The Widow (Federal Hellions Book 1)

by Gray Gardner

  Death was imminent.

  Whenever the Colombians work you over you never know how long it will last. When they finish after a few hours and leave you in a heap on the floor you know that they aren’t even close to being done. When they tie your hands and hang them on a hook, leaving you dangling with only your wish for death to come quickly, then you know their work is nearly complete. The end.

  She was hanging on the hook by the coarse rope that bound her hands, alone in a bare steel room, completely empty as if its only purpose was for torture. Blood dripped off of her fingers and dribbled down her arms and body. Her ribs on her left side were broken. One might have punctured a lung because she felt blood bubbling in her throat and in her mouth and could feel it running down her chin. Of course, that could also be from the sudden loss of a molar that, from what she could see out of her good eye, was on the floor a few feet away from her.

  Then there was the worry. As if the brutality wasn’t enough, it was torturous to think about Ashton, and if she’d gotten out okay. When Dr. Byrd had presented her to the Colombians at the docks, he’d brought Ashton along, too. The reps for the supplier gladly took George and exchanged some words in private, then let Byrd and Ashton go. She couldn’t be safe if she was near that asshole. And as she leaned her head back and stared at the dim fluorescent light swaying above her head, she knew there was nothing she could do about it.

  They were on a ship. One of those clever floating labs, probably. Horns sounded in the distance. She could feel the slow rock from side to side. And she had a pretty good idea of where they were heading, too. Showing up at a Colombian port with the body of an American drug enforcement agent would earn these suppliers the respect of the other cartels and the entire smuggling community.

  She just hoped that her friends wouldn’t try and do anything stupid, like attempt to rescue her, and get themselves killed. The Colombians were expecting some kind of attack. They wanted her friends to show up.

  Her friends were so important to her. When Ralph had died and left her alone in a tiny shotgun apartment in DC, she’d felt lost. When she joined the DEA as a financial consultant, she felt a little less like dying every day. When her promotion went through and she joined Katrina Nelson in the Intelligence Division, she knew she had a purpose again. It wasn’t until she’d chanced upon Baylor Burton and Ellie Darby that she realized she had just been existing.

  They’d shown her friendship, loyalty, and above everything else, life. They were fun and exceptional and though it was very difficult for them, had shown that they cared about her. She’d never cared about friends the way she cared about them.

  Then there was Conrad Thomas. She could only imagine the most attractive quality he’d ever found in her was mystery, and now that that was gone there was no way he’d still be interested. She was interested in him, though. He was smart and kind and funny. He cared about other people above himself, though he didn’t even realize it. And as her daily logs had reported to the entire DOJ, he was hot. He was the first person who had made her even think about dating again. And if she was honest with herself, her feelings for him were well beyond caring. She was falling in love with him. It just wasn’t fair.

  Byrd, Howard, and the cartel had put her in a stranglehold. She had no choice but to go with them and allow them to capture her. And torture her. She was just glad they’d moved her to the hook. She’d seen pictures and shaky video in briefings at the DOJ. The end was coming. The Colombians were about done with her.

  They were actually surprised that first, the undercover agent foiling their plans was a girl, and second, that she was still alive. She suspected other agents they’d worked over had initiated rule number three: Death before disclosure. And she knew exactly where that cyanide capsule was—right next to her back up Smith and Wesson law-enforcement-issued 1911 in the top drawer next to her bed in her apartment. Damn it.

  The door in the dark corner of the room clanked.

  She didn’t know where she mustered the strength from, but she suddenly decided to battle for her life. She somehow dropped from the hook, killed the man trying to slice the knife across her throat, and limped out of the room as quickly as she could with all of the broken bones in her body. Her good eye caught the C4 wired throughout the ship, a failsafe for these mobile labs. So that was it. She’d take everyone out. Herself, too.

