He tossed back the shot and one-gulped it then set the dirty glass on the bar and started to pour himself another. Morgan snatched the bottle out of his grip and set it out of his reach.
“Jackson Cutter, look at me.”
He did, angrily, but said nothing.
She bunched her fists and set them on the bar. “We gave you plenty of space after Sharon’s death. But she’s gone for good. She is never coming back. Ever. You understand that?” She said the words as if she had rehearsed them a dozen times.
Like I care what you think. He rubbed one finger on the rim of his glass.
“Heck, Jack. You need to get your head out of your—”
“Ass,” Gauge added.
“Yes, out of there. And get it back into the game. We’ve got a big job to do. And you need to take charge. It’s finally a decent score for a change. We’ll get a chance to get it right this time.”
Cutter stretched for the bottle, and she slid it down the bar even farther out of his reach with the backside of her hand.
“It’s not just you who was hurt by Sharon’s death, Jack. She was our friend too. We loved her. But the company’s gonna be flat broke soon. You have to face the hard truth.”
Gauge grunted an affirmative, causing Cutter to swivel his bleary eyes toward the man. He suddenly wanted to hit the guy just to get him to hit him back and maybe break something.
She touched him on the elbow, and he flinched away.
“You know I’m right. Since you’ve been gone, all the good business has dried up. No one wants to do anything with us anymore. We’re tainted goods, Jack. Tainted.”
Whatever. He was done with the business anyway. Flush it. He didn’t care.
She sighed. “We’ve almost closed up shop ten times already, but this latest job dropped in our laps and was tied up with a neat little million-plus dollar bow on it. We can do it, Jack. I know we can. We can do it and put Ecuador behind us.”
He wasn’t so sure. In fact, he would never be able to forgive himself for what happened there. He reached for the bottle again, and she blocked him.
“Believe you me, I’ve considered the heck out of leaving and getting a corporate gig on my own, but thanks to my record, I’ll never be able to hold another security clearance again. No clearance in my line of work means no job. Unless, of course, I want to turn rogue again. You hear that, Jack? What you did when you abandoned us here affected more than just you, you selfish—”
“Prick,” Gauge added
She nodded her approval.
Cutter remembered what she’d done. It had been done on his behalf well over two years ago. She’d been caught hacking into the Federal Reserve for him, a huge no-no. If it weren’t for his prior governmental connections—thin and shaky as they were at the time—she would currently be spending a long stretch wearing nothing but orange, which, with her hair color, was not a shade that flattered her.
“So you found that doctor lady attractive, didn’t you?” he asked. “And now you are looking to hookup with her then?”
Morgan shoved him hard, knocking him from the barstool to the grit-covered floor. He rolled sideways and curled up on the dirty linoleum floor. Holding his belly, he coughed, which turned slowly into a chuckle, then a full-blown laugh.
“Goddamnit, Jack! You really are an assho—a real jerk!”
Slipping off the barstool, she shifted until she was towering over him.
She glanced at Gauge. “Hold him down.”
Gauge shifted positions and pinned Cutter against the floor with a knee to the chest. Morgan climbed on top him and grabbed his hand and tugged at his wedding ring. Cutter panicked and tried to snatch his hand away from her, but Gauge held him in place as she twisted and yanked to get his ring off. Finally, she got the white-gold ring off his finger and stood triumphantly, then staggered back on her heels.
“Give it back,” he growled from the floor.
Gauge lifted his knee and Cutter attempted to rise, doing so unsteadily, wobbling on his feet. Tiny pieces of grit and broken peanut shells had stuck to his face. He wiped at them with the back of his hand.
Morgan frowned. “You’ll get this back when you grow the heck up, Jack.” Fetching Gauge by the arm, she added, “We’ll be at the shop getting everything ready. We expect you to sober up and be there shortly.”
Like hell, I will.
He watched Morgan and Gauge walk out of the bar and not look back. As the door closed behind them and shut out the light, he sank to the dirty floor, curled up, and buried his face in his knees.
“You gonna be all right there, pal?” the bartender asked.
