by Mary Stone
And if she kept knocking over Leóne trafficking operations, then she’d need them as much as they needed her.
7
As Zane rubbed his tired eyes one last time, he opened the door of his silver Acura, grabbed his favorite stainless-steel thermos from the cup holder, and stepped into the harsh white light of the FBI’s parking garage. Before he’d turned away from the car, the thud of another door echoed off the tall concrete ceiling.
At quarter ‘til seven, few of the third-floor parking stalls were occupied. When he spotted a familiar black sedan in the row across from him, he locked up his car and made his way to the Acura’s rear fender.
“Morning, Storm. I didn’t see you pull in.”
She shouldered her tote handbag and straightened the front of her blue and white knit cardigan. “I was here before you parked. Checking a few emails before I went inside.”
With a nod, he fell in beside her as they headed for a set of glass and metal double doors. “You know, I always forget that you drive a BMW. Mostly because you’re not a frat boy, and I’ve never seen you cut someone off.”
Her forest green eyes flicked to his as she let out a huff of feigned indignation. “They’re nice cars, and they’re reasonably priced if you buy them at the right time of year. Plus, it gets great gas mileage.”
Leave it to Amelia to worry about such a thing in a luxury vehicle. “BMWs are also the official cars of people who cut other people off in traffic. Just so you’re aware.”
Pulling open one of the doors, Amelia waved her other hand to swat at an invisible bug. “Whatever. I don’t cut people off, so I guess I’m taking BMWs back, then.”
He flashed her a grin. “Good for you.”
Neither of them spoke on their trip into the FBI building, but Zane couldn’t tell if the silence was due to the early morning hour or some sort of bizarre, unresolved tension. Though Amelia had seemed amiable enough when he’d told her about Cassandra Halcott the day before, he couldn’t help but wonder if the casual attitude was a façade.
The idea that Amelia might be jealous flitted through his head, but he kicked the notion away as soon as it formed. She was his friend, and the thought that he was such a spectacular catch that Amelia would trip over herself for an opportunity to date him was ridiculous. He’d known plenty of men and women who placed themselves on a pedestal, and needless to say, he hadn’t maintained contact with any of them over the years.
No, he wasn’t worried that Amelia was jealous. He was more concerned that she thought less of him or that she might lump him into the same womanizing category as Joseph Larson.
When the elevator slid closed, he finally turned his full attention to Amelia. “Hey, this might be a stupid question. Okay, it probably is a stupid question, but are we good?”
A crease formed between her manicured brows as she met his curious stare. “Of course. Why wouldn’t we be? I mean, trust me, I’ve run into plenty of terrible drivers in BMWs over the years, so I know where that joke comes from. I didn’t take it personally, don’t worry.”
With a scoff, he shook his head. “No, that’s not what I meant. I stand by my assessment of BMW drivers.” He tapped an index finger against the metal thermos and sighed. “I was wondering about it because of yesterday. You know, Cassandra Halcott. That whole thing.”
She blinked a few times. “Oh. Right, that. I actually forgot about it until just now.”
“Oh. You did?” Freaking fantastic. So glad I brought it back up. He scratched the stubble at his cheek, hoping to cover his embarrassment. “Okay, well.”
As Amelia reached out to clasp his shoulder, her expression was unreadable. “Zane, honey, I work in the Organized Crime Division at the FBI. I’m not the sex police.” The corner of her mouth twitched as she struggled to hide her amusement. But her feigned expression cracked as she erupted into a fit of laughter.
Cautious relief edged its way into his thoughts as he chuckled along with her. “Thanks for clearing that up. I wasn’t quite sure.”
She wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes. “No, of course I’m not upset with you about that. You’re a grown-up, and so is Cassandra. If you guys had a little ‘adult fun,’” she raised her fingers to add air quotes, “then that’s honestly pretty normal. You’re not a monk or priest.”
“No, definitely not.” He winked at her.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” She crossed herself and then elbowed him in the arm, cackling so hard she snorted.
