Breaking Cover (Tony Wolf/Tim Buckthorn)

by J. D. Rhoades

  “Hmmm,” Dunleavy said.

  Kendra didn’t like his tone. “Crimes against children were an obsession with him, sir,” she said. “He’d seen some of Trent’s ‘product.’ He wanted him taken down. Hard.”

  Dunleavy looked at her for a long moment, then turned back to Steadman. “So what happened?”

  “We’re not sure.” Steadman grimaced. “Something went wrong. There was an explosion at one of the methamphetamine labs.

  When the fire department got there, they found Trent’s nephew, Johnny, on the scene.” Steadman took out another photo. “He’d been shot, but he was alive.” He pushed the photo toward Dunleavy, who picked it up and studied it.

  “So young Mr. Trent was in prison?” Dunleavy asked, noting the federal prison system number on the photo.

  “Yes, sir,” Steadman said. “He was let out on compassionate release about a month ago.”

  Dunleavy arched an eyebrow at him. “Compassionate release? Why?”

  “The bullet severed his spinal column,” Kendra said. “He’s been in a wheelchair ever since he was shot.”

  “What does this have to do with Wolf?” Dunleavy asked.

  “We think Wolf was at the lab when everything went haywire. A quantity of blood was found at the scene that matched his blood type. We found his car by the side of the road a few miles away. There were motorcycle tracks all around it, and more blood in the driver’s side. One tire was blown out. We think they caught up with him. Or at least that’s what we thought until today.”

  “And now what do you think, Agent Steadman?”

  Steadman took a deep breath. “After Wolf ’s disappearance and Trent’s arrest, we closed the operation. We had a major player in custody, and we figured our inside man was blown. But we still had some secondary sources. We started to get word that the Trent organization had suffered some sort of major catastrophe. Johnny Trent was his uncle’s heir apparent. In many ways he was the one driving the push into new areas. So his injury and his incarceration were a major blow. But it was more than that, and more than the loss of one meth lab. Our other sources had heard of a large quantity of cash that had gone missing.”

  Dunleavy glanced at Kendra. She sat rigid, her lips in a tight line. He turned back to Steadman. “You think he may have taken the money and run? Gone into business for himself?”

  Steadman hesitated. “We have to consider that possibility, yes, sir.”

  “And you don’t consider that a possibility, Agent Wolf?” Dunleavy’s voice was back to that deadly mildness.

  She looked him in the eye. “No, sir,” she said. “I don’t.” “Which is why,” Dunleavy said, “I’m reluctant to put you on

  this matter at all, Agent Wolf. You’re too close to it.”

  “Sir,” Kendra said, “in one of the last communications Tony Wolf got to us, he mentioned that he had some concerns. There’d been some talk about a leak. In our organization.”

  “Excuse me?” Dunleavy said.

  “Agent Wolf had expressed some, ah, suspicions he’d had. Some wild talk about a leak in the FBI. Someone feeding information about investigations to the Brotherhood.”

  “Really,” Dunleavy said.

  “He couldn’t give us much more than that, though,” Steadman went on. “And”—he glanced at Kendra—“some of Agent Wolf ’s later communications indicated that . . . um . . . well, it seemed that the strain was beginning to work on him.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Kendra said flatly.

  “Undercover work is mentally draining,” Steadman said. “The cognitive dissonance involved in pretending to be someone you’re not, coupled with the fear of knowing what will happen if you’re discovered—”

  “Tony Wolf did not go crazy,” Kendra said. “He’d been in combat, for Christ’s sake.”

  “A much more straightforward type of stress,” Dunleavy observed. “No, Agent Wolf, I don’t think I can put you into any kind of supervisory role on this one.”

  “Sir,” Kendra said, barely suppressing her desire to scream at him, “I’m a SAC. I worked hard for it—”

  “And you’ve done a stellar job,” Dunleavy soothed. “But I can’t let you run this operation, Agent Wolf, any more than a hospital would let a surgeon operate on his own wife or child. You have no objectivity in this situation, and no one would expect you to. You’re only human, after all.” Dunleavy still managed to make the last sentence sound like a personal failing. He turned to Steadman. “It’s your ball, Pat,” he said. “Take whoever and whatever you need. Find out what’s going on with Tony Wolf. And bring him back, even if you have to do it in handcuffs.”