~9~
FBI-ED
By the time the plane touched down at Hartsfield-Jackson in Atlanta, Georgia, Cutter had managed to pull himself together to a reasonable degree. Reasonable for him, at least, which meant that he was not immediately planning to kill the next person who pissed him off.
Well—maybe.
He’d slept for a good, solid, four hours, which was also just enough time for the buzz to wear down to a nominal level and leave his mouth as dry as cotton in July and his head humming show tunes.
Morgan had returned to the bar and convinced him, finally. Yeah, he’d made it difficult for her. But she’d won out in the end. She was relentless and never seemed to give up no matter what, which was something he both admired and hated about her, often at the same time. She’d scooped him up off the floor and dusted him off and got him to the airport on time. He’d been a complete asshole about it, too, and had called her a bitch, which went so far beyond wrong that it left him feeling ashamed of himself. Perhaps that was why he caved in the end. That, and she’d given him back his white-gold wedding band.
Half of him appreciated the close friendship they had. The other half resented it. The argument over coming along for the ride was one he was in no mood to continue. It was too late and would be pointless to even bring it up, as he had nowhere else to go, and it was clear that she’d just keep chipping away at him until he eventually folded, no matter how big a tantrum he threw.
All he could do now was try to do better.
Gauge sat in the seat across the aisle from him, still bleary-eyed and half-dozing. The guy could sleep through a death-metal rock concert and wake up fully refreshed when the cleaning crew arrived to mop up all the blood.
Morgan closed her laptop and came to join them. Cutter glanced down at his hands. He didn’t want to look her in the eyes just yet.
“Gentlemen,” she said, “we’ve got company coming. And they don’t appear to be friendly.”
Cutter peeked out the porthole-sized window beside him on to see what had caught her interest. He saw flashing blue and red lights and men spilling out of shiny black sedans and SUVs. There was a lone woman shouting commands at the men, who appeared to be a whole host of suited-up seriousness. About half of them were cupping their hands over earpieces to hear each other over the roaring noise of the jet’s twin Rolls-Royce engines. The group was moving quickly and importantly, all wearing dark blue windbreakers with three blocky white letters emblazoned on their backs.
FBI.
“Dang,” Morgan said, shuffling back to her seat, muttering, “Not the best time for this.” She swung into a chair before a tiny table and flipped open her laptop and began typing furiously. “Jack, can you do something about this? Maybe go and do a meet and greet with our guests?”
“No,” he said. He wasn’t ready yet.
She glanced up from her screen at him. “How about calling in a few quick favors from your contact list?”
Most of his governmental connections were no longer on speaking terms with him.
“Can’t,” he said.
“Okay,” she breathed. She sighed and started typing even faster. “I just need a few minutes. Can you at least buy me that?”
Cutter sighed back at her. His head was pounding again, and he attempted to blink away the pain. It didn’t help.
“Screw you, Jack.”
Rubbing his temples, he tried to think. This is just great. What in the hell do those government monkey-suits want this time? It was always something with these statist types. Could hardly do business anymore in the US without some damn bureaucrat sticking their goddamned nose into it and wondering just how badly they could screw it up, and often doing it just out of spite.
America—the land of the free.
Yeah, that.
But it could be it was not any of his many pending legal issues they were going after. It could be related to Morgan. Though, he thought he’d cleared up those problems over a year ago after their last job had soured. It was the one good deed he’d done before heading south for his extended vacation. And all his favors had been used up on that one. Where is this new hassle coming from? Someone obviously still had a beef. He also figured that with all the guns and the half a ton of illegal high-tech they had tucked away in the plane’s cargo hold, things could get real messy, real fast.
“Morgan?” he grunted in annoyance.
“Shhh, I’m working,” she fired back, typing with a ferocity he’d rarely seen before.
Cutter grunted, deep and guttural, putting the pounding in his head out of mind. Then he collected Gauge and started to deplane. Gauge stopped him, and they shared a confused look, and then they both glanced over their shoulders at Morgan before stepping out into the cold. Cutter was still wondering what he was going to do and how far he was willing to go. He assumed Gauge was thinking along those same lines.
