by Eden Winters
The woman across from Lucky smiled and produced another document from the deceptively thin folder. How much stuff did she have in there?
Johnson nodded as she read. “Standard list. I see you use mostly green materials.”
“When we can.” The woman beamed. “It’s a pet project of mine.”
“Nice work.”
After perusing a few more documents, and accessing online records, Bo said, “Mr. Chastain. Would you mind excusing us? We need to compare notes.”
“Certainly.” The man rose and ushered his managers from the room. He smiled at Johnson before leaving.
Small. Blond. Handsome. Right up Johnson’s alley.
“So, what you got?” Lucky pushed his papers toward Bo, though the procedures were a last-minute formality. They’d pretty much decided the outcome of this audit days ago.
Bo swept a hand out, indicating the building. “Nothing. This place is squeaky clean. Loretta, have you found anything?”
“Other than the leaky water fountain during our walkthrough, nada. It took maintenance all of five minutes to fix the problem. Lucky?” She swiveled her gaze his way.
“Boss Man won’t let me ding a company down for shitty coffee.” He’d tried. “Many more businesses like this one and we’d be out of a job.” He finished the last drop of the a-lot-less-than-Starbucks-quality-but-still-drinkable brew.
Bo glanced from Lucky to Johnson and back again. “Then I say we get this report printed up and call it a day. Agreed?”
Lucky and Johnson spoke in unison, “Agreed.”
Well, what did you know? Lucky, agreeing with people. Much more of that and he’d lose his sonofabitch reputation.
“I’ll go find Chastain.” Johnson shot out of the room before anyone could stop her. Yeah, he bet she would.
“What’s this thing she’s got for short, blond-haired, blue-eyed men?” Bo asked.
“You’ve got one in your bed, you tell me.” Lucky leered and tried to waggle his brows. Damned things refused to move independently.
“She can’t have mine,” Bo muttered, attention riveted on his iPad. “Though I never quite understood her fascination with Phillip Eustace. At least you and Chastain have some backbone to you. I doubt Phillip’s made a decision on his own in his life.”
The yes man squeaked into the SNB two steps behind O’Donoghue and stood in the man’s shadow ever since. What did Johnson see in the little lapdog?
Lucky observed Bo some more and shifted a bit in his chair to give his rising erection room to grow. Bo, the one who’d talked him into staying with the SNB long after he’d done his time. Who’d gotten him off caffeine, gave him so much to look forward to.
A home. With him. Maybe one day Lucky’d talk him into getting married.
Small tendrils of guilt crept inside his mind. He still hadn’t told Bo about Charlotte offering to carry a kid for them.
The day they’d met Lucky would have run screaming if anyone suggested he’d be happily domesticated.
Now, Bo’d become the best part of life.
He’d open a can of redneck whoop-ass on any bastard who dared try to steal his happiness.
***
Keeping his mouth shut about Walter took every bit of Lucky’s self-control. Grilling outside meant he didn’t have to face Bo with the nephews around. Armed with a spatula, standing guard over grilling chicken—and not-actual-chicken, in Bo’s case—meant he didn’t have to interact. Bo knew him too well. Read him too well.
Avoidance was the only way to keep from spilling his guts.
Todd brought plates and cups to the picnic table. So helpful. The moment he placed his burdens on the table he scratched Moose’s ear and darted toward the house, the dog bounding after him. How had the Lucklighters managed to produce a rule-follower and non-troublemaker?
Speaking of stereotypical Lucklighters…
Lucky glanced into the living room through the sliding glass doors to where Ty sat on the couch, pretending to read a text book while playing a video game on his phone, doing his best to exist in a lame world full of idiots who didn’t understand him.
Lucky shook his head. He loved his nephews, but Ty didn’t make it easy.
Ty perked up when Bo entered the room and, wonder of all wonders, he darted into the kitchen and emerged through the sliding glass doors a few seconds later, loaded down with bowls.
