“I’m sure it’ll be probation and a fine,” she whispered back. “It wasn’t your pot, and you’ve never been in trouble before. Now hush until they call you.”
After ten long minutes, the judge came in. The black robe intimidated Luke, but the man himself was a shrimp, five-seven at most and scrawny, with graying hair. The female clerk stood, so everyone else did too. Judge Bidwell called the session to order and told everyone to sit.
The clerk summoned the first defendant. “Jared Wilson, please step forward.”
Were they going in reverse alphabetical order or randomly? Luke just wanted to get it over with quickly.
The man on the front bench stepped forward, and the clerk read the charges: public drunkenness and vandalism. The judge fined him fifteen hundred dollars and sentenced him to three months in jail, suspended, with probation. Jared Wilson thanked the judge, and he and the old woman walked out.
Luke breathed a sigh of relief. This guy was going easy on people.
“Luke Maddox,” the clerk called.
He stood, legs shaking, and walked to stand in front. “Yes, Your Honor.” His mother had coached him to say that.
“You’re charged today with possession of ten ounces of marijuana and intent to distribute, both felonies.” The judge’s voice was bigger than his body.
The word felony made Luke’s heart skip a beat. “It wasn’t my pot, Your Honor. I’m not a dealer.” It was all he could say. Even though Ryan hadn’t done the right thing and admitted he’d brought the pot, Luke wasn’t going to rat on him.
“The report says it was in your possession. And don’t speak unless I ask you a question.” The judge was clearly irritated.
Luke wanted to explain, but was afraid the truth would make him sound like a thief as well as a pusher.
“I have no sympathy for drug users or dealers, because they all prey on innocent victims. Ten ounces is way more than enough for personal consumption, so I find it probable you planned to sell it. In addition, the young man arrested with you is only seventeen. So I find you guilty of the charge of corrupting a minor as well.”
A pause.
“I hereby sentence you to ten years in prison. Bailiff, please take Mr. Maddox into custody.”
It slammed him like a blow to the chest. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t argue. The uniformed guard stepped toward him and grabbed his elbow. “But it wasn’t mine,” he called out, his voice weak, as the guard pulled his hands back to cuff him.
As he walked out of the courtroom, Luke glanced back at his mother. Her hand covered her mouth as she sobbed. It was the last time he saw her.
The wheels touched the tarmac and the plane bounced a little, jarring Luke back to the present. Abby woke up in the back and sputtered, “Where are we?”
“Southern Virginia. We’re picking up Aaron.”
“I knew that,” she snapped. His girlfriend was still irritated with him for inviting Tara to join. The inner circle had formed all at once a year earlier when they were active in JRN. But the national group’s failure to accomplish anything had motivated him and his friends to try more aggressive tactics. They’d only brought in one other person since, and Aaron had moved in with them and kept their secrets. But he was too sick to go out on most missions. The group needed someone like Tara, who had energy and ideas. And damn, she was sexy.
“What if Tara can’t handle her assignments?” Abby said, going right back to arguing about his decision. “What if she freaks out when she learns what we have planned?” Abby had been complaining since they left Utah.
“We’ll test her. Once Tara is dirty, she can’t tell anyone.” Luke regretted getting sexually involved with Abby, but she was passionate and smart and willing to risk everything for their cause. How could he not love her? He just wasn’t in love. Whatever that meant.
The plane came to a stop near the hangar, where Aaron was waiting with a small carry-on bag. The analyst was thin everywhere, even his hair, and had a protruding brow. He looked older than forty, even without his glasses. “I told you he’d be waiting.” Luke opened the door and climbed out of the plane to stretch his legs.
Aaron shuffled over. “Thanks for the lift. I hate flying commercial.”
As they walked to the Cessna, Aaron said, “I’ve been analyzing data and looking at targets, and I know what we should hit next.”
“I’m listening.”
“Prison supply trucks. It’s time to take the fight to the ground.”
