Wind River Undercover

by Lindsay McKenna

  She turned on the hair dryer, lifting her thick, damp strands. “Fifty? Seriously?”

  “Yes. A scary, phenomenal amount. Unheard of, until now, sadly. China was the one making it and sending it through the U.S. Postal Service. Now, it looks like the drug lords in Central and South America are making it, too. Do you realize how many people could die if that fentanyl is laced in other drugs they’re taking?”

  “That’s so frightening, Vicky. You could kill a million people with that much.”

  “Opioid-addicted people often get drugs laced with that deadly substance. You’re right.”

  She leaned down, swishing her hair once more, the dryer whistling loudly, drying the straight strands. “I’m sure someone will figure out just how many people’s lives were saved tonight. Part of the stats they keep.”

  “But it all was hinging on you.”

  Shrugging, Anna said, “It’s my job.”

  “You’re good at it.” She gave her a proud look. “You’re our Wonder Woman here at the DEA.”

  Snorting, she continued moving thick strands. “We had five Border Patrol trucks with us to take those druggies down. I was just the spotter. The force multiplier,” Anna said, and she flashed Vicky a savage grin laden with black humor, wanting to give credit to the others, as well as the Border Patrol.

  “Well, everyone’s talking about it. They’re excited and stunned.” She rubbed her hands across her thighs and stood up. “Director Hardiman sent me down here to tell you to come to his office at 1500 today. I know that’s cutting your sleep short, but he wants to meet with you.”

  Arched brows rising, Anna turned off the noisy machine. “Probably wants to give me an attaboy clap on the shoulder and a double handshake.” Anna tried to keep the derision out of her voice. She appreciated the management pat on the head, but she knew how good she was at her job. No need for outside praise.

  “Maybe,” Vicky said, heading for the door. “Hope it’s a raise instead of a handshake, though.”

  Laughter erupted from her as she tucked in her tee and slid a brown leather belt around her waist. “Sure. Don’t hold your breath, Vicky.”

  She slipped through the opened door, laughing with her. “I won’t. But you DESERVE it! Maybe it’s a promotion?”

  An even louder and noisy snort came from Anna as she slipped on her shoes, grabbed her leather purse, and slung it across her left shoulder. “In your dreams. Have a good day, okay? Stay out of trouble, unlike me.”

  “Yeah, after seeing the director, you get to have an early dinner and off to the desert in your black gear to hunt more druggies.”

  “Roger that,” she said, shutting the locker door. What she wished for right now was a change from the boring missions she’d been assigned to since arriving here a year earlier. Anna knew the DEA wasn’t about to move her into any other position. Being a sniper wasn’t for everyone and it took a lot of stealth, an understanding of one’s environment, knowledge of how to track, and being one hell of an operator, not to mention a 4.0 shooter. She knew the present Guatemalan general in charge of the Marines had not wanted to release her to the States, but given the US’s largesse, a Central or South American country couldn’t say no to a humanitarian package deal they were receiving in trade for her services.

  Anna didn’t blame the general. Her country was very poor, and every US dollar that flowed into it was a good thing. She hated the idea of being the modus operandi of currency, however. Feeling tiredness pull at her, she was happy to be going home and hitting the sack. Who knew what lay ahead of her when she met her boss at 1500 today? She cringed, not wanting an attaboy.

  April 2

  Gabe Whitcomb forced himself to sit quietly, looking relaxed even though he wasn’t. His boss, Randy Hardiman, fifty-five years old and his San Diego DEA supervisor, was at his desk, focused on a stack of papers that begged his attention. The midafternoon sun shed bright southern light into the man’s corner office, showing his importance to the HQ.

  While Ace, Gabe’s eight-year-old Belgian Malinois, played in the DEA dog pen in an air-conditioned area of HQ, Gabe scrolled through his iPhone for text messages from his old haunt, an undercover mission that had lasted two years. He grimaced inwardly while keeping his expression neutral. A lot of his old friends from the past were glad to hear he was done with that assignment, which had taken him into the snake pit of Tijuana and other towns along the border with the US.

