impose sentences that are not greater than necessary to satisfy the statutory purposes of sentencing, to consider all of the characteristics of the offender and circumstances of the offense, to reject advisory guidelines that are not based on national sentencing data and empirical research, and to serve their function in the constructive evolution of responsible guidelines. See United States v. Booker, 543 U.S. 220 (2005); Rita v. United States, 127 Ct. 2456 (2007); Gall v. United States, 128 S. Ct. 586 (2007); Kimbrough v. United States, 128 S. Ct. 558 (2007). The court must calculate the sentencing guideline range and then determine the appropriate sentence for the individual defendant in light of the statutory factors of 18 U.S.C. § 3553(a). Nelson v. United States, 129 S.Ct. 890 (2009).

25 Email from Vogel to Nance (June 11, 2013).

26 United States of America v. Anthony Jurcev No. CR11-275RSL United States’ Sentencing Memorandum (February 17, 2012).

27 United States of America vs. Rapinder Sidhu No. CR11-275RSL Record of Case for Prosecution. Page 3.

28 United States of America v. Anthony Jurcev No. CR11-275RSL. Verbatim Report of Proceeding Before The Honorable Robert S. Lasnik (February 17, 2012).

29 Email from Sidhu to Nance. (August 7, 2013)

30 https://www.law.cornell.edu/wex/brady_rule

31 Email from Nance to Vogel (Sept 20, 2013).

32 10 Email from Vogel to Nance (September 23, 2013)

33 United States of America v. Anthony Jurcev CR11-275RSL. Verbatim Report of Proceedings Before The Honorable Robert S. Lasnik (February 17, 2012)

34 Email from Nance to Vogel (October 3, 2013)

35 Email from Vogel to Nance (October 3, 2013)

36 Washington State’s Abolishment of the Death Penalty. See State of Washington v. Allen Eugene Gregory. The Supreme Court of Washington State (October 11, 2018)

37 United States of America vs. Rapinder Sidhu CR11-275 RSL. Defence Sentencing Memorandum. (January 10, 2014)

38 United States of America vs. Rapinder Sidhu CR11-275 RSL. United States Sentencing Memorandum (January 10, 2014)

Chapter 26

Iron Sharpens Iron

Purpose

“The way in which a man accepts his fate and all the suffering it entails, the way in which he takes up his cross, gives him ample opportunity -even under the most difficult circumstances -to add deeper meaning to his life. It may remain brave, dignified and unselfish. Or in the bitter fight for self-preservation, he may forget his human dignity and become no more than an animal. Here lies the chance for a man either to make use of or to forgo the opportunities of attaining the moral values that a difficult situation may afford him. And this decides whether he is worthy of his sufferings or not”.³⁹

My anger toward the whole process, particularly regarding Grewal and the Pharmacist, calcified to the point of obsession, compelling me to confront my demons during my first two years inside. I needed an escape that would allow me to structure my time and provide an opportunity for introspection and a closer examination of my life. In my pursuit of success before my incarceration, I had shifted my focus away from what was truly meaningful. With time and distance, I discovered that life has no single meaning, but many paths to take. From family to faith, and yes, even prison, change for a greater good revolves around small, sustainable, and gradually increasing improvements in our lives.

I enrolled in programs that emphasized critical thinking, self-awareness, and effective communications, as well as continuing to study American criminal law and BOP policy regarding the administration of discipline. It was a source of crucial information when advocating for prisoners who faced the arbitrary and often reckless indifference experienced by many of us.

Focusing on writing, particularly when filing appeals on behalf of my fellow inmates, became a means of maintaining a sense of mental awareness and coping with the monotony and isolation of my daily life, as well as providing me with a sense of purpose. Much of the work I did proved to be immensely cathartic and personally rewarding. Identifying value in the lives of these men and advocating on their behalf enabled them to return to their lives without serving additional time on their sentences. Challenging the warden’s authority was not without consequences, however, and those experiences also contained many lessons in perseverance and necessity.

On May 20, 2012, amidst a litany of grievances, the inmates at the Adams County Correctional Centre in Natchez, Mississippi, staged a riot during which a correctional officer was killed and several others were injured⁴⁰. The inmates accused the administration and its employees of beating them and denying them medical services, which resulted in the deaths of several inmates. In one instance, the loved ones of an inmate were not informed of his death for more than five years after the event. Inmates responsible for preparing the meals complained about using meat ingredients labelled “unsuitable for human consumption.”

The Corrections Corporation of America (CCA), now known as CoreCivic, managed this privately owned prison and is one of the largest for-profit incarceration companies in the United States. In a well-documented audit completed by the Department of Justice (DOJ), CoreCivic and its predecessor, CCA, were criticized for cutting corners through understaffing and employing prison labour as maintenance staff who were compensated only $1.00 per day. The report also highlighted that “CoreCivic employs correctional officers with qualifications that would be insufficient for employment at BOP-managed institutions and pays them less than BOP correctional officers. The OIG found significantly higher rates of staff turnover at the facility than at comparable BOP institutions.”⁴¹ Private prisons are incentivized to cut corners to pad their profits. Frustrated by the pay disparity, COs began bringing contraband into the facility. Inmates paid COs as much as $1,000.00 for each cell phone brought into the facility. A “Popeye’s Chicken” bucket brought into the SHU could fetch $300.00. One of the COs had inmates’ loved ones place orders on Amazon, with items shipped to a North Carolina address. From there, the items would be mailed to a third party in Natchez, MS, where the CO would retrieve the packages and bring the contents into the facility. Thanks to this scheme, goods ranging from tattoo ink to Patek’s Butter Chicken Sauce made their way into the hands of the inmates.

When I arrived at the compound in early 2015, I discovered that the prison was in complete lockdown. Following the riot three years earlier, the prison had been upgraded to maximum security status, and in the aftermath, it experienced a high turnover rate among its executive staff. Successive wardens failed to implement significant changes in the facility’s day-to-day operations, which contributed to the already heightened uncertainty among the inmates and correctional staff. As a result, restricted movements and “shakedowns”⁴²had become routine.