Chapter 3
Thursday, Oct. 2, 11:37 a.m., Washington DC
Dallas rolled out of bed, checked the time, and cursed. Last night, her second flight had been delayed, and she hadn’t made it back until a couple of hours ago. Now she only had a few minutes to get downtown before Agent Drager texted her about their meetup. She pulled on yoga pants and a long-sleeve T-shirt, brushed her teeth, and headed out. She would grab coffee later.
The Acura she’d leased was parked in the basement of the rental complex in Georgetown near the university, so she trotted toward the stairs. At the last minute, she changed her mind and headed for the nearby bus stop. She hated driving in DC, and finding a place to park was a nightmare! Phoenix traffic was bad, but at least it moved, and the city’s grid was easy to navigate. DC was a mess of diagonal streets, crowded roundabouts, and main arteries that stopped and started elsewhere. But the bus and metro system were both great, and the city was amazingly clean. Yet the air smelled a little dank, like the slow-moving river that cut through it.
Twenty minutes later, she climbed off at the intersection of M and 7th, and blinked in the bright warm sun. Fall was late again this year. Thirsty and irritated, she walked three blocks to a coffee shop, ordered a cup to go, and waited for Drager’s text.
Finally, it came: Go into Midtown Cleaners, walk behind the counter, and enter the red door.
Another few minutes, and she stood outside the dry cleaner business, one of many on the first floor of a red-brick building. Out of habit, she had glanced around while she walked, but no one had followed her. And why would they? She didn’t know anyone in DC, except a few people from Justice Reform Now. The legitimate organization was national and had thousands of members, many of whom were here in the capital. The clandestine nature of their meeting was to be sure no one from either activist group ever saw her with Drager. She’d been involved with JRN since she’d moved to DC, so some locals knew her now.
Inside, the smell of hot chemicals assaulted her, and dozens of suits and dresses hung on a room-sized conveyor system. Did people really still dry-clean their clothes? A middle-aged woman behind the counter greeted her. Dallas nodded, rounded the counter, and walked toward the red door at the end of the short hall. What was this place?
Down a flight of concrete stairs, another door opened into a little cafe with booths along the sidewalls, and a short counter-service in the back. Only five customers, all men, three in dark suits and two older guys at a table in golf shirts. Did the bureau run this place?
Drager, in the last booth, waved her over. Under sagging skin, a thick nose, and weary eyes, his once-handsome face could still be seen.
“Hey, what is this place?” she asked, scooting into the booth. The previous time, they’d met in a backroom display of the National Art Gallery. They’d had little to discuss then, and she suspected the point of the meeting had been to build trust. She still didn’t have much to report.
“It’s a private café run by a retired agent.” One corner of Drager’s mouth turned up. “He worked undercover most of his career and likes the clandestine stuff too.”
An old guy in a black T-shirt and white apron shuffled up to the table. “Hey, pretty lady, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”
“Thanks.” The owner/cook smelled like burgers and fries, and her stomach growled. “Do you have a menu?”
“Nope. Just tell me what you want.”
She hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday—if you didn’t count airport cashews—so sh
e ordered a grilled ham and cheese and a cup of coffee. Drager tapped his cup. “I’ll have the same.”
When the old guy left, Drager said, “I’ve got bad news.”
Please don’t cancel the assignment. “What’s going on?”
“A retired judge named J.D. Bidwell is dead.”
Dallas scrambled to place the name but couldn’t. “Was he murdered?”
“Beaten to death with a tire iron.” Drager raised his eyebrows. “MPD is handling the case, but I’ve asked to sit in on their task force meetings.”
“How does his death connect to my assignment?”
“Bidwell is the Virginia judge who sentenced Luke Maddox to ten years in prison. So I think Maddox is a primary suspect.”
That was worrisome. She’d known Luke was bitter, but he’d never mentioned going after the judge. “If it was a grudge killing, any of the ex-cons Bidwell sent to prison could have done it.”