  Hobbling along and up some stairs, she suddenly found herself on the port’s deck in the dead of night, and in the spotted lighting she saw an inflatable lifeboat right in front of her, as well as the intertwined wires connecting all of the explosives. Could it really be that easy? Waves smashed her backwards and she wiped the salty water out of her eyes as she regained her footing. Voices came from the darkness. Waves rocked the ship. She hesitated for only half a second.

  She yanked the cord to inflate the raft and jerked her arm upwards just as everyone barreled up the stairs. The wire snapped and she leapt backwards into the dark abyss of the Atlantic, the instantly inflated boat shielding her from the blast that followed.

  Elizabeth Darby stood in front of the conference table of the large windowless room. The walls were lined with folding chairs and there wasn’t an empty seat in the DOJ assembly room. She clenched her fists as she looked up at the man leading the hearing. His dark hair matched his dark suit and she wondered if his soul would correspond.

  “Can you repeat the question, please?” she asked through clenched teeth, strawberry blonde hair pulled tightly in a ponytail.

  The room was as still as a painting as they watched her. It wasn’t everyday they dealt with black ops, but the most fascinating thing about her was that she looked more like a girl scout than a cold-blooded assassin.

  “Of course. You single-handedly funded the recovery of bodies and cargo on the ship called ‘La Fantasma Negra’ heading for Colombia just about two weeks ago. You had firsthand knowledge of who and what was on board. This, of course, was after you crashed your helicopter into the water and spent federal money being recovered by the SEALs. What I’m asking, though, is if you can account for all of the illicit controlled substances that were known to have been on board and brought down with the ship.”

  Her blood boiled as she slammed her hands down on the table top. “The only reason I had firsthand knowledge about the ship’s cargo wasn’t because my friend Jane George told me. It was Jane George. She was the cargo I was after! But since you’ve asked so nicely, I can account for every ounce of cocaine and heroin we recovered and also four of the world’s most deadly and most infamous suppliers! You can thank Jane George for the impairment of that cartel!”

  “And, where is she?”

  Darby took a breath and looked down at the dirty tiled floor before she spoke. Was he joking? Wasn’t this supposed to be about how Jane was a hero? Wasn’t this supposed to be a hearing about which medals to honor her with? “We only recovered seven bodies from the ship’s crew and manifest in the wreckage. Hers wasn’t one of them.”

  People shifted around in their seats as she sat down, and Baylor Burton stood up from their designated section at the end of the long table.

  “We didn’t call you, Agent Burton.”

  “Suck my balls, Agent Welter,” she said, patting Darby on the back. “You’ll listen to every damn word I have to say and you’ll listen right now. Agent George was a decorated member of the Justice Department and deserves our gratitude. She paid the ultimate price to help people she doesn’t—didn’t—even know.”

  “And yet,” Agent Welter continued, “there is still a student missing from St. Patrick’s.”

  “She did her job,” Burton growled, stepping forward.

  “Her job was to collect Intel, not waste federal money for an international rescue and recovery mission!” Agent Welter shouted, leaning forward.

  “She saved lives!” Darby shouted, leaping out of her seat. “And the only reason the SEALs had to come in is because my husband is a terrible pilot!”

  The room tensed. Pete
rson rolled his eyes and rubbed his forehead. His wife was awfully cute, but somehow always seemed to overshare.

  “Well,” Welter snarled, “we’re no closer to nailing the FARC than we were before, so it was all for nothing.”

  In less than a second Darby had her pistol out, aimed right at Agent Welter’s head on the other end of the full conference table. Everyone sucked in their breath and remained perfectly still.

  “How did you get in here with that?” he asked, swallowing hard as he looked at her incredulously. He eyed the door, which was guarded with armed men on the outside—not the inside.

  Her hand squeezed the Beretta. Agent Welter was a bumbling wimp who took pleasure in accounting for funds and no pride in the agents who actually brought justice through his doors. He’d have to choose his next words carefully or she wasn’t sure what she’d do.

  “I don’t care who you work for, you can’t have that in here,” Agent Welter said, trying not to sound as squeaky as he felt. He’d call her by name but again, no in the room had clearance to know it. She was simply Black Ops Agent #1.