Even the slightest hint of tension would trigger a lockdown that could last for weeks.

In June 2015, the CCA announced that David Berkibile would assume the position of warden at the Adams County Correctional Centre. Berkibile had retired from the BOP after 27 years of service and was most notably recognized for his tenure as warden of ADX Florence, formerly known as the U.S. Penitentiary Administrative Maximum Facility, located near Florence, Colorado. Here, the prisoners are held in 7’x12’ cells for 23 hours a day. Inmates sanctioned for disciplinary reasons are housed in an area known as Z-Unit or “The Black Hole,” where they are kept in total darkness in soundproof cells, with full-body restraints built directly into a concrete bed.

Some of the more notorious criminals housed at ADX Florence include Boston Marathon bomber Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, Oklahoma City bombing accomplice Terry Nichols, Sinaloa Cartel leader Juan “El Chapo” Guzman, and, until his recent death, Unabomber Ted Kaczynski.

On June 16, Warden Berkibile commenced his administration and was promptly confronted with a riot. Mexicans known as “Paisas” or countrymen in my housing unit engaged in a violent confrontation with their fellow “Paisas” in an adjacent unit. It is highly unusual for them to attack their own with violence, nevertheless, we soon learned that the conflict was triggered when one inmate labeled another as a rat. The riot resulted in one prisoner being paralyzed from a blow to the head, with several others severely injured from stabbings, punches, and kicks. I witnessed the entire event unfold from the secure confines of my locked cell on the upper tier of the housing unit, where I would remain for an additional four weeks as the entire prison was locked down while the FBI conducted their investigation.

Not surprisingly, given his background, Berkibile employed an authoritative approach toward the inmate population. Many of the participants of the riot were confined to the SHU for several months before being transferred to other institutions. He also took the unusual step of locking up all of the shot-callers for the various cars in the compound, although most of these individuals were assigned to housing units that weren’t involved. He would often proclaim, “I am the only shot-caller in this prison.” It wouldn’t be long before I would cross paths with “shot-caller Berkibile”.

One day, while on my way to the law library, I saw Berkibile approaching. He stopped and exclaimed, “Inmate Sidhu, you know you’re not supposed to have anyone else’s paperwork. I understand you are responsible for filing many of the grievances that come across my desk.”

“Your staff is ignorant of BOP discipline policy and protocol, and their actions contravene inmates’ rights to due process,” I replied. I could tell from the shade of crimson flushing his face that my proclamation angered him.

“You have a job?” he demanded.

“I’m here to do my time, not work as slave labour,” I replied.

“I will speak with your unit manager to ensure you are out there mowing lawns.”

“Yeah, I’m not doing any of that.”

“You want to go to the SHU?”

“You think I haven’t served time in the SHU? Let’s go now. I’ll do the time standing on my head.”

Unfortunately, the law library would have to wait; Berkibile immediately arrested me and locked down the entire compound as he escorted me to my new accommodations.

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

Three days later, my new nemesis instructed his lieutenant, Ken Anderson, to issue me with a “shot” for disobeying a direct order; if found guilty, the infraction could result in an additional thirty days being added to my sentence. According to BOP policy, shots must be served on the inmate within 24 hours of the infraction. I remained silent as the document was being served.

I would remain in the SHU for ninety days before the DHO heard the matter. The Disciplinary Hearing Officer is intended to be an impartial third party, employed by the prison, to render judgment on any disciplinary issues. On the day of my hearing, I argued that there was an unreasonable delay in serving the document, thereby violating my due process and bringing the administration of justice into disrepute. The DHO looked at me and asked, “Were you a lawyer on the street?”

“No, Ma’am, I was a cop.”

My response surprised her. “Well, Mr. Ex-cop, you are absolutely correct; this matter is dismissed, and you are acquitted. I will see that the warden immediately removes you from the SHU.”

A few days had passed when I observed Lt. Anderson making his rounds of the SHU. As he approached my cell, I asked, “When am I returning to the compound?” He informed me that Berkibile was incensed by my acquittal.

“He plans to stretch your time in the SHU for as long as he can.”

Prisoners in the SHU are afforded one hour outside their cell during the “rec period” when they are confined to a 7’x12’ chain-link cage. It’s an opportunity to breathe some fresh air and enjoy the great outdoors, albeit in a limited capacity. One day, I was enjoying my sixty minutes of sunshine when my neighbour in the next enclosure asked me if I’d be willing to review his case to see if there were any grounds for appeal. He’d been found guilty of having a contraband cell phone, and an extra ninety days was added to his sentence as a penalty. I agreed to do what I could, and shortly after, one of the more friendly COs working the SHU came to my cell, slipped a bundle through the slot, locked it quickly, and walked away. The entire disciplinary file related to the inmate I’d spoken with was hidden between the pages of the Bluff City Post newspaper.

After reviewing the paperwork, I noted a two-week delay between the offence and the shot being served. When the BOP confiscates a cell phone, it is often sent to the FBI to determine whether it was used to commit a crime. In this instance, the warden can disregard the 24-hour requirement to serve the inmate after the alleged offence; however, they must still receive a “notification of delay in prosecution” within five days. I carefully examined the entire file, finding that this document was absent, so during my next rec period, I spoke with him and confirmed that he had not been served with this notice. After returning to my cell, I drafted his appeal, placed it and all his supporting documentation inside the newspaper, and handed it back to the same CO. The inmate’s appeal was heard, and his conviction was overturned due to what I described as “a lack of due process” and “a fundamental disregard for the administration of justice.”

On the day he was set to return to the compound, I received a note thanking me for my assistance. As he was escorted out of the SHU, he looked up towards my cell, shouted, “Thank you, Canada!” and gave me a smiling thumbs-up.

Berkibile was furious that his authority had been successfully challenged. As a warden of a private prison, he was financially incentivized to extend an inmate’s sentence; I was starting to have a negative impact on both his ego and his bank account.