“Maybe.” Drager gave a shrug. “But we know Maddox is aggressively seeking justice, and you overhead him say ‘terminate.’ That’s why you’re on this assignment.”
In getting to know Luke, she’d forgotten that part of the overheard conversation. The fact that her target could be a killer sent a cool ripple of fear through her. But it didn’t change anything. “It’s good that I’m about to work my way in. The inner circle may have more hits planned, and we need to stop them.”
“I hoped you’d see it that way.”
Her thoughts came back to the murder. “When did Bidwell die? Maddox was in Utah with me yesterday.”
“A parking attendant found his body this morning, and they think he died in the middle of the night.
Luke could have done it. “I made it back by three this morning, even with a delayed flight, so in a private plane, Maddox probably arrived before midnight.”
“Or one of his activists could have carried out the murder, while Maddox went to Utah for an alibi.” Drager’s mouth tightened. “But a beating like that is personal, and I’d bet a month’s pay Maddox is guilty.”
But the murder seemed like it could be a setback to Luke’s primary cause. Dallas kept the thought to herself.
Drager mistook her silence. “Maddox is dangerous, and you can back out if you want.”
Would he have said that to a male operative? “I told you, I’m in.”
“Good.” Drager put a hand in his pocket, then slipped her a tiny device. “GPS. I want you to keep it with you. The inner circle seems pretty mobile, and I need to know where you are at all times.”
As much as she wanted the security of that level of backup, it was risky. “What if they scan me before letting me into their base camp?”
“You think they’re that sophisticated? Or paranoid?”
“Yes. Cree is a hacker, and I’ve heard them talk about someone named Aaron who’s a tech whiz. I don’t want to take the risk.”
“It’s your call.”
“Besides, I bought a smartphone in Tara’s name.” The bureau hadn’t approved the expense, but she couldn’t stand the cheap phones for personal use. Dallas wrote down the number and slid it over to him. “I know you’ll never call me on this one, but you can track my location.” They would only talk on burner phones that had no names or personal information associated with them. It was the only way to protect her cover.
Drager’s eyes contracted until he was squinting. “Have you thought about what you’ll do if they ask you to help them commit an act of sabotage?”
Her jaw tightened. This came up often in undercover work, especially for agents who went deep into biker and drug gangs. She’d faced it before too, but snorting cocaine to keep her cover had been no real sacrifice. “It depends on what they have planned and how close we are to making an arrest.”
“It’s your choice, but you may have to defend it in court.” Drager reached into his briefcase and handed her a small prescription bottle. “This is Rohypnol. If you get into a jam, you can use it to put someone else under. Or make yourself pass out, if you need to get left behind. But you didn’t get it from me.”
Relieved, she pocketed the bottle. “Thanks.” Where was their food? She was starving.
Drager drained his coffee cup. “If you have intel and can’t contact me directly, post a comment on the Real Food blog, and I’ll start an online chat with you. I’ll send a list of code words tonight.”
“Okay. But I should be able to text or call on my case phone with specific details of their plans.”
The old guy brought their sandwiches, set them down with a bottle of mustard, and walked away. Drager pushed his plate to the side and leaned forward. “We want to know the source of their funding too.”
“Cree Songchild’s family has money.”
“That’s an alias. The plane he flies is owned by the American Tradition Foundation, which is funded mostly by the Morrison family.” Drager rubbed his eyes, as if they hurt. “And they aren’t liberal. Whoever is bankrolling the inner circle knows what they’re up to and may even be orchestrating it. I want to track the cash.”
“You think Maddox is taking orders from someone?”
“Maybe. Get in there and find out. If we don’t cut off the money, the donor will just find another foot soldier to do the dirty work.”
“Consider it done.”
Chapter 4
Thursday, Oct. 2, 3:55 p.m.