  She fired, and a tiny black hole suddenly appeared in the leather backrest of his chair, inches from his face. The silenced weapon still rang loudly throughout the room, causing everyone to break into a worried sweat. He closed his eyes and caught his breath, carefully calculating his next move. He held his hands up slowly. Everyone else did, too.

  “Oh shit,” Baylor mumbled, glancing at Peterson and Connor, who were standing behind them. When Darby lost her temper, people died.

  “Jane George deserves nothing less than your admiration and respect. I will not have you speak about her like she was insignificant! Like she was some kind of criminal!”

  “All right,” he quickly said, looking down at the pistol in her hands. “I’ll add to the record that Agent George did everything in her power to obtain Intel and tried to save the lives of the students at St. Patrick’s Prep School.”

  “Which is above and beyond her job description,” Darby added, pulling the pistol up but not stuffing it back into her suit jacket.

  “Of course,” he nodded, bringing his hands down. “I will have to ask you to surrender your weapon, however. No one is allowed to bring them into these hearings. And frankly, you’re scaring everybody.”

  The room nodded, all empty handed and at the mercy of the angry little red head in front of them. Their weapons were all locked securely in their desks or a locker outside of the conference room.

  Shrugging, she looked back at her husband and friends, then unloaded and set the pistol on the table. Much to everyone’s surprise, her three companions began tossing various weapons onto the table as well. Magazines clattered on the tabletop as the four agents lifted pant legs and dug into their waistbands.

  “How did you all get past… never mind,” Agent Welter said, clearing his throat as the last knife clattered on the table top. These were four agents at work in covert operations, trained by the US government. They obviously could get anything they wanted past two guards and one measly metal detector.

  “Her burial?” Burton inquired, eyeing the agents in the room. It was hard for her to say that without tearing up. She knew death was a part of life, but she felt so close to Jane, and so empathetic towards her. She somehow felt responsible. Her hands trembled as she waited.

  “We’ll make a ruling,” Agent Welter nodded, pressing his sweaty hands on the table and trying to feign control. “But it doesn’t look good.”

  “You son of a bitch!” Burton yelled, lurching forward. In the blink of an eye she had one of the knives sitting on the table in her hands, arm drawn back to send it flying.

  Everyone jumped up at this point. Director Nelson, who had been brewing in self-pity in the corner, leapt from where she was quietly sitting and began yelling, pointing at Welter and slamming her fist into her hand. Burton and Darby were wrangled by their husbands, but it was Cramer who finally successfully ushered everyone out of the room until there was a ruling.

  “This is complete bullshit.” Nelson huffed, storming out of the building as Peterson held Darby’s arms and Connor held Burton against his chest.

  “She’ll be awarded a medal,” Cramer quietly said, looking at the concrete sidewalk as snow fell around them.

  “But will she be given a hero’s burial?” Burton choked, looking up from the safety of Connor’s embrace.

  “We’ll know soon enough,” Cramer nodded, turning and following Nelson across the street to their building.

  “How did we not get there in enough time?” Darby whispered, shaking her head.

  “A few minutes earlier and our helicopter would have been blown with the whole ship,” Peterson sighed, holding her face in his hand. “We did everything we could.”

  “It wasn’t enough,” she sighed, exhaling heavily. “We should have called in another favor.”

  “We had our own helicopter and an MI6 chopper out there and a SEAL in a Blackhawk,” Connor said, leading them towards a coffee shop on the corner. “If Baylor hadn’t called in that particular favor and Conrad’s friend hadn’t shown up, we’d be dead, too.”

  “This sucks,” Darby groaned, wiping her eyes. Their rescue had been no rescue at all. It wasn’t even a recovery. Along with the ship and half of its crew, Jane had been lost to the sea. It was very difficult to accept.

  They paused outside the coffee shop.

  “It’s about to get worse,” Burton choked, suddenly losing her voice.