I would spend a total of eight months⁴³ in the SHU, where I often endured retaliation for my efforts.. One example of this was having the air conditioning in my cell turned off, forcing me to lie naked on the concrete floor in search of some reprieve from the Mississippi heat. After over two hundred and fifty days in solitary confinement, my mental health was suffering; my cognitive abilities started to decline severely, and I began to hallucinate. I was visited by the prison’s psychologist, who determined that the warden’s actions had caused significant psychological distress and offered to speak to him on my behalf. Later that day, Berkibile sauntered up to my cell.

“How are you doing, Sidhu?”

I was irate. “You can go fuck yourself, you piece of shit. The next letters I write will be to the Office of the Inspector General and the Canadian Consulate.”

He laughed, the kind of insincere sound people make when they think they’re untouchable.

Two weeks later, I was transferred to a low-security facility in Ashland, Kentucky. Within days of my arrival, I received a letter from the US Department of Justice informing me that, with two years left on my sentence, my treaty transfer had been approved. Seeing these words in black and white hit me like a shot of adrenaline. I sat back on the thin mattress in my cell, letter still in hand, and let the reality wash over me. It felt like light was finally starting to appear through the cracks of the concrete walls.

To accommodate the necessary immigration protocols, I was transferred yet again - this time to FCI Allenwood, Pennsylvania.

From Chains to Change: Derrick and Duke

Some men serve time. Others use it to rebuild what the world tried to erase. Derrick and Duke were the latter—proof that even behind bars, transformation is possible when purpose takes root.

When I entered the prison system six years earlier, my time in the underworld had added more than a few pounds. I had started training during my stint in Sea-Tac, but my extended stays in solitary confinement at ACC had disrupted my routines. In Allenwood, I met someone who would soon become a close friend and confidant, as well as my self-appointed personal trainer. By pushing me into his high-intensity regime, I quickly achieved my target weight of 165lbs, which felt so much more comfortable on my 5’10” frame than my original 240lbs, not to mention giving my self-esteem a healthy boost.

When I first met Derrick Sylvia, a 5’5” muscle-bound man of Cape Verdean descent, he had almost three years remaining on his 12-year sentence for Conspiracy to Distribute. Before his arrest, Derrick was a top supplier of OxyContin on the American East Coast. He would occasionally share stories of a lavish lifestyle and weekend getaways to South Beach, Florida, where he’d enjoy five-star hotels, beautiful women, and late-night helicopter tours as expressions of his newfound wealth. However, he was unlike many inmates who boasted about and glorified their crimes to gain respect from others; instead, Derrick spoke about his crimes with humility and contrition. His sentence took on a new purpose, and he was dedicated to moving beyond his transgressions when he returned to his loved ones.

With five years of incarceration under my belt, Derrick’s words began to resonate in a way I hadn’t fully appreciated before. After half a decade of navigating some of the most volatile and predatory institutions in the Bureau of Prisons, I began to feel the slow withdrawal of the persona I’d become to survive. The posturing, the politics, the unspoken rules of the car - it all started to seem irrelevant. Derrick and I began having quieter, deeper conversations that extended beyond the barbed wire. We discussed the future and what it might entail, including walking out of here and staying out, and building something legitimate. He kept circling back to one predominant truth: “We gotta get paid legit”—an idea that didn’t seem naive; it felt like freedom. This mindset extended to the people around Derrick, who were no longer chasing stripes or reputations; they, too, were pursuing peace.

On a sweltering day in Pennsylvania, while training, I noticed an athletic Black man walking towards us.

“What’s up, Champ?” Derrick exclaimed, “Duke, I want you to meet my friend from Canada; this is Rob. Rob, this is Duke Tanner.” As I shook Duke’s hand, Derrick continued his introduction. “Duke was sentenced to double life and got it knocked down to thirty years. He’s working on getting clemency from Trump.” Then, without hardly taking a breath, he continued, “Hey Champ, Rob’s pretty good with the legal work, maybe he could help you write that letter to Trump as part of your clemency application?”

Charles “Duke” Tanner was born in Gary, Indiana, and began boxing at the age of six. His love and dedication to the sport led him to compete in the 1996 Junior Olympics, where he won a bronze medal. Shortly after, he turned professional and climbed to an undefeated 19-0 record. In 2004, Duke was arrested for his role as a leader in a drug conspiracy, and as a first-time, non-violent offender, he received two life sentences. In 2016, with the retroactive implementation of new legislation targeting prison reform and primarily non-violent drug offenders, Duke’s sentence was reduced to thirty years.

Ask anyone serving a life sentence, and they usually say, “My release date comes with a body bag,” but for Duke, a thirty-year sentence (minus four years’ credit for good behaviour) meant a promise of freedom with a release date of November 24, 2030. From the moment I met Duke, I could sense his sincerity and genuine depth of personality. To mark his future milestone, he began what he called his “faith walk to freedom.” As part of this journey, he completed over 1600 hours of programs and college courses. He also mentored younger inmates, showing them that despite their circumstances, there is always an opportunity to overcome adversity and remain dignified in the face of prison life.

With the assistance of the CAN-DO Foundation, Duke commenced his clemency application under the Obama Administration. His story soon captured the attention of social media, generating momentum and hope that he would be freed before the end of Obama’s last term as President. Despite the best efforts of his family and the Foundation, Duke remained incarcerated as President Obama’s time in office came to a close.

“You think you can help me write a letter to Trump?” he inquired.

“I’m not a fan of his, but if it gets you home, I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Over the next two weeks, Duke and I spent a considerable amount of time together. On the rare occasions when Derrick was unable to attend our training sessions, he would step in, giving us more time to get to know each other.

As I neared my release in July 2019, Duke gave me a carefully written letter reminding me of what we had been through and what still lay ahead. It was a raw, sincere, and heartfelt message urging me to stay on track, carry the lessons forward, and keep building on the person I was becoming. What stuck with me most was how he ended it. “Iron sharpens Iron.” Just three words, but they represent everything we had been through together, and still resonate with me. It reminds me that even in the darkest moments, strength is possible—and sometimes, the most unlikely bonds are forged under the toughest circumstances.