Zane chewed his lip to stop himself from mirroring her. That woman was the queen of bad jokes. She never failed to find the corniest pun or phrase for every occasion. “But seriously.” Zane cleared his throat. “After what happened with Larson, you know, trying to get you to go home with him a few weeks ago. I thought I’d just make sure.”
Her gaze narrowed for a moment before she shook off the worried look. “Right, yeah, I can see that. I know you’re not an asshole like Larson, though. That didn’t even cross my mind.”
He let out an exaggerated sigh of relief with a comical swipe across his brow, hoping to play off the fact that hearing her say as much actually made him feel good. “At least I’m doing one thing right.”
The chime of the elevator drew their attention as they reached their floor, and the doors opened, revealing an empty hall. Unsurprisingly, they didn’t cross paths with anyone on their way to the repurposed closet that served as their base of operations for the Leóne task force.
On a keypad next to the heavy, windowless door, Zane typed the six-digit code known only to him, Amelia, and SAC Keaton.
As the magnetic lock latched in place behind them, Zane set his thermos on the worn tabletop, and Amelia dropped her purse on the seat of a broken office chair in the corner.
He’d received word back from the Assistant U.S. Attorney the night before, and they’d scheduled a meeting at the FBI office for late that morning. The prosecutor had assured him she’d have the paperwork in order to send to MCC, and though Zane had no reason to doubt her, he couldn’t help the prickle of dread in the back of his mind.
Pushing aside the gloomy sentiment, he returned his attention to Amelia. Her gaze had drifted to the whiteboard as she spun a piece of hair around her index finger.
Normally, she kept it pinned back in a neat braid. Zane felt like an unobservant oaf when he noticed the soft waves that fell over her shoulders and down her back.
Though Amelia was a beautiful woman, even on the days her allergies left her with red-rimmed eyes and a stuffy nose, Zane was seeing a completely different side of her today.
When she’d confided in him about Alton Dalessio, he’d realized how much her friendship meant to him. In the months since they’d first debated Chicago versus New York-style pizza, she’d become one of the most important people in his life.
But there was more to the revelation. More to the way he felt about her than a platonic friendship. He reminded himself that she’d already dealt with an unwanted advance from a male colleague she’d considered a friend—Joseph Larson. The last thing Zane wanted was to put her in the same situation all over again.
As enchanting as she was, he’d rather be in her life as a friend than not at all.
When her eyes flicked to him, he wondered how long he’d let his gaze linger.
Well, might as well own up to it.
“Sorry.” He held up his hands. “I was looking at your hair. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear it down before.”
She glanced at the strands that fell over her shoulders and down her white dress shirt. “It was chilly this morning, and the cold was a little jarring since it was almost ninety yesterday. My hair is like my scarf, I guess.”
“Your scarf?” He had a mental image of Rapunzel. “Okay, I can see it. That’s cute. I also didn’t realize that the ends are blonde.” For emphasis, and before he could think better of the action, he reached out to touch the soft strands that framed her face.
Her eyes drifted up to meet h
is. “According to Jo, it’s a color melt. Like a balayage but a little different. I don’t know how it’s different, though.”
“I don’t know what a balayage is, either.” Though he knew he should have dropped his hand and directed their attention to the images and text on the wall-spanning whiteboard, the combination of curiosity and contentment in Amelia’s expression held him in place.
“Of course, you don’t know.” She shook her head with mock disappointment. “But I appreciate the compliment. I kind of needed it. I had a pretty shitty night last night. This might sound weird, but I’m really glad to see you right now.”
At the hint of reverence in her tone, his pulse rushed in his ears. Each motion was tentative as he traced his thumb along her cheekbone and down the side of her face. “You see me every day. Or almost every day.”
He was fully prepared for her to recoil at the physical contact, but the glimmer in her eyes only brightened. “Two things can be true.”
As he ran his index finger down the warmth of her neck, he took a step forward to close the distance between them.
Or he would have, but he froze in place at the faint beep that sounded out from the closed door. Only one other person in the office had the code to access the former broom closet—the Special Agent in Charge.
