by Mary Calmes
Uh-oh.
“I don’t know what he—” Again Walker was interrupted. “He wasn’t listed as a federal—”
I moved up beside Ian. “It’s two hours.”
“Yeah,” he grumbled, not taking his eyes off the deputy on the phone in front of him. “Which is nothing, but still, this is stupid.”
I coughed. “So our boss says that you had a rough op this last time out.”
“They’re all the same.”
“What did you do?” I asked softly.
“Extraction.”
“Did everybody come home?”
He coughed. “No.”
“I’m sorry.”
“We saved our target; we accomplished our objective,” he said automatically, but the muscles in his right cheek were doing the ticking thing they did when he was tense, and his brows furrowed.
“What happened?” I gently pried.
“The intel was bad, and we got dropped into something bigger than we expected.”
I put a hand on his back. “Will the guy who delivered bad intel get in trouble?”
“That guy’s dead.”
Jesus.
“Ian?”
He shook his head slightly to shut me up as he took a step forward. Walker had hung up the phone.
“The sheriff says that we can put both you and your partner up here, on the department, while we retrieve Mr. Ford from the Bowman Police Department.”
“No thanks,” Ian said snidely. “We’ll retrieve him ourselves. God knows how long it would take if we wait on you.”
Walker’s jaw muscles clenched, as did those in his neck. He so wanted to run Ian over with his car. The animosity was transparent.
“We’ll be going,” I said gently.
“We’re at your disposal, should you need us,” Walker said, obviously having been charged with repeating the statement.
Ian scoffed, turning to leave. “Yeah, like that’ll happen. I’d be better off with mall cops and security guards.”
When I closed the door, I heard something shatter against the wall. “Your interpersonal skills are fantastic,” I mentioned for perhaps the hundredth time in our partnership. He could have turned Gandhi into an ax-wielding psychopath.
He grunted, and when we were in the car, he looked at me.
“What?”
“It was a bad op, but I’ve been on even more fucked-up ones that have ended way worse.”
“Okay.”
“But what I hate now is, at the end, when it’s done, I can’t immediately come home.”
“You have to be debriefed, right?”
“I mean after that.”
“You don’t just get on a plane?”
“No, we have to wait for orders to come through.”
“And you don’t like that, the waiting.”
“No. I don’t.”
“How come?”
“That should be obvious,” he said gruffly, starting the car.
“Tell me.”
“Why you think?”
“I’d rather not guess.”
“My home,” he said curtly, “the job, stuff like that.”
“Chickie,” I offered playfully.
“And others.”
“Others?”
“Yeah,” he said sarcastically, “other annoying people who know better than to fish but do it anyway.”
I was very pleased with him and chuckled while I checked my phone.
WE DROVE in silence except for the music on my phone. He never cared what I played which was lucky since my taste could nicely be called eclectic.
“US 23 North to Virginia,” I said, getting drowsy. It was warm in the car, the heat on since it was only 28 degrees outside. “We should stop and get some Mountain Dew or something.”
“Take off your coat.”
It was a good idea. After mine was off, I helped him with his.
“So tell me why Drake Ford is going into WITSEC,” Ian said abruptly.
“Because he saw Christopher Fisher try and burn up Safiro Olivera in an abandoned building in Gatlinburg six months ago.”
“Okay.”
“Apparently Ford and his boyfriend, Cabot Jenner, were running away from home at the time of the incident, and when Ford went out to get something for them to eat, he saw a man carrying what he thought was another man over his shoulder, into a building.”
He glanced over at me. “Are you serious?”
“I can’t make this shit up.”
“Okay, so Ford, he sees something weird, follows this guy Fisher, who happens to be in the middle of committing a murder.”
“Cleaning up,” I corrected. “Fisher is in disposal, not killing. But yeah, pretty much.”
“What an idiot.”
“Who? Fisher or Ford?”
“Both, but Ford more so.”
I chuckled.
“So what’d he see, exactly?”
“He saw Fisher spread out the body of Safiro Olivera, douse it with what he thought was lighter fluid, and then walk away.”
“Walk away?”
“Yeah, Fisher was setting up blasting caps throughout the house with trace amounts of C4.”
“How is that arson, then, and not an explosion?”
“That’s how they know this guy’s an arsonist, it’s his signature. First, there’s a small explosion inside the building, and that ends up triggering a four-alarm fire.”
“Okay. So he leaves, and our boy gets on the phone and calls the police.”
“Right.”
“And they arrive and catch this guy in the act before he actually gets a chance to start the fire?”
“You’re very good at this game.”
“Shut up,” he grumbled and then pointed at the side of the road. “And what the hell is with all the gigantic-ass crosses along the highway?”
“This is the South?” I offered, not sure what other reason there could be.
“Not really.”
“What part of Tennessee isn’t the South?”
“So… what? There’s crosses all over?”
“It’s roadside religious propaganda,” I informed him. “Repent now.”
“It’s creepy, is what it is.”