I would eventually write to President Trump, and on October 21, 2020, after serving sixteen years, Duke was granted clemency. The following day, I received a call identified as coming from Indiana State Sen. Eddie Melton (D-Gary) and heard Duke’s voice say, “Hey, Champ, I’m going home.”

It was humbling to have played even a minor role in Duke’s journey to freedom. Witnessing his transformation was not just inspiring; it served as a powerful reminder of what resilience and self-belief can accomplish when those are all you have left. He overcame the burden of his sentence and the weight of his past. Today, Duke stands tall as a motivational speaker and entrepreneur, someone who finds truth in pain and recognizes the power of potential. People listen to him because every word has been truly earned.

Men like Derrick and Duke didn’t let prison define them; they used it as fuel for their purpose, which was ultimately redemption. They stand as living proof that accountability and change are always possible—even behind concrete walls and steel bars. I’m proud to call them my friends, not just because of who they’ve become, but because of the honesty, loyalty, and brotherhood they showed me when I needed it most.

39 Man’s Search for Meaning. Viktor E. Frankl. Beacon Press, 2006.

40 ACCC_FBI_Affidavit.pdf

41 Audit of the Federal Bureau of Prisons’ Contract with CoreCivic, Inc. to Operate Adams County Correctional Center in Natchez, MS. 2016/12/20.

42 Prison vernacular for a search of one’s person or cell.

43 https://www.solitaryconfinement.org/un-nelson-mandela-rules. The United Nations defines any solitary confinement of more than 22 hours a day for 15 or more days as “torture” that can cause irreparable psychological and physical damage.

Chapter 27

You Always Have a Second Chance and It’s Now

When reflecting on their time in prison, most former inmates remember two significant dates: the day they were arrested and the day they were released. These two milestones serve as jagged bookends to a life fractured by consequence. The arrest is typically chaotic—a blur of steel cuffs, harsh commands, and the crushing realization that the life they once knew is over. The release, in contrast, is strangely muted. It’s a quiet liberation, not of chains, but of identity. I walked out with the same number, a thinner frame, and a head full of memories that no one on the outside could fully comprehend. Everything in between—years of routine, survival, reckoning, regret—gets compressed between those two timestamps. Time becomes elastic behind bars, but I will never forget those two dates. They signify the death of one version of yourself and the uncertain rebirth of another.

In December 2018, President Trump signed the bipartisan First Step Act⁴⁴ into law, which amended my release date from September 11, 2019. This law introduced significant changes to U.S. federal criminal law, reforming federal prisons and sentencing laws to lower recidivism rates, reduce the federal inmate population, and ensure public safety.

After the law was passed, I reviewed the entire Act to determine my eligibility for any credits related to my remaining sentence. I discovered that I was entitled to a credit of 6.75 days for each year of my sentence. Given the length of my sentence, I calculated that I would receive 54 days of credit, advancing my release date to July 19, 2019.

On Friday, April 19, I was sitting in my cell when Derrick approached me.

“Yo playa, the secretary is hollering for you. She wants to see you in her office right now.”

“Alright, bro, let me throw on my khakis,” I replied.

Whenever inmates enter the administrative area of the housing unit, they must wear khaki prison attire to show respect towards staff.

I had recently filed a disciplinary appeal on behalf of a fellow convict and feared I would be reprimanded again for doing so.

To enter the administrative area, one must walk past a television room filled with prisoners and a row of child molesters who are permanently barred from the television rooms and forced to watch from the hallway. The inmates’ curiosity is piqued whenever someone is required to see one of the unit staff, as it was on this day.

I entered the secretary’s office and saw her behind the desk, eyes fixed on her screen, her fingers tapping without urgency. “Ma’am, you were looking for me?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

She didn’t even look up. Without ceremony or emotion, she slid a piece of paper towards me and said, “Sidhu, you’re going home early; sign this paper.”

The words didn’t make sense at first. I blinked. My ears rang.

“Sorry—what did you say?” I asked, genuinely unsure if I was hallucinating.

She looked up just long enough to repeat it, almost irritated:

“You’re going home early. Now, sign this paper before I change my mind.”

Time stopped.

Everything around me faded—her office, the noise from the corridor, even the walls themselves. All I could hear was my heartbeat pounding in my ears. My hands trembled. Seven years. Seven fucking years of waiting, hoping, surviving, counting, dying, and waking up again. I stood there, paralyzed, staring at that sheet of paper.

My throat tightened as I picked it up. July 19, 2019.

My eyes traced the date before me. I had already calculated the figures months ago—54 days of credit, and I knew them to the decimal point. But seeing it there in black ink, real and undeniable, stirred something within me. I felt my breath hitch and my chest tighten as a wave of emotions crashed over me—grief, relief, disbelief, anger. It was all overwhelming. My hand trembled so badly that I could barely sign my name. I don’t even remember forming the letters. All I recall is the paper blurring as tears pooled in my eyes, which I refused to let fall in front of her.

She took it back, made a copy, and handed it to me as if it were nothing more than a receipt.

As I turned to leave, she added coldly,

“By the way, Sidhu, if you want to go home on your new date, I strongly suggest you stop filing appeals for other inmates. Your actions are testing the Warden’s patience.”

There it was. Even in the moment I’d longed for years, the institution couldn’t resist taking one last shot. No congratulations, no human decency—just another reminder that this place didn’t believe in redemption, it believed in control.

I didn’t respond. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. I walked out of that office carrying more than just a photocopy—I carried the ramifications of every day I had survived, every moment I’d doubted I would make it, and every ounce of hope I’d buried to stay alive.

It felt like the end of something I still hadn’t fully processed, and the beginning of a life I wasn’t sure I deserved.

I immediately walked to the TV room, my heart pounding, the release paper clenched tightly in my hand like it might vanish if I let it go. Derrick was sitting among a room full of inmates, half watching the screen, half-dozing in the heavy rhythm of prison routine. My voice cracked as I said,

“Derrick… I got some love from your boy Trump. I’m going home early.”

For a moment, the room fell silent as they took a second to grasp what I’d said. Then the energy shifted, and once again my eyes started to well up, and I couldn’t stop the tremble in my voice. The weight of the announcement wasn’t just mine; it was shared by all of us. In that small, cinderblock room of concrete and confinement, I saw something rare—hope. Raw, contagious, unfiltered hope. Cheers, claps, and even a few “hell yeahs” erupted around the room.