Lucky never felt so out of his element as he had since his sister dropped off her sons. What could he say or do to make things better? Lucky spent his whole life in one house until he left of his own free will, and most of his friends had left the area too.
Ty knew nothing but the same house, same town, since he’d been a few months old when Charlotte had moved to Spokane to escape an abusive asshole.
A hand landed on his shoulder. “How’s the chicken coming along?”
Lucky jumped.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” Bo ran his lips along the shell of Lucky’s ear.
Lucky stiffened and searched out his nephews.
“They’re in the house talking to their mom on the phone. Ty’s telling her all about his first day of school,” Bo murmured. “I get you all to myself for a minute.”
Charlotte reporting on selling the house—the house Ty missed—wasn’t likely to improve his mood.
Easier to face down a hopped-up addict than a sulky teenager.
It wasn’t until after dinner, when Lucky hauled the trashcan to the curb for pickup, that he spotted an unfamiliar car parked in the driveway of an empty house, three doors down.
Prickles rose on the back of his neck and a familiar sense of wrongness squirmed in his gut. Years of living on high alert had fined-tuned his survival instincts. The car shouldn’t be there.
No lights shone from the house windows, so not a potential buyer. The neighbors on either side had plenty of parking, so not someone poaching, and getting in the gate required a code.
Hmm… Interesting. As was the glimpse of red hair on the driver.
Oh, hell no.
Lucky dropped the trash can and started down the walkway.
The car started.
Lucky took off hell for leather, but the car squealed tires.
Fucker.
Fuck his damned gimpy-assed leg. Of course, his side had to get a word in. He pressed his hand to his incision site, staving off the screaming protest of the healing scar reminding him he’d recently lost half his liver.
Voices from the kitchen said he had a few minutes alone to catch his breath when he returned to the house. He fired up his work computer, logged into the SNB site, and entered the car’s license plate.
Not found. Damn it!
Though any number of people might have reason to stalk him, no mistaking Rookie Rogers’ flaming hair. The bureau database didn’t show the license number either.
He should tell Bo.
No. No need getting him upset without reason. Besides, he’d try to talk sense, tell Lucky he’d let his imagination run away with him.
Come tomorrow, Lucky planned to get some answers.
Even if he had to beat them out of somebody.
Chapter Five
Lucky strolled into the living room in a pair of boxers, working his teeth with a foamy toothbrush, leg aching from last night’s unexpected run. No more skulking around the house buck naked with kids around.
Conversation and laughter came from the kitchen, and for a moment a touch of jealousy curled through Lucky’s stomach. Then he snorted. Ty needed a positive male influence in his life and he’d hit the jackpot with Bo.
Lucky crept back the way he’d come. Let the guys have their bonding time while he finished up in the bathroom.
The scent of pancakes and syrup wafted through the house, leading Lucky straight to the table.
“Good morning!” Bo called out, doling out pancakes to Todd and Ty. Damn, but he’d make a good father.
“Mawnin’,” Lucky replied to avoid an elbow to the ribs for bad manners and
headed for the coffee pot. Bo’s laptop sat on the counter. One look at the Pharmaceutical Daily News onscreen made Lucky stop.
He leaned down, putting his nose inches from the screen, scrolling to read the article. Icy fingers trailed down his spine. Why couldn’t be breathe?
A half cup of coffee didn’t wake his brain enough to change the article for the better. “Bo, have you seen this?”
Bo strolled back toward him, empty pancake plate in hand. “Seen what?”
Lucky turned the laptop toward Bo.
Bo’s cheerfulness vanished. “I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I.” Some damn body had better explain and explain fast.
The headline said it all: DEA Revokes Registration from Chastain Pharmaceuticals.
***
Lucky took his own car to work since Bo had a different schedule and volunteered to drop Ty off at school. So far Ty hadn’t said too much about his classes, or the people, but he didn’t say a whole lot of words to Lucky anyway.
Thank God for Bo.
Lisa’s eyes widened when Lucky stomped up to the reception desk. “Has Rogers checked in yet?”
“No… no, sir. He’s been out of the office the last few days on assignment.”