  “Sir,” Kendra tried again.

  “That’s all, people,” Dunleavy said. “I’ll brief the director. And I don’t think I need to tell you that we need to keep this matter out of the public eye as much as possible.”

  OUTSIDE, Steadman turned to her. “He’s right, you know,” he said gently. “There’s no way you can run this op.”

  She stared at the floor. “At least put me on the team,” she said. “He’ll talk to me.”

  “How do you know that?” he demanded. “He hasn’t contacted you in over four years.”

  She looked up. “I know him, Pat,” she said. “I can at least advise you.”

  “Are you sure, Kendra?” he said. “Are you sure how well you know him?” He sighed. “Okay. Dunleavy’ll probably scream, but he said it’s my ball to run with. You can come.”

  She smiled. “Thanks, Pat,” she said. “I owe you.”

  “Yes, you do,” he said. “And you can start paying it back by getting on the phone and rustling up an aircraft. We’ll need”—he thought—“room for you, me, and two others.”

  “Who else?”

  He pursed his lips. “Simmons,” he decided, “and Harper.” He saw the expression on her face. “What’s wrong with Harper?”

  She willed her face back into neutral. “Nothing,” she said. “Nothing at all.” Oh, shit, she thought. You think I’ve got a conflict of interest. She knew she should say something to Steadman. Her career would take a blow, she knew, if her relationship with an agent below her in rank became known. But so would Brett’s, and she didn’t know if his could survive it.

  “Come on,” Steadman said, “we’ve got to get going. I want us wheels up within the next two hours.”

  With that, she felt the opportunity pass.

  TONY WOLF, the man the town of pine Lake knew as Sanders, slowed as he approached his driveway. He could find no obvious reason for the vague feeling of unease as he approached, but he’d learned to trust the feeling. He saw a sheriff ’s car approaching from the opposite direction. That in itself wouldn’t be out of the ordinary. But then the car slowed. Wolf could see the face of the man behind the wheel. The deputy was looking straight at him. When the deputy pulled his radio mike to his face and began talking, Wolf ’s vague sense of wrongness turned into a jolt of adrenaline as if an alarm bell had begun clanging in his head. The sheriff ’s car slowed a bit more, then sped up and drove away. Wolf turned in to the driveway. He saw an unfamiliar white van parked at the front steps.

  “God damn it,” he muttered. He considered turning and driving away at top speed, then rejected the idea. He could still put them off. There were things he needed before he could run.

  Two people were standing outside the van as he pulled up: a dark-haired young woman and a lanky black man with short graying hair. There was a TV camera rig on the ground next to him.

  As he got out, he noted the woman’s thick glossy black hair, the

  fineness of her features, the big dark eyes . . . then he noticed the microphone in her hand, and all that became insignificant. The man had raised the camera to his shoulders. Wolf saw the red light above the lens go on.

  “Mr. Sanders?” the woman asked.

  “Turn that thing off.” Wolf ’s voice was deadly calm. He held up a hand between himself and the lens. The cameraman deftly stepped to one side to keep Wolf
in the shot.

  The woman held up the mike. “Mr. Sanders,” she repeated, “I’m Gabriella Torrijos from Channel 12 NewsNow. Can you tell us what—”

  “I said turn that goddamn thing off!” he bellowed. He could see the cameraman’s grin. The bastard was enjoying himself. Wolf stepped back to the car and opened the door. As he ducked back inside, the woman tried again. “Mr. Sanders, can you tell us what connection you have with the kidnapping of the Powell brothers and the . . .” She trailed off as Wolf came up holding the Glock. The cameraman’s grin faded. Wolf swung the gun on him. “Turn. It. Off.”

  The red light went out. “Be cool, man,” the cameraman said. His voice shook slightly. “Just be cool.”

  “Take the tape out,” Wolf said. “Slowly.” As the cameraman set the camera down on the ground, he swung the gun back toward the woman. “Turn the mike off.”

  She stood there, wide-eyed, her mouth open as if frozen in midword.

  “I don’t want to shoot you,” Wolf said in that same deadly calm voice. “But I really don’t want to be on television.”

  “Yeah, I’m kinda gettin’ that,” the cameraman said. “I got bad news, though.”