I was the first in our unit to receive the credit. My name and my file had just become symbols that the First Step Act was real. It wasn’t merely political posturing but an actual shift in momentum. This meant that everyone who qualified would soon experience that same wave of hope breaking through the concrete.

Derrick slowly stood up, took my hand with both of his, and pulled me into a tight hug. He held on longer than I expected. It wasn’t just a show of support—it was a real connection. Then, in true Derrick fashion, he stepped back, smirked, and said loudly enough for everyone to hear,

‘Since you hate my boy Trump so much, give him back the time and finish your bit like a man.”

Everyone in the room burst into laughter. I even managed a chuckle, wiping my face with my khaki sleeve. That was Derrick, always finding the humour in tough situations. At that moment, it felt great—felt human—to let go and laugh.

I returned to my cell, still dazed and still clutching that copy in my hand. I sat on my bunk, unlocked my locker, and pulled out the calendar I had kept tucked away for years, its boxes crossed off day by day like a slow drip of survival. I ran my fingers across the red ink, tracing all those counted-down days that had become a ritual of both hope and punishment.

Then I saw the date. April 19.

I leaned forward on the edge of my bed, gazing at the calendar. The air seemed to shift. The hum of the unit dwindled into the background. I sensed something in my chest beginning to crack open—not pain, not exactly relief… something deeper, more profound. It was a mixture of grief and grace, emotions long buried now fighting to emerge.

And that’s when it hit me. It was Good Friday.

Of all the days.

It was a day of sacrifice, reflection, and, for those who believe, a moment when human suffering was replaced by redemption. I found myself on my knees, praying and in awe — not of a miracle, but of the quiet, unexpected mercy of a system that so seldom revealed any.

I closed my eyes and whispered the date to myself, over and over again. Good Friday. A good day to begin again.

Ironically, the following week, I received a response from the Correctional Service of Canada (CSC) indicating their willingness to approve my treaty transfer and arrange my return in late September 2019.

Approximately 2.5 years had passed since the United States Department of Justice approved my treaty transfer. I was growing increasingly frustrated with the endless excuses and delays from Correctional Service Canada (CSC) and the analysts reviewing my file. I felt a sense of indignation when I finally called my analyst and informed her my new release date.

“You and your colleagues deliberately stretched me out for as long as you could,” I exclaimed.

She remained silent, not disputing any of my comments. I later learned that Grewal had contacted the CSC, expressing his fear that I would harm him and his family. His concerns were the primary reason I was unable to return through the treaty transfer process.

On April 25, 2019, I was summoned to the Lieutenant’s office, where, unannounced, two special agents from the FBI’s Philadelphia field office awaited my arrival.

“Inmate Sidhu, we will make this very quick and to the point. We are here because Mr. Grewal fears for his life. We want you to understand that if he ends up in a ditch with a bullet in his head somewhere up in Canada, we are coming for you. Do you understand?”

I hesitated briefly, stood up, and asked,

“Are we done?”

I began moving toward the interview room door when one of them barked,

“You’ll be back. You and your associates up there won’t be able to resist going after him.”

I ignored the comment and walked out.

At that time, I hadn’t thought about Grewal or the Pharmacist in years. I’m confident they’ll face karma, and I won’t give Sarah Vogel and her FBI agents another opportunity.

On the night before my release, I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t even try. I lay on my bunk with my back against the concrete wall, staring at the ceiling, the thin prison-issued blanket pulled up to my chest as if it could shield me from the storm of emotions raging inside. Every breath felt shallow, and every hour seemed to stretch into a million minutes. I had imagined this night a thousand times over the years, but nothing could prepare me for its reality.

It wasn’t joy that kept me awake; it was fear. Doubt was amplifying the echo of every mistake I had made and every person I had let down.

There’s a strange kind of panic that arises when freedom is finally within your grasp—like your soul can’t believe it, like you’re bracing for someone to snatch it away at the last moment. My body was still trapped in that cell, but my mind kept drifting to the faces of those I had hurt. My kids, my parents, people who had loved me when I was unlovable, those who had waited for me when I wasn’t worth the wait. Would they still see me the same way when I stepped out? Would they believe I’d truly changed? Would they even care?

Seven years in prison shattered every illusion I once held. The things I believed were important—status, wealth, power—had vanished. In their place, something raw and unrefined: humility. Humility born from suffering, silence, and being forced to confront who I truly was.

That night, I sat in silence, alone with my thoughts, knowing the man who would be walking out wasn’t the same one who had walked in. I also understood that redemption wasn’t guaranteed — it had to be earned, one day at a time.

When morning finally arrived, I was still sitting upright on my bunk, my eyes bloodshot and my heart pounding. The CO walked in, took one look at me, and already knew. “You haven’t slept all night, have you?”

I shook my head, my voice hardly louder than a whisper.

“No.”

Then came the words I had been waiting seven long years to hear.

“Sidhu, roll it up. You’re going home.”

At first, I didn’t move. I just sat there, absorbing the words and letting them to reverberate through the cell. My hands trembled, and my throat tightened. I felt the burn of tears welling up—not from pain or loss, but from the overwhelming realization of what it meant to leave that place behind and strive for something better.

I walked to the Lieutenant’s office, where I was handed over to Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) custody pending my formal deportation. I was then transferred to the Clinton County Correctional Facility in Lock Haven, Pennsylvania. While waiting for my travel documents to be processed, I waived any challenges to my deportation.

On August 6, 2019, a guard woke me and told me that the US Marshals had come to escort me home. It felt surreal as I walked towards the facility’s intake area. I had dreamed of this day for years, and it had finally arrived.

On this day, I was one of two Canadians being transported by the marshals. After more than three hours of travel, we arrived at the Rainbow Bridge border crossing between Niagara Falls, New York, and Niagara Falls, Ontario. Upon reaching the Canadian side, one of the marshals instructed the other inmate to meet with the Canadian customs officials first. He was immediately taken inside while I remained in the vehicle.

