by Misty Evans
On her second lap, Mitch appeared in the doorway. “What’s up?”
“I can’t believe it. An agent is dead because ATF let a straw buyer turn over an assault weapon. Isn’t this the thing we’re fighting against? I mean, for God’s sake! How the hell does ATF stand back and let thousands of weapons be turned over to criminals? Thugs? Murderers?” She waved her hands. “It’s so stupid. And Donaldson let Tommy walk right into this snake pit.”
“Because he’s a dickweed, Caroline.”
Oh, and here he went on the ‘Donaldson’ bender. Just what she needed. To get him started too. “Mitch! We all know he’s a dickweed. The problem is, he’s always been a dickweed that made sure not to put his agents in obvious danger. He’s a lot of things, but he’s FBI to his bones. I don’t see him sacrificing the lives of his people.”
Mitch shrugged. He was so pigheaded when it came to Donaldson that he refused to acknowledge her point. Fine. He didn’t need to. What did it matter when Tommy was dead? A good agent and his superiors put the weapon that killed him into a murderer’s hands.
Dear God.
She started pacing again. “We need to find out for sure who approved this operation. With all the secrecy, New Mexico ATF could be going rogue here.”
“Don’t tell me, we’re making a list.”
“Damned straight. Think about this. Who’s the federal law enforcement officer in each state?”
Mitch shrugged. “The U.S. Attorney.”
Caroline stopped walking and stared up at Mitch. “Who, in this case, is…?”
For three, maybe four seconds, Mitch stood staring out at the night, and Caroline waited. She knew him. Not just in a carnal way, but in all the ways that count when two people worked a dangerous job together. She’d learned his thought process, the way his mind ticked off ideas and filtered them. Come on, Mitch, you’ve got this.
In the darkness, with only the interior camper light illuminating him, she saw it, the recognition. That slight widening of his eyes before he snapped his fingers. There we go.
“Atkinson. Brother to…” he jiggled his fingers.
“Will Atkinson. The ATF agent who visited Marty. His brother is George, the U.S. Attorney for New Mexico.”
“The question is, does brother number one, the brother responsible for prosecuting federal cases, the one who can intercept weapons illegally transferred via a straw buyer or are part of a gun trafficking scheme, know that brother number two was strong-arming gun shop owners to let the guns walk?”
Brice appeared behind Mitch and Mitch stepped off the landing. “So, what? Now we have to dig up dirt on a U.S. Attorney?”
Caroline moved around Mitch to Brice. “Is it possible the U.S. Attorney in New Mexico didn’t know about this taskforce? ATF may be under Justice, but they don’t report to the New Mexico U.S. Attorney. He could be in the dark about what his brother, the ATF agent, was doing.”
“Seriously? You don’t think one brother knew what the other was doing?”
Mitch shrugged. “Could happen.”
Brice held up his phone. “Let’s ask Ethan. He’s so fired up, he’ll get right on it.”
Behind her, Mitch scraped his sneaker over the ground. “Before we get too deep into that, and discover this guy’s in on it and then we’re blown—let’s check him out. Ethan’ll know if he’s a stand-up guy. If he is, maybe Brice and I can talk to him.”
Caroline spun on him. “You’re insane! The second you step into his office, he’ll arrest you.”
“I can talk to him though,” Brice said. “Maybe I call him. Tell him I’m doing a follow-up post for my blog. See if he’ll comment. On or off the record.”
Caroline waved him off. “He won’t comment. I can guarantee that.”
“Yeah, but we may get a feel for what he knows. Or doesn’t know.”
“And,” Mitch said, “we can put some heat on his brother.”
The next morning, Mitch felt like he’d been run over. Twice. By a dump truck. He’d ended up sleeping on the camper floor instead of outside, but he might as well have slept on a bed of rocks. He’d tossed and turned, driven crazy by the ideas spinning in his head, and by the soft, sexy sounds Caroline made in her sleep. If only Brice hadn’t interrupted their late-night swim.
At least there was coffee. Mitch washed his face in the lake and stared out at the water. The previous night’s memories of Caroline naked on the shore made his cock twitch.