Dropping both hands to his sides, he took two small steps away from his partner. The magnetic lock disengaged with a click, and the door swung inward.
Jasmine Keaton’s tired eyes fell on Zane first before shifting to Amelia. If she suspected she’d interrupted a hug, or a kiss, or whatever in the hell had just happened between him and his partner, the expression didn’t register on her unlined face.
“Morning, Agents.”
Zane reached for his thermos. “Morning. What brings you down here so early, SAC Keaton?”
“Looking for the two of you.” She stuck out a foot to keep the door from closing. “There’s someone in my office who’s got some information about the Leóne trafficking ring you two knocked down.”
Zane flashed Amelia a curious glance. When their eyes met, she shook her head, looking just as stumped by this news as he was.
SAC Keaton waved her hand for them to follow as she pulled the door open. “He was close with Vivian Kell.”
As his eyes went wide, Zane stepped around the edge of the table. “Vivian Kell? Is he a reporter too?”
“He can answer that for you himself.” The SAC held the door as Zane and Amelia filed into the empty hallway. “We don’t have a lot of time. He’s here early because he’s trying to avoid being seen.”
Zane bit his tongue to keep any more questions to himself. The trip upstairs was short, and none of them spoke. Zane could only imagine that the same flurry of questions was whipping through Amelia’s head as they approached a familiar office.
Blinds clattered against glass as SAC Keaton shoved open the door.
From where he’d been seated in one of the two cushioned armchairs, a man rose to his feet. He nodded a greeting to SAC Keaton before his blue eyes shifted to Amelia and then to Zane. The man’s navy suit was tailored to fit his lean, muscular frame, and despite the laugh lines on his clean-shaven face, his golden-brown crewcut was absent of any streaks of silver.
Stepping behind the cluttered wooden desk, the SAC gestured to Zane. “Agent Palmer, could you lock that door?”
Wordlessly, Zane complied with the request before he moved to stand beside Amelia.
Straightening his navy suit jacket, the man extended a hand. “Agents, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Ben Storey.”
Shifting the thermos to his left hand, Zane eagerly accepted Ben’s handshake. “You’re running against Stan Young in the primary coming up in April of next year, right?”
Ben’s expression tightened. “I am. You wouldn’t think a campaign for an election so far away would be this intense this soon, but…” he took a deep breath, and his shoulders drooped as he exhaled loudly, “here we are. Senator Young has run unopposed for the last three election cycles, and clearly, he doesn’t do well with competition.”
Amelia’s green eyes flicked back and forth between Ben and Jasmine as she held up a hand. “Wait a second. With all due respect, Mr. Storey, SAC Keaton, what exactly does this have to do with us?”
As Jasmine dropped into her seat, she gestured to Ben. “I’ll let you explain, Councilman.” She waved to the chairs and then to the cushioned leather bench against the wall. “Have a seat, Agents. Councilman. Make yourselves comfortable.”
Ben returned to the squat armchair. “It’s a long story, so I’ll start back at the beginning.”
Zane exchanged a glance with Amelia before they shuffled over to the bench. He undid the buttons of his black suit jacket as he took his seat.
Ben twisted in his chair to face both Amelia and Zane. “You might already know that I’m a city councilman here in Chicago, but before that, I was an immigration lawyer. I worked for a nonprofit that helped lower-income people navigate the American immigration system.”
Sipping his coffee, Zane nodded. “After our last case, we’ve got some experience with just how complicated that system is.”
“If you ask me.” Ben chuckled softly, though the sound held zero humor. “It’s easier to navigate a minefield. And I speak from personal experience there too.”
Though quiet, Zane thought he heard Amelia chuckle at the remark.
As Ben’s gaze flicked to the floor and then back to Zane and Amelia, the fleeting amusement vanished. “SAC Keaton tells me you two worked with Vivian Kell, and when she was murdered, you led the investigation to find her killers. Vivian was like family to my wife and me, so thank you for that, first and foremost.” He shifted in his seat and laced his fingers together. “And you know about the piece she’d been working on, the exposé about Premier Ag Solutions.”