“Moving on.”
“Fine, whatever. So Ford calls the cops; cops pick up who, exactly?”
“Christopher Fisher, serial arsonist and clean-up guy for the Malloy crime family out of Richmond.”
“I’ve never heard of them.”
“They move meth and OxyContin, dabble in prostitution and gambling. Compared to what we’re used to, they’re not a huge deal, but they had Fisher on the payroll.”
“Who will now be rolling on them?”
“Yes.”
“Which is why Drake Ford is going into WITSEC.”
“Yep.”
“But not the boyfriend.”
“No.”
“But Ford just got transferred back to Bowman, where his boyfriend is?”
“Yes.”
“That sound fishy to you?”
“It does, yeah.”
“Could young Jenner arrange for his boyfriend to be brought back to town?”
“Doubtful.”
“But someone else could.”
“Yes.”
“But for what reason?”
“I dunno. How old is Ford?”
“Eighteen.”
“And the boyfriend?”
“Same, just turned.”
“Have they even graduated from high school?”
“Not until May.”
Ian was working it out in his head. “Okay, so what do we know about Ford and Jenner? Were both sets of folks okay with it?”
“No, actually. Jenner’s father has had Ford charged with everything from trespassing to car theft to kidnapping.”
“Kidnapping?”
“Yep.”
“How does one minor kidnap another minor?”
“Well, Ford just turned eighteen—like I told you—an
d there was a two-month period in there where Cabot Jenner was still seventeen.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I’m not arguing with you.”
“Okay, so it’s safe to say that Jenner Sr. wants Ford gone.”
“Yes.”
“Holy shit,” Ian barked. “You know what happened.”
“I do now,” I sighed. “The Bowman Police Department sent someone to take Ford back.”
“And they have no idea who’s actually coming for him—no clue who they’re dealing with.”
“Nope.”
“Ford’s in danger when the Malloy family finds him, but so is everyone else.”
“Because the sooner Ford’s dead….”
“The sooner Fisher is released from federal custody and no one’s worried about him spilling everything he knows.”
“Yep.”
“Did you already let our boss know that?”
I waggled my eyebrows.
“So, you’re what, catching me up?”
“Yep.”
“Ass.”
I laughed as his focus returned to the road.
“Where am I going now?”
“You have forty more miles on here, so sit tight. The next thing you’ll be doing is looking for US 58, also known as Wilderness Road, and you won’t get off that. It goes right through the center of the town.”
“The town is divided by a highway?”
“Yeah.”
“So what does our boss want us to do about the Bowman Police Department? Alert them that we’re coming, or no?”
“He says no since we’re not sure what’s going on. He has the state police on alert to give us whatever backup if and when we require it, and he warned me that we’re on a two-hour window of check-in.”
“Like I can’t handle myself.”
“It’s me he’s worried about, Captain America,” I said snidely.
“I have your back.”
“I know.”
He was quiet for a few minutes. “So we’ll need a place to stay tonight.”
“I’ll find one,” I said, looking up from my phone and the e-mail conversation I was having with Kage to Ian’s profile. “Once we figure out what the deal is with Ford.”
“Okay.”
We were both quiet for a bit.
“Who’s Safiro Olivera?”
I cackled.
“I’m tired, I have an excuse. But I got to it after a few minutes.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Tell me.”
“Safiro Olivera is Leandro Olivera’s little brother.”
It took a moment, but then it hit him.
“Are you kidding?” he asked dryly.
“Nope. Christopher Fisher was trying to dispose of the body of the nephew of Lior Cardoso, who’s the number three man in the Nava Cartel, one of the most violent drug cartels in Mexico, that just so happens to be based out of Tijuana.”
“Fuck.”
“That’s what the FBI said.”
“Why is Ford even important anymore? Fisher’s dead without protective custody.”
“But he doesn’t know that. He has no idea who Safiro Olivera was, and neither does Orson Malloy.”
“Who?”
“Malloy crime family.” I snickered. “Are you listening to me?”
“Not really.”
At least he was honest.
“I don’t wanna talk about this anymore.”
“Fine.”
“New topic.”
“We are a go for new topic,” I said, yawning.
“How come you haven’t slept with anyone since Brent?”
“What?” I asked, flustered. Christ, the places Ian’s mind went.
“You heard me. Why no fucking since Brent?”
It was a tricky thing to confess, and more importantly, was that the right thing to do? Was it smart to tell him? Would I freak him out? “I haven’t been interested.”
“In anyone.” He made it a statement.
“Yeah.”
“No one at the gym.”
“No.”
“No one at the soccer league you play in?”
“I was shot, in case I forgot to tell you. I was pretty busy convalescing.”
“I see.”
“What are you trying to ask?”
“I’m not asking. I just think you’re full of shit.”
“Oh yeah?”
He didn’t push. He went quiet instead as he drove.