She was all business this morning, brushing her hair into a ponytail and making coffee while Brice went into town for food supplies. Too damn perky. Even with the perfect opportunity opening up for them, his guess would be she had no interest in picking up where they left off last night.
Nope. First thing on her list today was listening in when Brice called George Atkinson, the New Mexico U.S. Attorney. Mitch didn’t know whether to hope the guy did or didn’t know what his brother had been doing with ATF and the taskforce, but either way, he smelled a rat. A couple of them, in fact.
Tommy was killed with a gun the ATF let walk. No wonder there was a goddamn cover-up. And there was no freakin’ way he was letting them label Tommy a traitor just so they could save their own asses.
He tamped down the pain and anger, locking them away. His stomach growled. First thing on his list? Breakfast. A full stomach would help him focus when Brice made his call. He wished he could be there to study the attorney’s body language, but beggars—or in his case, fugitives—couldn’t be choosers.
After that, Mitch wanted to go back and visit Maria. Even empty, his gut was never wrong, and since yesterday, it had been nagging at him about her. She knew more than she had let on. Good Cop and Bad Cop needed another go at her, especially now that they knew Jesse had been Tommy’s informant. Had Jesse pulled the trigger? He’d bought the gun that killed Tommy, and then disappeared after Tommy’s murder. Odds were, he was either responsible or dead. If he wasn’t the one who set up Tommy, then someone, possibly whoever Jesse was buying for, had discovered Tommy was FBI and that Jesse was feeding him info. In that case, Jesse was either running for his life or had already met his Maker.
Both options sucked.
The sound of the truck returning made Mitch turn. Sure enough, Brice hopped out, arms filled with grocery sacks. He looked as tired and strung out as Mitch felt.
Neither man spoke as they headed into the camper and began unloading the groceries. Caroline moved with her normal energized efficiency, bumping into Mitch more than she avoided him, breaking out donuts and milk.
“No fruit?” she quizzed Brice. “What about yogurt?”
He gave her a tired look. “Really? That’s what you’re worried about this morning?”
She narrowed her eyes, and Mitch thought, oh shit, but she held her tongue, and made work of handing Mitch a napkin. She’d definitely requested fruit and yogurt when she’d handed over cash to help with the cost of the food. She’ll nail him later, just watch.
But maybe she wouldn’t. If Mitch had said that to her, she would have laid him out. Brice didn’t have a history with her, and Caroline, for all her attitude was deep down a team player.
They ate in silence, then Caroline sat back and eyed Brice. “Eight o’clock. Ready to make that call?”
Brice googled the number, dialed and punched the speaker button. A receptionist answered and transferred Brice, not once but twice. He was put on hold. Finally, after explaining who he was and that he was trying to reach George Atkinson, he landed the man’s voice mail.
Caroline sat next to Mitch on the bench seat, her left leg bouncing and whipping her nervous energy around like a downed power line. Unable to stand it, Mitch put a hand on her leg to stop its movement as Brice left a short message. Nothing too detailed, but Brice mentioned Will, which should snag the man’s attention.
Then they waited.
And waited.
Caroline spent her time pacing outside, keeping the camper door open so she could hear the phone ring. Brice played a zombi
e game on his phone. Mitch kicked back, closed his eyes, and napped.
Bbrrring. The sound startled him out of a nightmare about Tommy and guns and dead bodies lining a sidewalk.
“It’s him,” Brice announced. Mitch and Caroline filed inside to their places at the table and Brice hit the call button. “Hello?”
A man’s deep voice came from the speaker. “This is U.S. Attorney Atkinson. To whom am I speaking?”
“You can call me Hawkeye. Like I said in my message, I run the First Amendment Patriot blog where I recently exposed a government cover-up of the death of FBI Agent Thomas Nusco. Have you read it?”
The guy chuckled. “Yes, Mr. Hawkeye. I’ve read your accusations. Quite entertaining. I’m sure your conspiracy fans enjoy the propaganda.”