Lucky’s hackles rose. “What kind of assignment?”
“I don’t know.” The receptionist’s voice dropped whisper-quiet.
Lucky cut off a groan. No need scaring Lisa. She hadn’t done anything wrong.
That he knew of.
“Is Walter in?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I need to see him.”
Lisa spoke into her phone for a moment. “He says to come on in.”
Lucky made his way to his boss’s office and sat in his normal chair in front of Walter’s desk, breathing in the familiar scents of Old Spice and the boss’s cream-laden coffee.
Walter looked up from the laptop on his desk. “Good morning, Lucky. I suppose this is about Chastain Pharmaceuticals.”
“You read my report. The place was so clean it kind of freaked me out. There was nothing, I tell you, nothing wrong with the place.” Lucky pulled his gaze from the ugly motivational poster behind Walter.
The SNB and Chastain Pharmaceuticals must have hired the same decorator.
Walter rested his elbows on his desk in the small space in front of him not overloaded with papers and files. “Yes, I did read your report. I also know you. If there’d been anything out of the ordinary, or any violations, no matter how small, you’d have included them in your report.”
“Damned right, I would.” Proof positive that maintaining a consistent reputation, even as an iron-clad sonofabitch, came in handy now and again.
Walter pursed his lips, a furrow deepening between his eyebrows. “Do you have an idea of anything that may have occurred after you left?”
“Two hours, Walter! Two hours. Nobody could screw up that badly in two hours.” Not even Lucky. He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “What exactly did they find?”
“So far, there’s been no official word of DEA’s findings. They’re keeping the matter hush-hush for now.”
Not hush-hush enough to keep the headline off the Internet. Lucky scowled. Walter started his career with DEA and knew everybody in the business. “I know you’ve got contacts. Hell, Jameson O’Donoghue is still roaming around the halls. Ask him!”
Walter heaved out a sigh. “While Jameson is here on loan from the DEA, his area is undercover operations training. I seriously doubt he’d have those kinds of connections.”
Lucky didn’t like the man, hadn’t since the dumbass started consulting here and scowled at Lucky’s less-than-stellar past. He’d also trained Bo, which resulted in Bo nearly being killed.
The world would get along fine with one less moron. Lucky certainly could.
For long moments Walter studied him. “Are you really concerned about a pharmaceutical company being wrongly accused, or of your own opinion being questioned?”
Ouch. Direct hit. But Lucky wasn’t wrong, damn it! He’d even gone by the book for once in his life. “You know for years some folks at the DEA have been calling the SNB wannabes and come waltzing in after we’ve done the dirty work to claim credit during takedowns.” A few examples came to mind, sneering faces—several he’d nearly punched. “And it’s not just me I’m worried about. Hell, everyone knows my reputation, but Bo and Johnson were with me on this one.” He slammed a hand down on the desk. “They did everything right. No way in hell did DEA find big enough problems to yank their registration two hours after we concluded our audit. Just the fact they voluntarily asked us for a compliance evaluation says a lot about them.”
Walter leaned back in his chair, staring off at the far wall. “While I wouldn’t dare naysay another agency, or show disrespect, I’ll request a copy of the report.” He gave Lucky his best barracuda smile. “After all, cooperation between agencies is key to winning the war on drugs.”
Lucky couldn’t hide a smirk. Walter often repeated those words in front of the cameras when being interviewed, or when trying to worm his way into another agency’s good graces, which he usually managed with startling ease.
What would Lucky do without him?
He paused at the door on his way out and almost asked if Walter put a tail on him.
No. He wouldn’t ask. He knew the answer.
***
A shadow fell over Lucky’s desk. Lucky growled at the person who wasn’t Bo, Johnson, Walter, or Lisa, the only people allowed in his sanctuary.
Owen Landry tossed a printed out copy of the Chastain article on Lucky’s desk. “Does it hurt much? Being wrong?” The asshole sneered. “I wouldn’t know, personally.”