The marshal who remained with me commented, ‘I guess you’re a bit of a VIP; someone wants to speak with you when you go inside.”

“I don’t know about the VIP part, but you need to remove these cuffs before I get out.”

In an unwavering tone, the marshal looked at me and said, “Don’t tell me how to do my job. The cuffs stay on you until you enter that building.”

I knew that what I said would further provoke his anger; however, I was determined to make my point with reckless abandon. There was little he could do or say that would affect my freedom.

“I did my time, and these cuffs have no jurisdiction in my country. Take them off, or I will refuse to leave the vehicle.”

He looked at me and said,

“Look, asshole, you want us to take you back?”

“I’d like to see you try. I know you’re not that stupid… are you?” I responded.

When the other marshal returned to the vehicle, we were still engaged in a heated argument. He rolled his eyes as he approached and removed my handcuffs.

“Go inside; someone wants to speak with you,” he instructed.

I entered the CBSA building and was escorted to an office where I was greeted by an official seated behind a desk.

“Welcome back, Rob; how are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m good, but that’s not why I’m here, so why don’t you get to the point?”

After introducing himself as a member of the Border Intelligence Unit, he stated,

“You are right; I just have a few questions.”

He then asked whether I could comment on the Hells Angels members leading the conspiracy.

“I never mentioned their names the entire time I was down. What makes you think I’m prepared to do so now?”

“Fair enough,” he commented.

“We think more individuals worked for you that the CBSA may still employ. Is this correct?”

I let a brief pause pass before I responded, “You’re right.”

Then I told him that Grewal’s grand jury testimony was fiction—a desperate lie crafted to protect the Pharmacist and his dog-handler colleague, “Dave.” Their silence was betrayal masquerading as loyalty—a coward’s costume stitched together with lies. I make no apologies for condemning them; the truth, once spoken, does its own killing.

I stepped out of the CBSA building onto the busy streets filled with tourists. The intense heat and humidity were almost nauseating, and my choice of clothing—grey Russel Athletic sweats—only made me more uncomfortable. After seven years, I realized I had become “institutionalized.” Navigating through the crowd felt overwhelming.

No one greeted me upon my return, serving as a stark reminder and testament to the effort I needed to make amends with those I had hurt.

The heat and humidity were intense, so I went to a nearby park and found a shady spot under a tree to sit. I felt completely drained, starving, and overwhelmed with emotions. When I first arrived in prison, I printed out an email from my youngest son, who was about 13 at the time. I kept it close throughout my incarceration, and it was one of the few things I had that day. The email was filled with heartfelt words from him, and part of it reads as follows:

“… You have given me the courage to work hard towards the things that I am compassionate about as I have seen you deal with being in person for a long amount of time and that you have worked hard through not seeing your family. I know its going to be a long time until I see you, and it going to be painful trying to work my ass off and knowing I’m probably not going to see you for a few more years but I have to get through it as well and persevere. I can’t wait until I get to see you again and when you get to see me again. You have done things that your not proud of and you regret things that you have done in the past, you have hurt the ones that you loved the most. But you know what, I leave that behind, I don’t care about it anymore, I don’t think about it anymore. What I am saying is that you have to leave your old life and forget about it, just don’t care about it. I know it’s hard to think that for you and easy for me to say that because I am not the one in jail. It will be hard to leave behind the hurtful things you have done, but let those things be opportunities to better yourself while you are trying to start a new life over again.

It will be hard to start a new life with not all of the money you ever wanted but in the end it is a lot more better than having undercover cops following you home and putting your family in danger. I truly loved the letter and the poem you sent me it was beautiful and I will never let it go. I have kept every single piece of mail that you have sent me and I always will. I will never forget the person you are, a good father, one that teaches, one that changes and one that is mentally strong. And so far you are doing an excellent job of that. Promise me when you get out that you won’t go back to what you did before, I know that you know better that and that you have learned your lesson I just want to make sure that you keep safe when u do get out and the you just rest from the life you lived before. I love you very much and deeply adore the drawings, pictures and letters you send me I hope to hear from you soon and remember that you always have a second chance and it’s now, now you need to make a good use of it.

Love forever and always,”

My son’s words were raw and honest, like only a child can be, but they carried the emotional weight of someone much older. As I read his letter repeatedly, alone in my cell, I sensed something shift deep within me. He didn’t make excuses for what I’d done or deny the hurt.

Instead, he faced it with kindness, with compassion, and with the kind of love that doesn’t expect perfection—it simply desires to see change for the better.

His message touched me more than any court sentence ever did. In his quiet way, he showed me a way back—not just to him, but to myself; a self I had long buried under years of pride, anger, and misguided ambition. He reminded me of something I had almost forgotten in my darkest hours: that even after everything, I still mattered to someone.

Whenever I read that letter, I find myself returning to Nietzsche’s words:

“He who has a why to live for can bear almost any how.”

For seven years, that “why” was etched in crayon drawings, late-night memories, and handwritten envelopes that carried a faint scent of home. That “why” was my kids. It was my family. It was the person I once vowed to become—and the man I still had a chance to be.

Prison didn’t merely punish me; it stripped me bare. It compelled me to confront every decision, every betrayal, and every moment I thought I could evade the consequences. Yet, it also offered me space—harsh, unforgiving space—for reflection. And in that silence, I discovered something I never anticipated: purpose.

Time and distance became my teachers, revealing just how fragile life is and how easily it can be shattered. They also taught me how painfully slow the process of rebuilding can be, but more importantly, that nothing is wasted-no matter how bad things get—if we’re willing to face them head-on. Being locked up forced me to confront the truth, not just about the system, but about myself.

I couldn’t tear down the prison walls, but I could dismantle the ones I’d built around my own heart. I learned that growth occurs quietly; in small acts of humility, daily choices, and the resolve to be better when no one is watching.

Perhaps that’s what redemption truly is.