A muscle in Brice’s jaw jumped. Mitch was right there with him in the annoyed department. “Yeah, well, I’m doing a follow-up post,” Brice said. “I’ve uncovered evidence that members of an interagency taskforce were told to look the other way, and gun shop owners were bullied into keeping their mouths shut regarding hundreds, if not thousands of weapons allowed to walk into the hands of criminals. One of my sources claims your brother was involved. Care to comment?”
There was a slight pause, not long enough for Mitch to tell whether the guy was forming a lie or not. “My brother is an ATF undercover operative, Mr. Hawkeye, and I’m the New Mexico U.S. Attorney. Yes, I have knowledge of the various operations that ATF, DEA, ICE, and Homeland have in motion in my state, but I don’t hold my brother’s hand while he’s working. I can, however, assure you that I know nothing about these accusations or this so-called evidence you have. I strongly suggest you use care when posting such allegations on your blog.”
“It’s a free country,” Brice said.
“It is that, but there are far more real patriots than false ones. You might step on toes with this type of nonsense.”
Was he insinuating First Amendment Patriot was a joke? Seemed that way to Mitch. Must have to Caroline as well because that leg started its rapid motion again, up-down-up-down-up-down.
Brice, however, grinned, rolling his eyes like he’d heard it all before. “Do you know anything about the straw buying, Mr. Atkinson? Anything about the claims your brother, Will, was blackmailing gun shop owners to keep quiet about the straw purchases or lose their licenses?”
“No, sir, I do not, and if you’ll excuse me, I have more important matters to attend to.”
The line went dead.
Brice leaned forward and yelled at the phone. “It’s Hawkeye. Just Hawkeye, you douchebag.” He glanced up at Mitch and Caroline. “The guy has probably never read a Marvel Comic in his life.”
Hawkeye was a comic book superhero that had recently had a resurgence in popularity thanks to the Avenger movies. ”Apparently, not,” Mitch snorted.
Caroline looked like she wasn’t listening. She was off in Caroline’s World, making her lists and analyzing every word good ol’ George had uttered.
“Well?” Mitch said to her. “Is he lying? Trying to cover up for Will?”
Caroline shook her head. “Can’t be sure. He didn’t sound defensive so much as irritated. Like he’s not worried, because the blog, in his mind, isn’t credible. If the source isn’t credible, neither is the information.”
Brice pulled out his laptop. “I’m writing that follow-up post anyway. When we go back to town, I’ll upload it to my blog and once again list my email. My conspiracy fans may love the ‘propaganda’”—he made air quotes around the word—“but they’re incredibly connected. Someone knows something here in New Mexico, mark my words.”
Mitch touched Caroline’s hand, drawing her attention. “We should go back to Maria’s.”
“I think so too. She could be in danger.”
“She could be.” He slid out from the table and offered her a hand up. “She could also be holding out on us about her brother.”
“Oh, I’m sure of that.” Caroline took his hand and stood. “Let me get my briefcase.”
“Are you going to be Good Cop or Bad Cop this time?” he teased as they left the RV. Her ponytail swung from her confident walk to the truck.
She gave him a grin over her shoulder. “Maybe a little of both.”
Chapter Fourteen
In the blazing midday heat, Caroline plucked at the front of her blouse, pulling it from her sticky skin. Giving in to the heat, she’d ditched her suit jacket. Maintaining her FBI persona was crucial, but she’d rather not take a heat stroke during this freak October heat wave.
She climbed the brick steps to Maria’s house, noted the broken edge she’d spotted on their prior trip and sidestepped it. Better not to sprain an ankle or blow out her knee while fumbling in a case she had no business fumbling in.
At the top of the steps, she waited for Mitch and Brice to reach the landing, then nodded. “Mitch, don’t get crazy. Please. Let me handle this.”
He offered up one of those maddening grins of his and Caroline knew without a doubt reining this man in would be impossible. But really, didn’t the good girl in her, the obsessively controlled one who thrived on order and strategy, sort of love the uninhibited chaos Mitch created?
Unfortunately, yes.
She sighed and banged the cheap metal doorknocker. No answer. Caroline cocked her head and listened. Feet shuffling. Just inside the door. “Maria, this is Special Agent Foster. We have information about Jesse. Please open the door.”
Mitch waggled his eyebrows. Chaos.