  Wolf swung the gun back to him. “What?” “There ain’t no tape. It’s all digital now.” “Fuck,” Wolf muttered. “Can you erase it?”

  “Yeah,” the cameraman said. He looked as if the words left a bad taste in his mouth.

  “Do it.”

  The cameraman sighed and bent down. He began fiddling with the camera. After a moment, he straightened back up. “Done,” he said. “Now what?”

  Wolf turned the gun on the woman. “Now,” he said. “You two are going to get back in that van and get the fuck off my property. I’ll keep the camera, just to make sure that there’s nothing on there.”

  “Okay,” the woman said. She had one hand up in a placating gesture. “Just please. Put the gun down.”

  Wolf shook his head. “Sorry,” he said. “I really wish I didn’t have to do this.”

  “Yeah, us, too,” the cameraman said. “C’mon, Gaby.” He was staring to move toward the truck when another vehicle appeared at the bottom of the driveway. All three of them turned to see the sheriff ’s cruiser slow, then stop.

  “Fuck,” Wolf spat. He could see a tall deputy with closecropped black hair getting out. The deputy’s gun was in his right hand.

  Wolf covered the distance between himself and the woman in a few quick strides. The deputy was yelling something. Wolf couldn’t make it out, but he got the gist. Put the gun down, step away, etc. He yanked the woman in front of him and put the gun to her head. She screamed. The deputy leveled his gun.

  “No closer!” Wolf yelled.

  The deputy called out again. This time Wolf could hear. “Put the gun down, sir!”

  “In the house,” Wolf ordered in a low voice. He began backing toward the door, keeping the woman between him and the deputy. The cameraman was just standing there. “Move!” Wolf snapped.

  The cameraman turned and looked at him. “Let her go, man,” he said. His voice sounded rusty. “Take me. C’mon. I’ll stay. But let her go.”

  “Sorry,” Wolf said. “I need all the insurance I can get.” He backed closer to the door. “You both come in with me, and I promise you this. No one gets hurt. I meant it when I said I don’t want to shoot anybody.” The man looked at him for another moment, then followed. “Get between us and the cop,” Wolf ordered. The deputy was back inside the car, on the radio. “We haven’t got a lot of time.”

  SHIT!” BUCKTHORN yelled. Blauner and Ross came piling out of the borrowed office in time to catch the full blast of his rage.

  “Your goddamned ‘dead’ agent just took a TV reporter and her cameraman hostage.” They glanced at each other in confusion.

  “We just got off the phone,” Ross said. “There’s a team on the way.”

  “Well, they’re going to be late for the party,” Buckthorn said. He stormed out and into the communications room. “I need all units,” he barked. “We’ve got a hostage situation, so we need full tac gear. Out at the Jacobs farm. Establish a perimeter. They know the drill.” At least I hope they remember, he thought. The department had done a training exercise dealing with a simulated hostage situation, but that had been a year and a half ago.

  “Ollie wants to know what he should do,” the dispatcher said. “Tell him to stay put. Don’t approach. Wait till I get there.” “Got it.” She began relaying the instructions in a tight, clipped voice. She, at least, was staying cool.

  THEY had made good time into the Raleigh-Durham airport. Steadman had abandoned the effort to get a chopper, after considering the cost versus the small time saved on what would be a relatively short hop. A pair of black Ford Tauruses sat on the tarmac near where they were debarking from the airplane. “Simmons, Harper,” Steadman said, pointing at one of the cars, “you take that one. Wolf, you’re with me. You’ve got the map?”

  “Yes, sir,” Kendra said. She was secretly relieved that she wouldn’t have to ride with Brett. It had been hard enough being on the plane with him. She could feel him staring at her from time to time, and she still didn’t know what to say. Everything was just happening too fast for her to sort out.

  The interior of the car was cooler than the heat on the tarmac, but not by much. Steadman started the car and cranked the AC up all the way. “So,” he said as he pulled out, “what’s with you and Harper?”

  Kendra gave him a startled look, then slumped into her seat with a resigned sigh. “Which one of us gave it away?”

  “Both of you,” Steadman said.

  She was relieved to see that he didn’t seem to be particularly angry. Then again, that was never his way. Steadman was a man who assessed situations rather than reacting by instinct or emotion. He gathered information, then calmly, some said coldly, planned and strategized, whether the situation was a case or a career move.