All the way.
No matter what, Gauge would have his back. The man always did, as did Morgan. Cutter made his decision right then. If this were just about him, then he’d play his role for all he was worth and give Morgan and Gauge the opportunity to continue the mission without him.
On the tarmac, the Gulfstream’s engines continued to whine, slowly spinning toward a stop. He stepped down the jet’s short stairway and sized up the not so friendly looking party of Feds.
A pale guy wearing a black jacket and narrow necktie stepped forward. “Hands up where we can see them, Mr. Cutter.” The man was pushing fifty and also pushing a belly that was seriously threatening to tear the second button of his suit coat clean off if he inhaled too deeply.
Standing next to the guy was a very stern-looking woman in a dark pantsuit. She appeared to be the guy’s boss. She had the face of someone who had not been properly laid in years. Decade maybe? Her face was screwed up so tight with self-righteous importance and indignation that it was amazing she could walk with that stick shoved so far up her—
“Where is she?” the woman asked.
Cutter halfheartedly raised his arms in surrender. Gauge stepped beside Cutter, who then rested his right hand on the man’s shoulder, as if he were subtly restraining the larger man from attacking the FBI agents.
It did not have the desired effect. The smug look stayed a firm part of the woman’s countenance. She showed not even a hint of fear at Cutter’s rather mean-looking attack dog.
“Where is she?” the woman repeated. Wrinkles followed her every utterance, cracking her Spackle-job makeup.
“Who?” Cutter replied innocently.
“Don’t get smart with me, Mr. Cutter. We know she is onboard with you. Harboring a fugitive and crossing state lines with said fugitive is a felony. Federal. I’m sure you are well aware of that.”
“A fugitive?” Cutter asked with mock surprise while suppressing a hint of real surprise. He let go of Gauge. “I think you may have us confused with someone else.”
The woman did not appear to buy his disjointed line of reasoning.
Cutter let his hands drop slowly. “Besides, isn’t hunting down fugitives and bringing them to justice the purview of the U.S. Marshal Service?”
“Not if it has to do with a Homeland Security incident involving computer espionage.”
“Sorry,” Cutter said, head shaking. “I never have been able to figure out all that overlapping governmental responsibility bullshit out. There are just too many layers—if you ask me.”
“We didn’t ask you. Where is she?” the fat man beside the stern-looking woman asked.
“Where is who?” Cutter asked in return. “Or is it whom? I never could quite remember which is the rig—”
Two men with guns raised broke off and rushed forward to surround Cutter. Four others hastily surrounded and restrained Gauge.
“Easy,” Cutter said as his arms were wrenched behind his back, and he was patted down for weapons.
One of the men tried to take Betty away from Gauge.
“I wouldn’t recommend doing that,” Cutter warned.
The man grunted and took the Desert Eagle .50 anyway. Gauge shrugged off the men surrounding him.
More guns were raised.
“Now’s not the right time,” Cutter said out of the side of his mouth. “You’ll get it back. I promise.”
The woman in charge stepped forward. “Doubtful. You know it is a felony to have a loaded weapon at an airport?”
“Is everything a felony now?” Cutter asked, figuring just about everything was except for paying taxes.
The woman sneered at him.
Two men entered the plane and returned with Morgan walking between them. Her head was bowed low. Both men held her by an arm so she could not twist free from their grips.
“Mizz Crow,” the woman in charge buzzed. “You are under arrest.”
“On what charges?” Cutter asked.
“You stay out of this,” the lead agent snapped.
“She’s with me,” Cutter said, “and I’m afraid I can’t let you just go arresting her without cause, can I?”
“You have no weight here, no pull here, Mr. Cutter. And your friends are not going to help you, either,” she added with spiteful derision. “Should we also take you into custody?”
“On what trumped-up charges would you dare to do that?”
The woman said nothing.
Morgan glanced up, or someone who looked a lot like Morgan glanced up, only this one had long hair. Cutter suppressed a smile.
“Cuff her!” the lead agent spat.