“The labor contractor?” Zane rubbed his chin, feeling the spots he’d missed with his razor that morning. “Yeah, she’d caught on to some of the shady stuff they’d been doing, like failure to vet the citizenship of their workers. And that trafficking ring out in Kankakee County was using workers who were supposedly provided by Premier. They denied it all and blamed the guys who were in charge of that farm, but that’s no surprise.”
A muscle in Ben’s jaw twitched. “Premier isn’t innocent in any of this. They don’t do the dirty work themselves, but they look the other way and let it happen. Which is no surprise, honestly. I’m sure you’ve seen their profit margins. They pocket the lion’s share of what their crews of workers are paid when they get a job.”
“They’ve been fined a few times in the past.” Amelia shrugged. “But nothing ever really stuck. They paid the fines or weaseled out of them, and that was it. Nothing came up in the press, no one in Washington took notice, just a big fat nothing.”
“Right,” Ben replied. “Do you know who Premier’s biggest client is? The longest running too. It’s Happy Harvest Farms. The ag business that’s been run by the Young family since the Gilded Age. Stan Young’s son, Josh, is in charge of the company right now, but I’m pretty sure that’s just for show. Stan’s the one who’s actually running that business. There’s no way in hell he’d ever give up control, not even to his own kid.”
Zane had paid little attention to the political landscape since moving to Illinois, and if Ben Storey’s depiction of one of the state’s two sitting senators was any indication, he was better off without the knowledge.
Ben propped an elbow on the armrest. “I’ve figured that Happy Harvest Farms and Premier were both involved in forced labor trafficking, but until recently, I didn’t know who else was part of it. And to be frank, figuring that out was a little out of my wheelhouse.” His eyes drifted from Zane to Amelia. “But now we know where Premier’s been sourcing their forced labor. They’ve been working with the Leóne family.”
Before he could think better of the query, Zane shook his head. “We’ve suspected as much. Are you saying you have proof that Senator Young i
s a willing participant in all this? That he and his family’s multi-billion-dollar business have been working with the mob?”
Even as the words left his lips, he knew better than to doubt Ben’s information.
Corrupt politicians, wealthy oligarchs exploiting the poor for cheap or free labor, a series of dirty law enforcement operatives who gleefully covered up any trace of wrongdoing. The dynamic was all too familiar.
Zane hadn’t been bound to the Fourth or Eighth Amendments of the Constitution when he was in Russia. The Agency had given him free rein to collect intelligence by any means necessary, but here in Chicago, his hands were bound behind his back.
His adversary’s hands, however, were always free.
By the time Zane pushed the sense of impending doom out of his thoughts, Ben had already replied. Even as Zane watched the councilman provide SAC Keaton a flash drive full of financial records and other research on Premier and Happy Harvest Farms, he barely heard the conversation. His head was still stuck in a haze as he rose to shake Ben’s hand.
SAC Keaton asked Amelia and Zane to stay put while she led Ben Storey out of the building. Zane’s response was an absent nod.
Dropping back into his seat, he rubbed the site of the faded tattoo at the edge of his collarbone. His stomach twisted, and even after a long swig of coffee, the taste on his tongue was still vile.
“Are you okay? You look…queasy.” The sound of Amelia’s voice was a merciful reprieve from the dark spiral in his mind.
He dragged his eyes up to meet hers. “I’m fine.” With a deep breath, he rubbed his eyes and leaned against the chair. “Cautiously optimistic to hear there’s a possibility of confirmable proof that the Leónes are friends with a senator, though. Not just a senator, but a billionaire senator.”
Amelia snorted. “Yeah, me too. As long as we can make it all stick.”
The silence settled back in over them as they waited for SAC Keaton to return from her trip downstairs.
When the door clattered open, he and Amelia both straightened. As Amelia blinked and rubbed her temple, Zane could only assume she’d just pulled herself out of a spiral of doubt similar to his.