Chapter 14
WE TOOK a turn off Wilderness Road and drove straight up into the hills. The town of Bowman was nestled close to Cumberland Gap National Historical Park, but not close enough to reap any benefits of tourists. Rockslides and landslides were prevalent, and apparently the town could be cut off at times because of those kinds of disasters. Presently, it was covered under a layer of fluffy white snow.
Driving through town, we passed huge stretches of private land. Interestingly, on one side of the four-lane road stood many houses, on the other, rolling hills, ponds, creeks running at the bottom of ravines, and huge homes. I pointed out the country club when we passed its long driveway.
“Of course that’s plowed, but not all the side streets.”
Ian chuckled.
“The rich people live over here on the right,” I said playfully, “and the poor people are all clustered on the left.”
“Yeah. It’s not the wrong side of the tracks in this town; it’s the wrong side of the road.”
I snorted out a laugh. “Okay, coming up on your left—big surprise—is Willow, and that’s the road the police station is on.”
It took only minutes to reach it, and then we were both out, stretching in the below-freezing air, tugging on our coats before we darted into the building. We encountered a long polished oak counter and two men sitting at desks on the other side.
“Good afternoon,” I called out, reaching the counter and smiling. “May I speak to the officer in charge, please?”
One of the men, the bigger of the two, got up and walked to the counter. He didn’t move particularly fast, but he wasn’t being deliberately slow either. I hated it when everything was a pissing contest and hoped that wasn’t what my day was going to turn into.
“May I help you?”
“I hope so,” I said when he put his hands on the counter. I pulled my ID wallet from the breast pocket of my coat and snapped it open for him. “I’m Deputy US Marshal Miro Jones, and this is my partner, Deputy US Marshal Ian Doyle. We have a federal warrant for Drake Ford and need him produced right now so that we can take him into custody.”
He looked stunned.
The other officer rose and joined us at the counter.
“What makes you think he’s here, Marshal?”
I read his name off the tag. “Because, Officer Breen, the chief deputy in Carter County explained that he was released to your department yesterday afternoon,” I said flatly. “Produce my witness or I’ll notify the state police and my boss will call your governor.”
Ian glowered, which was making the second guy, Gilman, edgy. I tried not to appear bored. I needed something to drink and, honestly, a nap.
“Would you wait right here, please.”
“You have ten minutes,” I informed him.
Both men walked to the far side of the room and a glass door with the police chief’s name stenciled on it, and Gilman knocked as Breen waited. Moments later, the sharply yelled order to enter was audible even from where I was. Both officers went in as Ian moved up beside me.
“Did you bring your spare, too, or only your primary?”
“For the hundredth time,” I said, turning to him. “I don’t own a secondary weapon. I only have one gun, no spare.”
His brows furrowed.
“How can you not remember that? It’s not that hard.”
“You need another gun, M. Glock has that new 42. Maybe we’ll get you one of those.”
“You pack enough firepower for both of us.”
“I—”
“Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
The chief of police, Edward Holley—it said so on his door—greeted us as he strode across the floor. If I had to guess, I would have thought him in his midfifties. He was tall, with brown hair graying at the temples. He was very handsome, with deep laugh lines at the corners of his hunter green eyes and creases on his forehead that probably came from scowling as much as smiling. He had a warmth about him that came through as he stopped in front of us, the curl of his lip daring me to dazzle him.
“Marshals?”
I nodded, passing him my wallet so he could check both the ID and the credentials underneath. “Badge is on my belt.”
Holley tipped his head at me. “Let’s see.”
Turning a little, I lifted my sweater and the T-shirt underneath.
“Miroslav Jones?” he asked, clearly amused, grinning at me.
“Long story.”
“Since you and your partner are not getting out of here tonight, I’ll hear it over dinner.”
“Actually,” Ian broke in, stepping up to the counter and taking my ID out of the man’s hand. “We plan to be on the road as soon as you transfer custody. Where is our witness?”
Holley squinted at us. “I don’t understand. I thought you were putting someone in our jail for the night.”
“No,” Ian said curtly. “We need you to turn over Drake Ford.”
The chief looked annoyed. “Drake Ford is at the Carter County Sheriff’s Office awaiting federal… and that’s you and… shit.” He groaned suddenly, turning to Gilman and Breen. “Get Lautner up here now, find out where Colby and Fann are, and do we know, is Kershaw getting ready to teach the self-defense class at the high school?”
“Yes, Chief,” Breen said, wincing.
“Well, get his ass back here. You, me, and Breen need to go out to the Jenner place with the marshals and fetch Drake Ford.”
The officers moved quickly, and Holley raked his fingers through his thick hair as he regarded me and Ian.
“Gentlemen—”
“Ian and Miro,” I corrected.
He smiled at me as he sighed deeply. “Three months ago, I fired Dalton Abernathy from this department because he didn’t really work for me. He worked for Franklin Jenner, who just so happens to be the richest man in this town, as well as three counties. You probably saw his land when you drove in: it was everything that ran along the hills on your right.”