A second later the door swung open and the petite brunette stood there, one hand on her hip. She wore hospital scrubs adorned with pink pigs and a scowl mean enough to frighten a hardened gangbanger.
“Hello, Maria.”
“You people need to stop coming here.”
Not likely. At least not until they located Jesse. “Maria, we have information about Jesse. Information you’ll want to hear.”
Maria huffed as if Caroline had saddled two hundred pounds on her. “Fine. I’ll give you ten minutes. Come inside, though. I don’t want any trouble, and in this neighborhood, someone will recognize you as law enforcement.”
Caroline followed Maria into the house toward an overstuffed blue sofa that looked relatively new in comparison to the scarred floors. Behind her, Mitch and Brice entered, then closed and locked the door.
Maria didn’t invite them to sit. Caroline couldn’t blame her. Whatever Jesse was into, straw buying might have been the least of it, and his sister obviously didn’t want to suffer for his sins.
“What about Jesse?” Maria asked.
“Were you aware Jesse had a relationship with FBI Special Agent Tommy Nusco?”
Instantly, something in Maria’s cheek twitched. Whether the reaction was due to Tommy’s name or the fact that her brother had a relationship with law enforcement, Caroline couldn’t know.
Not yet.
A cat meowed from somewhere near the back of the house and Caroline was grateful for the distraction in the otherwise silent room. “Maria?”
“I don’t know what my brother does in his spare time.”
Interesting. And also not the question asked.
“Maria,” Mitch said, “we’re not screwing around. You need to be straight with us and you need to do it quick.”
The woman flinched and stepped back, literally, moving away from them. Terrific job alienating a potential witness. When Caroline got Mitch alone, she’d…she’d…she didn’t know what she’d do, but it would be damned ugly.
For now, she skinned him with a hard stare that would hopefully remind him he’d agreed to let her handle this. In typical Mitch and his balls-to-the-wall fashion, he stared right back.
Fine.
She’d play.
“Mitch,” she said, “why don’t you two head out to the truck and follow-up on that lead from this morning? Leave us girls alone. Hmm?”
Mitch rolled his eyes.
She offered up a syrupy sweet smile. “Please.”
<
br /> He shifted his gaze to Maria, who retreated another step. Pretty soon she’d go right out the back door.
Finally, Sensible Mitch, the alter ego that showed up only in desperate situations, appeared and headed for the door. “Sure. Whatever you say.”
The two men left and Maria locked the door behind them. “Thank you. His name is Mitch? He makes me nervous.”
“He’s harmless.”
Unless you screw his brains out. Then, like the diehard shoppers at the mall, he’s a crack house you never want to leave.
Caroline cleared her throat. “Maria, it’s just us now. The guys are gone. I’m an FBI agent trying to figure out what happened to our friend, Tommy Nusco. He was a good man and he’s dead. Not only from a gun your brother purchased, but now we find out your brother was Tommy’s informant.”
Maria stayed silent, not an ounce of surprise on her face. The cat meowed again. “I don’t know anything about that.”
Her gaze wandered to the stairs. Upstairs.
Prickles of unease poked at the back of her neck and Caroline angled sideways toward the stairs, looked up. Nothing. What was that about?
“No one is here,” Maria said.
Maybe. Maybe not. Caroline rested her hand on the butt of her gun just in case. “I think you know something about Jesse being an informant and you’re afraid to tell me. Why are you afraid?”
The woman dipped her head and closed her eyes. “Please,” she said. “You have to leave. I just finished a fourteen hour shift and I’m tired. I need sleep. Desperately.”
“Why are you afraid?”
“You need to go.”
“Tell me why you’re afraid.”
Finally, Maria looked up. “Because someone was in my house while I was at work last night. You people showed up yesterday and someone came in my house last night. Okay?”
An intruder? Now they were getting somewhere. “Do you know who it was?”
“No.”
“Did they break in?”
“The window in my bedroom has a screen missing. They came through there.” She pointed at a floor plant by the base of the stairs. Some kind of cactus big enough to trip over. “Plus, there was dirt on the floor. Like someone knocked over the plant and tried to clean it up, but missed some dirt.”