Being involved in organized crime gave me a false sense of power, built on secrets, fear, and illusions, but true power and strength come from being accountable and vulnerable, from facing the wreckage in your life and refusing to look away. My life will always bear its scars, but they are no longer signs of failure; they are reminders of where I’ve been and proof that I’ve come back from the edge.

This book is neither an apology nor a justification. It is a reckoning, a mirror, and a promise to those I’ve hurt that I won’t squander the time I’ve been given. To those still ensnared in the life I left behind, it serves as a warning: there is no honour in destruction, and there is no peace in power built on blood.

To my parents, my children, my extended family and those who still bear the weight of my choices—I don’t expect your forgiveness, but I hope to earn it. One day at a time.

I carry my son’s words with me always:

“You always have a second chance, and it’s now.”

He was right.

This is my second chance.

And I intend to use it well.

44“The First Step Act of 2018: An overview(PDF). Congressional Research Service. 2019/03/04.

Epilogue

This Too Shall Pass

What did I learn? That a life built on deception and defiance only teaches you one lesson in the end—truth always waits for you. You can run from it, disguise it, bury it under bravado, but it doesn’t die. It lingers until the day it demands to be faced.

Strength isn’t measured by power, fear, or reputation, but by the willingness to face your own reflection when it shows you everything you don’t want to see. Silence, denial, and ego don’t protect you—they strip away the very things you thought you were fighting for.

Most of all, I learned that the cost of my choices was never mine alone to carry. It was borne by my children, my parents, my extended family, my friends, my colleagues—anyone who once believed in me. That is the actual weight of accountability: knowing the harm you caused lives on in others long after your sentence is served.

Every chapter of this book has been a reckoning. Each sentence unearthed a memory from the corners I once avoided. I didn’t write this for catharsis—I wrote it because I needed to stop hiding from the man I had been. Healing isn’t about forgetting or even forgiving—it’s about seeing clearly and choosing to live differently anyway.

“When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.”

— Viktor E. Frankl.

Prison forced me to confront what those words really meant. What I discovered inside was not control or power, but truth stripped bare. During my time in organized crime, I believed change was something you forced on the world—with power, influence, or sheer will. Prison shattered that illusion. Locked behind bars, cut off from the noise and the masks, I realized the only place real change begins is within yourself. I couldn’t bend the prison bars to my will, I couldn’t silence the judgment, and I could not rewrite the past. I could face the truth of who I was and decide whether to keep living the same lie or finally break it apart and start again.

Part of my rebuilding started inside prison, a place most would think only breaks you down further. But behind those walls, I met men who showed a kind of discipline and accountability I had long given up. Charles “Duke” Tanner, Derrick Sylvia, and Michael Figat were more than just inmates in the same cold corridors—they proved that transformation isn’t only possible, it’s necessary.

What struck me wasn’t just what they said, but what they lived. There was no bravado, no empty speeches, no posturing to pass the time. Instead, they held themselves to a standard that most men outside never reach. They refused to waste their time inside. Every day, they would choose to own their actions and move forward, no matter how small the step. I watched them take responsibility for their past without letting it control their future, and it struck me in a way words never could.

Iron sharpens iron. The more time I spent around them, the more I saw my own excuses fall away. Prison time didn’t have to define me; it only defined what I allowed it to. What mattered was whether I stayed buried under my mistakes or used the weight of them to build strength for the next climb.

Duke, Derrick, and Michael showed me that even in a place built on concrete and steel, light finds a way through. They carried themselves with resilience that became contagious. Watching them was like looking into a mirror I’d avoided for years—a reflection that demanded honesty. Their example forced me to confront the truth that transformation starts with ownership. And ownership requires courage to face your past without hiding, and the courage to live differently going forward.

That was the beginning of the shift for me. Not the end of the journey, not a neat redemption arc, but the first honest crack in the shell I’d built around myself.

I know now that organized crime lives outside the boundaries of law, ethics, and humanity. It fed on deception, violence, and exploitation, and it thrived on the vulnerabilities of others while corroding the soul of anyone who became tangled in it—including mine. It lured me with the illusion of allegiance, power, and brotherhood, but those ideas were shallow at best and weapons at worst. The so-called “code” wasn’t built on honour—it was built on silence, fear, and self-interest.

I can say this with certainty because I have lived it, helped perpetuate it, and watched it consume men who believed they were untouchable. There’s no romance in that life, no nobility in its chaos, and no loyalty that can withstand the test of betrayal. What it leaves behind is blood, broken trust, and destruction. For everyone who chooses that path, the ending remains the same: a cell or a grave. If you’re lucky, you live long enough to sit behind bars and face the wreckage. If not, your name fades into a list no one bothers to read.

I consider myself fortunate, though luck came with a price I’ll never escape. To this day, guilt follows me like a shadow. My kids didn’t just lose a father—they lost a part of themselves. They were forced to grow up navigating the minefield I left behind, questioning who they were because of who I had become. No apology will ever undo that. That is the cost of accountability, and I’ve learned it the hardest way possible.

My parents also bore the stain of my collapse. In their community, silence doesn’t heal—it isolates. They endured the whispers, stares, and quiet shame that follow a person fallen from grace. Since my return, they have stood by me in their own quiet, unwavering way. I write this not only to share my story but also to acknowledge their pain and finally take ownership of the burden they have carried in silence.

When I first walked into prison, I was armoured in ego and denial, convincing myself that defiance was strength. That illusion didn’t last long. It shattered the moment my identity was reduced to a number and a cell. I learned quickly that real strength isn’t found in bravado—it’s found in the long nights when regret is your only company and your mind becomes your fiercest opponent.

I stopped blaming the system the day I admitted to myself that I had been part of its machinery. That was the first real step in my transformation. From there, I began the painful work of examining my past actions, understanding their consequences, and owning the wreckage I had caused. It has been a long, punishing journey—but one I know I had to take.

I know there will always be people who refuse to see beyond the headlines, the mugshots, the whispers—the sins of my past. That’s the cost of being the one who lived it. Your story gets retold, misinterpreted, and weaponized by those who were never present when it mattered. You will always be the “bad guy” when the wrong person tells your story.