Lucky rose from his chair, but Landry retreated before Lucky could grab his fool neck and choke the life out of him.
He collapsed into the chair behind his desk, barely catching himself when the Hell Bitch tried to throw him. Damned chair.
He rose immediately, running a hand through his hair and pacing to Bo’s desk and back in their shared cubicle. Where was Bo? He needed Bo.
Or Johnson. Where the hell was everybody? He called the receptionist. Lisa answered on the first ring. “Hello, Mr. Harrison. How can I help you?” Mr. Harrison. Not Lucky.
“Have you seen Agent Schollenberger or Agent Johnson?” Two could play the “let’s be formal at work” game.
“No, sir, I haven’t. Could I help you with something?”
Lucky started to hang up, but imagined Bo swatting the back of his head and hissing, “Manners!”
“No. But thanks.” He ended the call and resumed his brooding. After all these years, the first few spent in a dizzying round of alternately hating and admiring Walter, now that the verdict came in for admiring, the man planned to leave.
Well, not really planned. Asshole higherups pissed all over the man’s untarnished record and intended to throw him out like so much trash.
To top things off, Landry had grown a set of balls or had lost his fool mind. In Lucky’s experience, flunkies only started mouthing off if they thought they were safe from retribution.
O’Donoghue replacing Walter meant Landry moved up the food chain.
Lucky lobbed an empty Starbucks cup at the far wall. It sailed out of his cube, smacked the wall, and hit the floor, barely missing a passing newbie’s head.
The guy gave Lucky wide eyes.
“What the fuck you lookin’ at?” Lucky growled.
The rookie took off down the hall, hissing to an unseen someone, “You don’t want to go that way. He’s throwing things.” Since no one else passed the cube, whoever he’d spoken to must’ve taken the advice.
Damn, but Lucky’s skin crawled. Walter should be here. Always. How old was he, anyway? Not too old to keep a bunch of misfit agents in line. Drug traffickers feared Walter Smith. He’d worked hard to earn his reputation.
All for what?
He’d go to bat for Lucky, Bo, and Johnson, get to the bottom of whatever
else turned up they hadn’t been aware of.
Save the bureau’s reputation.
Save Lucky’s.
They’d done a thorough job at Chastain. Textbook, as far as Bo and Johnson were concerned.
Lucky dove a bit farther, with the mind of a criminal looking for security breaches.
Nothing.
Agencies shared information. DEA knew the SNB inspected the place.
Rookie Rogers also seemed to be tailing him. If that was Rogers he’d seen last night. For all he knew Victor’s outfit kept an eye on him.
Victor. The way-too-handsome, way-too-powerful drug lord who’d taken Lucky under his wing, taught him the business, and tried to save him in the end. Made the deal with Walter to get Lucky out of prison early, to work off his sentence in service to the good guys.
Lucky closed his eyes, heart clenching as a vision swam before his eyes—a vision of Victor hanging in a jail cell. How he’d hated himself, blamed himself for the testimony that had helped put him there.
He should’ve known a prison sentence wouldn’t stop the man. Like Lucky, the former drug trafficker changed his ways, and now headed what could possibly be the international version of the Southeastern Narcotics Bureau, without the good-old-boy vibe and Southern accent.
Who’d wanted Lucky to work for him again.
No, Victor’s group hired the best of the best. If Victor had him followed, they wouldn’t be seen.
Rereading his report provided zero answers.
Perusing trainee files didn’t give him stress relief. Where was Bo? He knew better than to ask Walter. Being put in charge of training meant it wasn’t Lucky’s business what a non-trainee agent did. He’d know about Bo’s cases if and when he needed to, per bureau policy.
The bureau.
He’d given years of his life to the bureau. Done a damned fine job.
For what? One swift kick toppled the trash can. If he didn’t get out of here, he’d throw more than a coffee cup.
He eyed the Christmas cactus perched on the filing cabinet, tendrils nearly grazing the floor.
Nope, he couldn’t throw the plant. Bo might never forgive him for destroying the reminder of what should have been their first Christmas together.