The men who held Cutter dropped his arms and hurried over to fake-Morgan and wrapped her up tight, the first clipping on a pair of silver handcuffs, the second holding her still. They dragged her in front of the agent in charge and held her in place.
With lips held together tighter than a duck’s butthole, the agent in charge raised a cellphone to Morgan’s face and squinted as she went from picture to person.
A puffing grunt was all that escaped those overly taut lips.
“Take her away,” she finally said.
“Not so fast.” Cutter was already striding forward, but he was intercepted by two agents. He tried to bump them aside and continue, then four more joined the first two, forming a solid wall of windbreakers and suits.
“Don’t worry,” Cutter said to the woman who looked almost like Morgan. “Our lawyers will be on their way as soon as I can get to a phone. This is total bullshit. Trumped up bullshit, you know it.”
Fake-Morgan nodded fearfully.
Dropping their arms and doing the monkey dance as they backed away, the agents peeled off one by one from Cutter and Gauge.
Cutter remained on the tarmac watching them escort fake-Morgan to a black SUV, duck her head inside, and shove her into the backseat. The SUV sped off, followed by the parade of shiny black vehicles decorated with blue and red lights.
Jackasses.
Cutter reentered the plane. “Who in the hell was that?”
Glancing up from her laptop, wearing the former pilot’s jacket, Morgan grinned at him. “That was our pilot.”
She began typing again on her laptop. “Time to get to work, Jack. The doctor will be here soon, and our friends will be back within the hour once they fingerprint her. So if you’ve got any shopping left to do in Atlanta, you had better get to it quick. You have maybe twenty minutes.”
Cutter nodded. “The pi
lot, huh? So the copilot can fly us there?”
“Or you,” she said.
Me? It had been a year since he’d flown any kind of aircraft, but he could do it—once he was completely sober. Though, going by their newly accelerated time schedule, it might have to be a bit sooner than that. He rubbed his temples again, hoping the headache would fade soon.
Before he sat, he drew Gauge’s gun Betty out from where he had concealed it inside his over-shirt and handed it back to the man. It had been quite a feat, but he’d still managed to lift the weapon from the FBI agent who’d taken it when he’d fallen against the man. Cutter figured he probably deserved a reward. That gun was huge.
Gauge raised one corner of his mouth in a half-smile.
“Boys,” Morgan said dismissively.
He gave her an affirmative nod as he watched Gauge crawl back into his former seat and make himself comfortable. The plush chair was probably still warm.
~10~
DR. MARTINEZ, I PRESUME
Dr. Martinez showed up in the tiny terminal building precisely two minutes before she was expected to arrive, which was ten minutes after the FBI had left in their black SUVs. She was carrying two bags. Both were draped over her shoulders and were not weighing her down in the least, which gave Cutter a small glimpse into her abilities. She was not the helpless, babe-in-the-woods type, which he appreciated. She exuded confidence and strength just in the way that she stood so tall. Trailing behind her was a polished metal case much larger than her two shoulder bags combined. It probably contained some sort of instrumentation.
“Dr. Martinez, I presume,” he said as he greeted her on the tarmac.
“Mr. Cutter.” She rather formally inclined her head a smidgen. “Are you fully prepared for this assignment?”
“There’s nothing we can’t handle.”
She grinned slightly and offloaded her bags onto him as if he were her personal manservant and stepped past him without uttering another word. He pivoted to watch her. Hot damn. She was wearing khaki cargo pants with plenty of pockets up and down the sides and a light-blue button-up shirt, sleeves rolled all the way to the elbows. The pants were tight in the butt and fit her generous curves, which was a trait Cutter both admired and appreciated. When his eyes made it down to her feet, he noticed she was wearing tan Timberline boots without a single scuff or scratch mark on them. That made him roll back a bit of his assessment of her as he realized that she’d probably just purchased the entire outfit off the rack at REI on her way to the airport. He was half-surprised that he hadn’t seen dangling tags still attached somewhere. Regardless, he continued to observe her with muted admiration as she headed for the plane.
Zombie Team Alpha Page 5