  “Harper couldn’t stop looking at you,” he went on, “and you wouldn’t look at him. That says one thing to me.”

  “Yeah. Okay,” said Kendra. “We’ve been dating.” “How serious are you?” Steadman asked.

  “That’s none of your—” She stopped. “Okay, I guess it is your business. It’s your team.”

  “Good.” He kept his eyes on the road. “You haven’t totally lost your objectivity.”

  “Yeah, well, I learned that from the best.”

  “Flattery won’t keep you from having to answer my question.” She sighed. “It’s pretty serious.” She was damned if she was going to tell him about the baby. That was strictly need-to-know, and right now, as much as she admired Steadman and as much as she knew she owed him, this was something only she needed to know.

  “Can you work with him?”

  She thought a moment. She knew her only hope of staying off her mentor’s shit list was total honesty. “It wouldn’t be my first choice,” she said, “but yeah. I can.”

  For the first time, he showed emotion. He sighed. “I can’t help you, Kendra,” he said, “if I don’t know what’s going on.”

  “I know, Pat,” she said, “and I’m sorry. It was my mistake.” He was silent. She went on. “I owe you a lot. You’ve been a big help to my career.”

  “You’re a good agent,” he said. “Possibly one of the best I’ve ever seen. I wouldn’t consider the directorship out of your reach.” He glanced at her, then back to the road. “But you’ve got to get your personal life under control.”

  She flushed with anger, hating herself for doing it. It was bad enough he was talking to her like a child, but letting herself react like one . . . When she answered, she kept her voice steady. “I know.” “I managed to contain the fallout over what happened with Tony the first time. Now . . .” He shook his head. “Well, we’ll see.”

  Holy shit, she thought. He’s worried. And if the situation could rattle SAC Patrick Steadman, then it damn sure worried her.

  Steadman’s cell phone rang. He snapped it open
with more force than was strictly necessary. That worried her even more. “Yes?” He listened for a long time, his face absolutely blank. Then he answered, “We’ll be there in a little under an hour.” He closed the phone. He didn’t look at Kendra.

  “What?” she said.

  “Tony just took a TV reporter and her cameraman hostage.”

  “WHAT ’S your name?” Wolf asked. He finished duct-taping the cameraman’s ankles to the arms of the antique dining chair he had dragged into the front hallway.

  “Howard,” the man said. “Howard Jessup.”

  “I’ll tell you this, Howard,” Wolf said. “That was pretty brave, offering yourself up like that.”

  “Just let the lady go, man,” Howard said. “How many hostages you need?”

  Wolf glanced at Gaby. She was sitting on the floor where he had put her, her back against the door. Her knees were drawn up to her chest. He could see her legs shaking in fear, see the whites of her eyes showing.

  “You’re not a hostage, Howard,” he said. “She’s a hostage. You’re a diversion.” He stepped out of the hallway for a second. When he came back, he was carrying a burlap sack. “Were you ever in the service, Howard?”

  Howard swallowed. “No,” he said.

  Wolf took an object out of the bag. “Okay. Let me tell you what this is.” He did.

  “Oh, shit,” Howard said.

  HE WENT in the house, sir,” the deputy told Buckthorn. “He took two people in with him. A man and a woman. Haven’t seen nothing since.”

  “Good work, Ollie,” Buckthorn said. Other cars were beginning to arrive, both the on-duty vehicles and the personal vehicles of off-duty officers who’d heard the news and were showing up to help. Buckthorn was pleased to see them deploying by the numbers, just as they’d practiced. They were arriving in good order, arming themselves with the rarely used assault weapons and Kevlar vests from their trunks, and forming a decent perimeter. Not bad, he thought to himself with savage satisfaction. He was acutely aware of the presence of the two FBI men, Blauner and Ross. Ross sat a few feet away in Buckthorn’s car, talking into his cell phone. Blauner stood a few feet away, not speaking. When they’d run their first practice session a year and a half ago, the State Bureau of Investigation had sent an instructor down to teach them the proper technique. The SBI man had been a patronizing little prick from Raleigh, and his barely concealed scorn had driven Buckthorn to drill his teams without mercy, till even the most gung-ho of the young guys had their tongues hanging out from exhaustion. Now that practice was paying off in front of the Feds.