Back in the DC field office, Drager entered the conference room and found Agent Wunn seated on the right side of the electronic case board. Damn. Why did she have to be so early? He needed to sit in that spot to compensate for the blind spot in his left eye. No one in the bureau knew about the tumor causing the damage, and he didn’t intend to let anyone find out. At least not until he could retire with full benefits.
“Good afternoon, sir.” Wunn didn’t believe in smiling. Still, she was competent, dedicated, and easy to get along with. Nice to look at too, but that wasn’t why he wanted her on his team. It was just a bonus.
Drager raised his hand in greeting. “Hey. Would you mind moving? I prefer to sit there.”
“No problem.” Wunn gathered her things, including coffee, and scooted over.
“Thanks.” Drager took a seat, wishing he’d brought his thermos of decaf. It still had caffeine, but nowhere near as much as the regular stuff, which gave him dehydration headaches and interfered with his sleep. But so did being an agent. He’d rest when he retired.
“I heard about Judge Bidwell’s death,” Wunn said. “Are we going to be involved in the investigation?”
“It’s a cooperative effort with me sitting on their task force. That’s why—”
Rick Manning strode in, looking self-satisfied. Agent Two. The name popped into his head every time the little troublemaker and Agent Wunn were in the same room. Drager had sent Manning to the judge’s crime scene as soon as he’d heard about the murder. He’d wanted to see it for himself, but he had to stay focused on their UC agent.
“I saw the body right before the medical examiner hauled it way,” Manning said, still standing. “Brutal. I have a lot to report, but none of it is particularly helpful.” He glanced back and forth between Drager and Wunn. “Do we know where Luke was last night or this morning?”
“Yesterday morning, he was in Utah, rock-swinging with our UC agent and most of the inner circle.” Drager motioned for Manning to sit. This was his task force meeting. “Maddox was there until about two, along with Abby Gleeson and Cree Songchild. They flew back in a private plane, which stopped at a small airport outside of Emporia, Virginia around nine thirty last night, then landed at Centreville right after ten.” Drager had spent the last hour tracking down Songchild’s flight details.
“That leaves Maddox plenty of time to get to the parking garage,” Wunn said.
Manning’s smugness faded. “There are no prints on the tire iron and no security cameras in that area of the garage. MPD has its work cut out on this one.”
Drager asked, “When are they doing the autopsy?�
��
“Tomorrow morning.” Manning sipped his bottled water, then commented, “There are hundreds of defendants who had motive, and they all need to be checked out. MPD isn’t even focused on Maddox because he has no history of violence.”
“Maybe our UC can get Maddox to talk about it,” Wunn suggested.
“Not likely, but I’ll ask her to try.” Drager needed to update them on their progress. “Dallas has been invited to a meeting of the inner circle tomorrow around five. She knows it’s a house south of Fairfax Station, and that’s all.”
“A breakthrough!” Manning would have high-fived him if he’d been sitting closer.
Drager grabbed the keyboard in the middle of the table and tapped the space bar. The case board with their notes lit up. “We’ll soon know the names of everyone in the inner circle. Dallas thinks there’s only one or two more she hasn’t met.” He keyed in the Virginia location and meeting time. It wasn’t enough.
“Will she have a GPS?” Wunn asked, echoing his concern.
“I gave her a device, but she thinks they’ll scan her and doesn’t want to risk it.” Drager had to let it be her call. “She has a smartphone though, so we should be able to track her.”
“Once she’s inside, we’ll know what they’re plotting.” Manning rubbed his hands together in classic eagerness.
The door opened and Special Agent Garrick stepped in. “I just heard about Judge Bidwell’s murder.” Their boss didn’t sit down. “Was Luke Maddox sentenced in his court in Virginia?”
“Yes, he’s our primary suspect. MPD doesn’t see it that way though.”
“You have to nail him.” Agent Garrick’s downturned mouth twisted in frustration. “We can’t let ex-cons take out judges. We need to send a very public message that we won’t tolerate it.”
The Trap (Agent Dallas 3) Page 2