  There was a text message from his adoptive mother, Maud: When are you coming home? We want to celebrate! Don’t you feel like Persephone coming out of Hades and standing on the Earth during springtime?

  Gabe smiled inwardly. In his business, no one knew more about body and facial language than a survivor of a long-term undercover, covert mission. He was a master of it. And while it had served him well, saved his life innumerable times, he was free of it—finally. He texted back: I’m a male Persephone? I’m with my boss right now. I hope to find out what my next assignment will be. He’s already promised me some “away” time with all of you. As soon as I find out, I’ll call you.

  His adoptive parents, Steve and Maud Whitcomb, had raised him from when he was three years old and a foster family didn’t want him anymore. He had very few memories of that time, but one thing that had always stuck in his chest like a warm embrace was the love that spilled from Maud and Steve as they adopted him immediately. He became part of a noisy, affectionate family. He was the fourth child to be adopted by them, his whole life changing as he moved from San Diego, California, to Wind River, Wyoming, to grow up on a huge, sprawling cattle lease ranch on the western border of the state. All he knew was love as a child in that incredible family. They didn’t care if he was Hispanic.

  Maud had spent a lot of time with private detectives, trying to ferret out the mothers of the four children they called their sons and daughters. She and Steve had wanted them to know their family roots, understanding how important it was to have them. Gabe’s mother, whoever she was, had placed him in a cardboard box on the steps of a firehouse—that was his beginning in life. A firefighter had opened the back door that led to the trash bin area and nearly stepped on the box, not expecting it to be there. Gabe had no memory of that awful time. He’d seen enough orphans in Mexico, lost to the world, parentless, their safety net gone, their loveless lives, making them horribly vulnerable in the world of the drug trade. It sickened him.

  Looking up, he saw it was 1455, or 2:55 P.M. Hardiman said his new partner would show up at 1500. He glanced toward the open door and saw people walking quietly up and down the pale blue tile floor. There wasn’t much noise, just people with their heads down, focused and intent.

  What would his next assignment be? He’d spent the last year in Tijuana; before that, he’d been in Guatemala. He wanted to know because he’d told Hardiman months earlier in a clandestine meeting that this was his last undercover job. He missed his family. He missed home. And only when he’d gone undercover did that become abundantly clear to him.

  He tried to shrug off and ignore that his biological mother abandoned him, for whatever reason. That was an open wound in him whether he wanted it to be or not. Living in the scum of Tijuana slums as a middle-level drug buyer and seller, he saw families torn apart, orphans by the handful, and the dregs of society surrounding him, all struggling just to survive to the next morning.

  God, how he wanted to go home, wanted to smell that clean, unpolluted Wyoming air, inhale the sweet scent of grass growing a foot a day in the spring, hear the lowing of cattle that was like a song to him, and the snort of a good horse between his legs. He wanted Ace to enjoy the last half of his life in safety and just be a dog, not an IED specialist. He really missed his family, his siblings, Andy who was thirty, Skylar, now twenty-eight, Luke, who was twenty-nine. Sky was like him, of Hispanic blood, although Maud and Steve and he suspected that each of them had had one unknown parent who was Caucasian. They both had golden skin, not the darker, reddish skin of a Hispanic who was a pureblood. Luke
and Andy were Caucasian. They’d all had their genetic map from Ances-tory. com. And yes, it showed Gabe was Hispanic on one side and British and Irish on the other. He supposed it was his father who was Irish. Gabe had brown-reddish hair and gray eyes. Neither were hallmarks of his Hispanic heritage. When undercover, that part of him was key. He spoke Spanish like he was born to it, which he was. He had the color of skin that drug lords preferred. They wanted mules and lower-status males of Hispanic blood who tended never to question anyone. They just bent their backs and carried the loads they’d been assigned for hundreds of years in Central and South America, without rebelling. Without getting out of that prison. And it was a prison, Gabe thought, pushing all thoughts of his unknown parentage away. With his lighter skin, he could pass without notice. Border Patrol definitely profiled, no question.