  Conrad Thomas was jogging towards them. It looked like he hadn’t slept in days. He was unshaven and had obviously forgotten his coat. He stood in front of them in his half-unbuttoned pin striped shirt and wrinkled khaki pants.

  “So?” he asked, holding out his hands. He wasn’t allowed inside the Hoover building. He’d been waiting impatiently for hours. What little information he’d been told wasn’t enough. He had to know everything.

  “Let’s go inside,” Peterson offered, holding open the door to the coffee shop and looking sympathetically at the miserable man in front of him.

  “What does that mean?” Conrad asked defensively, stepping back. “Was it a ruling not in our favor? Why else do you want me to come somewhere with you? Why won’t you just tell me?”

  “There hasn’t been a ruling yet,” Connor said, as wind blew snowflakes at them. “Let’s go inside.”

  “I can’t.” He sighed, disappointed that no solution had been reached yet and wishing that he could stay. “School started back up. Dr. Byrd wants everyone in for a faculty meeting tonight so that we can strategize how to get the students to deal with the loss of Ashton Wynn. And Jane.”

  It was hard to watch him struggle like that. Darby felt bad for reassuring him that she’d bring George home. Burton felt bad that he hadn’t even been able to try and save her. And as for Ashton Wynn, no one could have known that’d she be on the ship, too.

  “Is Howard talking yet?” he asked, teeth clenched. The one good thing that had come out of this was that they’d caught Howard before he could hurt the rest of the kids, and that they’d gotten him to confess. The threat was gone.

  “Not that we know of,” Burton sighed. “And Nelson isn’t telling us where he’s being treated for his injuries. I’m pretty sure she thinks we’ll kill him.”

  “We are going to kill him,” Darby shrugged casually.

  “Later,” Burton nodded, eyeing Conrad.

  “I get first crack at him,” he mumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets and shuffling away on the snow-covered sidewalks. He looked so defeated. It wasn’t hard to tell how he felt about Jane. And he’d never gotten the chance to tell her.

  The four of them watched helplessly as he left. They had to spare their empathy, though. Once there was a ruling, they would have to do the hardest thing of all.

  Call Jane George’s parents.

  Then they could begin to make arrangements for the funeral—with nothing but an American flag and a shiny, empty casket to comfort her mother.<
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  You Found Me

  Conrad Thomas looked absolutely stunning in a black suit. He stood in front of the mirror and adjusted his expensive black tie, carefully tweaking his trimmed and tamed honey-golden curls every now and then.

  A guilty look befell his kind eyes. He cleared his throat as he stared straight ahead.

  “I’m afraid. Can you believe that? Conrad Thomas, best-selling author, PhD, voted best-looking in my class at Yale, and I’ve always been terrified of you. I was afraid that you’d hurt me. That’s it. Little Jane George. I was terrified that you’d be the death of me, so to speak. And now I’m afraid of living without you.”

  He pulled out a pistol and suddenly looked like 007.

  “Now I have to go to South America and avenge you. Sure, they’ll kill me all too quickly, but not before I get off a few rounds. I’ll see you. Very soon.”

  He disappeared and suddenly alarms and bright lights filled the room. Incessant beeping and ladies in pink were shouting, running around like crazy people. A woman in a white coat approached overhead and lifted a hand.

  “Miss?” she asked, giving a generous smile. “You’re going to be okay.”

  The bright lights became too much and darkness ensued. Calmness. It was best to stay in the calmness.

  The lights appeared again, but the noise and fuss were over. A lady in pink walked in.

  “You’re awake,” she grinned, walking over and looking down. “How do you feel? Any pain?”

  “Hm?” George’s voice cracked. She didn’t even know if the sound had come from her or not. Where was Conrad? Where was she?

  “You’ve been out for a week. I’m Nurse Flores,” she said, checking the machines that were towering over the bed. “And you are one lucky young lady.”

  George couldn’t tell if she was frowning or not. It seemed a bandage was covering half of her face. She noticed that everything did kind of ache.