The truth is, I’ve never really cared what most people think of me, and I still don’t. Not because I’m cavalier, but because I’ve endured a life that taught me the difference between perception and reality. I’ve been judged by strangers, betrayed by comrades, and condemned by people who would crumble if they ever had to look in the mirror with the same honesty they demand from others. I don’t chase anyone’s approval, and their opinions don’t move me—because I know who I am, and more importantly, who I’m not. That is another reason I wrote this, not for sympathy or accolades, notoriety or fame, but to reclaim authorship of a life others never lived yet never hesitated to judge.

I often think back to the words scrawled between the cinder blocks of my solitary cell at FDC Sea-Tac: “This too shall pass.” I stared at those words every day in the SHU, sometimes with skepticism, other times with hope, but now I understand them. They weren’t a promise—they were a challenge—a call to endure, to grow, to outlast the storm by becoming something new. Not just to survive it, but to emerge stronger from it.

That chapter of my life, my time in organized crime, is over. I don’t glamorize it, nor will I justify it. It cost me my freedom, my integrity, and my family’s peace, leaving me with nothing but scars. The world I once admired now feels like a bad dream told in someone else’s voice.

I especially want to thank my recruit field trainer, Phil Graham, for laying the foundation of what policing was meant to be. He didn’t just teach me the technical and tactical side of the job, he instilled in me the importance of standing firm on principle and holding the line when it mattered most. His influence has remained with me long after the uniform lost its significance. The RCMP would be unrecognizable—better, stronger, more principled—if more leaders like Phil Graham were seated within its Senior Executive. He represented the kind of integrity and steadiness the institution so often claimed to value but rarely rewarded.

I am also profoundly grateful to Harjit Salh, Rod Dahl, Rick Bamford, Cathy Robertson, Don Forth, John Gould and Rick Larson—each of whom, in their own way, shaped my understanding of what authentic leadership looks like. They modelled virtue, fairness, and a sense of duty that went beyond policy. In a culture obsessed with optics and obedience, they led with courage, common sense, and compassion. They didn’t just teach me how to lead; they demonstrated how to be worthy of following.

But while great leaders shaped me, I also let down many who stood beside me. To my former colleagues, I owe more than words can cover. I betrayed the trust you placed in me—through my silence, my choices, and my failures. You deserved far better than the man I was. Many of you embodied the values the Force only pretended to uphold, and I failed to stand beside you in that truth. That failure is mine alone, and it is a burden I carry every day. I know I can never erase the disappointment I left behind, but I can commit each day to living in a way that honours the example you set.

That sense of responsibility is why I continue to speak out where the Force is wrong—not out of bitterness, but out of hope. Hope that the RCMP will one day confront the hard truths that too many of its members are still afraid to express openly. I believe the institution still holds the potential to become something better—something worthy of the people who serve within it and the public it was created to protect.

Real change won’t come through silence or self-preservation. It will only begin when the RCMP dismantles the walls that have long shielded the institution at the expense of its people. Transformation will happen when leadership stops defending the myth and begins to serve the truth—when protecting the badge no longer takes precedence over protecting the people behind it.

That is why I now put my energy into creating spaces where those conversations can’t be silenced. Through Obscene Reality, the podcast I co-host with Paul Derry and Chris Williams, we challenge the myths, expose the hypocrisies, and amplify the voices of those who have lived through the same contradictions I once embodied. And through One Percent Solutions, I focus on practical, lived-experience–driven ways to support those struggling with the very systems that failed me—and that I once failed in return. These aren’t just platforms for redemption, but vehicles for truth-telling, accountability, and hope. Through them, I turn lived experience into lessons, mistakes into warnings, and scars into pathways that might help others find their way out sooner than I did.

As for me, I stopped seeing myself as a victim the moment I stopped running from my role in it all. I wasn’t merely caught up in the system—I contributed to it. I played both sides until I had nothing left to stand on. I was the architect of my collapse. Every lie, every betrayal, every decision that led me to the bottom—I laid those bricks myself.

I know I’ll never get everything right, but I wake each morning determined to be a man my children and grandchildren can be proud of. That, more than any court’s verdict or public opinion, is the real measure of my freedom.

“This, too, shall pass”—and it has.

Now each day is a chance to live with humility and contrition, to prove through action that the lessons I paid for were not in vain.

In the end, the truth was simple: only by walking through the shadows could I find the light.

—Ex tenebris, veritas.

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A man wearing a suit and tie with a white shirt and glasses. About the
Author

Raised in British Columbia’s Fraser Valley by immigrant parents whose lives were defined by sacrifice and hard work, Rapinder “Rob” Singh Sidhu understood early on that duty was not something to aspire to but something to live. After graduating from Simon Fraser University, he entered policing with that ethic already ingrained.

Over time, his career with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police progressed from frontline patrol to complex drug and serious crime investigations, and eventually to covert operations, where credibility, timing, psychological control, and mastery of subterfuge could mean the difference between success and exposure. He earned those assignments through sustained effort, proven judgment, and a demonstrated ability to perform under pressure when outcomes carried real consequences. The work was exacting and often unforgiving, demanding daily proximity to volatility and violence, conditions that leave an imprint long after the uniform comes off.

In About Face: The Betrayal by Saints, Syndicates and Self, Sidhu examines what happens when professional deception shifts from a tool to an instinct, when the mask fits better than one’s own skin. The memoir traces his path from a highly skilled officer to leadership within organized crime, and ultimately to conviction and incarceration. Rather than shifting blame, he reflects on institutional culture, power, ego, identity drift, and the quiet ways self-deception takes hold, with deliberate insight and clarity.

He is widely regarded as a reflective voice on institutional accountability, known for examining not only how systems function but also what they quietly teach those within them. His work resonates with readers and audiences drawn to questions of leadership, ethics, and the distance between official narratives and lived reality.

Rob lives in Montreal, Quebec, where winter invites reflection and where history is never far from the surface. He is, without apology, a Boston Bruins fan in Canadiens territory, which he considers less a provocation than a reminder that some loyalties survive scrutiny and that humility, like a jersey, is sometimes best worn openly.

www.robsidhu.com
rob@titanshub.com