  It was 1500. He looked expectantly at the open door and the hall. After placing his iPhone on OFF, he slipped it into the pocket of his plaid shirt. To this day, he wore cowboy shirts with pearl snaps and mostly plaids and leather boots. His straw hat sat on a chair next to him. His belt buckle was the only thing he allowed of his “real” life to follow him into undercover. He’d been on the teen rodeo circuit in Wyoming, riding bareback broncs, winning a state championship at seventeen. That well-worn gold buckle was a part of him, of who he was, of what he loved to do. He liked being around cattle and horses. And he was looking forward to thirty days of leave to do just that. There was no way Hardiman was going to drop him into another assignment without a good rest from the last harrowing one. That wasn’t DEA policy.

  Gabe caught movement and switched his glance to the doorway. There was a Hispanic woman with long black hair coming toward them. She wore a dark blue short-sleeved tee, a pair of comfortable jeans, sensible leather shoes, and a slender brown leather belt. She was around five foot eight inches tall, shoulders back with pride, and it struck him that she was or had been in the military. Her face was oval with full lips a bit thinned, high cheekbones, and large, alert eyes. As she drew closer he saw that her eyes were a gold-brown. Maybe she was only part Hispanic like him? Maybe. He saw the sleek muscling of her upper and lower arms. This woman was athletic as hell, no office type, for sure. She wore a black baseball cap and it gave her a dangerous look. Although she wasn’t wearing any weapons on her that he could see, Gabe thought she felt lethal, her gaze always ranging around, like everyone in their business would do. Being in the DEA meant one did not have their eyes and nose glued to a cell phone, never looking up or around. No, she was damned alert and as she drew closer, he appreciated her easy gait, the gentle sway of her hips, the mega confidence surrounding her. He liked her. Liked her chutzpah, which seemed to be a natural part of who she was. She wore no jewelry, either, another indicator of a military background.

  His curiosity was piqued. Big-time.

  Hardiman looked up as she knocked lightly on the doorjamb. “Ah, Anna, come in! Right on time. Close the door after yourself, please?”

  She stepped forward. “Yes, sir,” she said, and she closed the door. Anna glanced to her right at the man sitting slouched in a chair near one end of the desk. There was another chair at the other end.

  “Agent Anna Navaro, meet Agent Gabe Whitcomb.”

  She turned toward him, expecting a nod. Instead, he got to his feet, holding her gaze and extending a work-worn hand toward her. “Nice to meet you,” she murmured, noting that he had a steely gaze akin to that of an eagle checking out prey. His hand was warm, dry, and calloused. So was hers. He clasped it and she could feel him monitoring the amount of pressure he placed around her hand. At least he wasn’t one of these cocky dudes who tried to impress her by crushing the bones of her hand into dust. Anna exerted just enough strength in her returning handshake to let him know she wasn’t some limp woman who sat at a desk. There was a flare of surprise in his eyes, his black pupils large, that ring of gray around them, telling her that he missed nothing. Nothing.

  “Nice to meet you, Ms. Navaro,” he said, and he released her hand.

  “Same here,” she said, trying to ignore his blatant maleness. Her senses told her he was hiding a hell of a lot from her, appearing like a field hand working on picking up produce from the rows of some big white man farm here in the US. His hair was military short, he was clean-shaven, and she liked the faint scent of his skin. Nostrils flaring, she drank it in and then looked back at her boss.

  “Have a seat,” said Hardiman, and he gestured to the only empty chair in the office.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Cowboy, as she silently dubbed him, sat attentive in his chair, his gaze on her. Skin prickling, she didn’t mind his perusing her. There was curiosity and interest in his eyes. He must be single. Well, she wasn’t looking for a hookup, so he could forget that. Even though his face was deeply tanned, as if he’d been working out the in fields, her instincts told her he really wasn’t doing agricultural stuff at all. It just appeared that way. She wondered if the cowboy outfit was a ruse and Gabe wanted people to think he was a farmhand. Hiding who he really was? She’d been around black ops and undercover mission men for too long not to bet on what she saw, and in her gut she knew she was correct.

  “The reason I’ve asked you to come here today,” Hardiman began, hands clasped on his desk, “is that we have a very special assignment.” He lifted his chin and drilled Anna and Gabe with a look. “You two will be going undercover.”

  Anna opened her mouth to protest, but saw the seriousness of Hardiman’s heavily lined face, his green eyes narrowed. Better to wait for all the info he was going to divulge instead of interrupting him. There was no way she was going undercover! Friggin’ no way! She was a sniper. Not counterespionage.

  Gabe had sat up even straighter, shoulders tensing as he stared in disbelief at his boss. He too opened his mouth to protest, thought better of it, and compressed his lips into a thin line, waiting for the rest of the explanation.

  “Gabe, this is a very, very unique and delicate operation. There is a Guatemalan drug lord by the name of Pablo Gonzalez making heavy inroads to the southern portion of Wind River Valley in Wyoming.”

  “Gonzalez?” Anna hissed, nearly coming out of her chair, hands white-knuckled around the arms of it.

  “Yes,” Hardiman said heavily, giving her a sympathetic nod. “It was his soldiers who murdered your father when you were fifteen.”

  Anna felt gut-punched and sat abruptly down in the chair, her grip tightening. “That bastard is here? In Wyoming? Right now?”

  “A contingent of his drug operation is setting up shop,” Hardiman said. “We don’t know if Gonzalez is in Wyoming or not. Most likely, one of his lieutenants has been assigned to the state.”

  Gabe scowled. “I don’t understand why we’re undercover.”

  Anna shot Gabe a look of, yeah, you got that right. What the hell! She was getting hotter by the minute. There was no way she wanted undercover work!

  “Whoa,” Hardiman told them, “both of you, stand down, please?”

  Anna forced herself to loosen her grip on the arms of the chair. Lips pressed tightly, she held back a barrage of questions about Gonzalez. There was no one she wanted more than that murdering bastard. Hatred soared through her as the past flashed before her eyes. Her father, in a casket, and her standing in front of it, crying so hard that she couldn’t see him. Her mother was beside her, arm tightly around her heaving shoulders, holding her while she sobbed out her heart over his death. Pushing that painful time in her life away, Anna swallowed convulsively, reinforcing the shove of all her emotions down, deep inside herself.

  Hardiman gave her an apologetic look. “This is going to be a very emotional mission for both of you for different reasons,” he warned heavily. He glanced in Gabe’s direction. He was still scowling. “Here’s the gist of it,” Hardiman offered. “Gonzalez is widening and deepening his operation in Wind River Valley. He’s enlisted people who live there, which is a common strategy, to become part of his ring. Namely, the Elson
Gang.”

  A low growl emanated from Gabe. “That’s a family steeped in drug selling and running. Most of the brothers have already been to prison at least once, on drug charges. Their old man, Brian, was a wife and child beater, plus an addict, until he was killed by the local sheriff.”

  Anna gave him an assessing look. “You know them?”

  “I grew up in Wind River Valley,” Gabe answered tightly. “The Elsons had four sons. One is dead now. I heard from my parents that Cree Elson was killed when he tried to kidnap a local woman. Another, Hiram, was just tossed into prison for ten years. That leaves Kaen and Elisha on the loose and they must be hooking up with Gonzalez, then?”

  “Yes. Okay, here’s the broad brushstrokes on this mission. First, Gabe, I can’t give you any time off for a thirty-day leave that you more than deserve. The good news is that your parents, Steve and Maud Whitcomb, have been working with my people for a good three months. They have agreed to help us on this mission.”

  “What?” he croaked. “What the hell are you talking about?” and he came out of the chair, standing tensely, glaring hard at Hardiman.

  Anna saw the fear in Gabe’s darkening gray eyes, looking more and more like an eagle ready to pounce.

  Hardiman’s voice lowered. “My team has been working with them, with Sheriff Sarah Carter of Lincoln County, and other agencies, to set up this mission. Basically, you are going home as Gabe Whitcomb. You’re not fully undercover because you’re retaining your real identity, but your story is that you’ve quit your job, with no mention that you were a DEA agent, and are coming back to live in the valley. There’s a broken-down ranch, the Rocking G, right next to where the Elsons live. We’ve faked the purchase of it and your name is on the title for the ranch. This proves to any resident who might be curious, including the Elsons, that you want to make a home in the valley and settle down.”