Cowboy, Undercover

by Vicki Tharp

  Cowboy, Undercover

  Lazy S Ranch

  Vicki Tharp

  JPC Publishing

  Also by Vicki Tharp

  Lazy S Ranch Series

  Cowgirl, Unexpectedly (Lazy S Ranch 1)

  Must Love Horses (Lazy S Ranch 2)

  Hot on the Trail (Lazy S Ranch 3)

  Cowboy, Undercover (Lazy S Ranch 4)

  * * *

  Rockin’ Rodeo Series

  Luck of the Draw (Rockin’ Rodeo 1)

  Photo Chute (Rockin’ Rodeo 2)

  Reined In (Rockin’ Rodeo 3)

  * * *

  Wright’s Island Series

  Don’t Look Back (Wright’s Island 1)

  In Her Defense (Wright’s Island 2)

  Cowboy, Undercover is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locals, is entirely coincidental.

  Original Cover Design by Rebecca Pau at the Final Wrap

  * * *

  eISBN 978-1-948798-04-4

  * * *

  Copyright © 2019 by Vicki Tharp

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  A Letter to My Readers

  Also by Vicki Tharp

  About the Author

  1

  When is enough, enough?

  Is it when you put your back to a wall in every room you enter?

  Is it when you look at a kind gesture with mistrust?

  Is it when you can lie easier than tell the truth?

  Or is it when your job literally almost kills you?

  For former Marine and ATF agent Gil Brant, it wasn’t any one of those things. But combine them all with a year and a half of working deep undercover—an assignment that had taken an exacting, exhausting toll on his soul—and he’d realized the price was too steep.

  Turning in his resignation was the right decision.

  Gil kept telling himself that as he walked into the Bison County Sheriff’s Office, where the ATF had been given temporary accommodations until the building housing their new satellite field office could be renovated.

  He knocked on the open door of a ten-seater conference room. Special Agent in Charge, SAC Rod Spinks, sat at the far end of the table, his back to the flat screen mounted on the wall. Being in law enforcement, it was hard not to put your back to the door, even here, where the men and women were supposed to be your allies.

  “Got a minute?” Gil asked.

  Without looking up, SAC Spinks fired his remote at the screen behind him, muting CNN. “Can it wait?”

  Gil’s resignation wasn’t time critical, but now that he’d made the decision to quit, he wanted a quick, clean break. He stepped into the room and tapped the corner of the envelope he held on the edge of the table. “It’ll be quick, sir.”

  Spinks’ fingers flew across his laptop’s keyboard, doing a damn fine impression of a court reporter. The clicking of the keys stopped, and Spinks finally looked up.

  No smile.

  Gil hadn’t expected one.

  “Done faffing about at that country club and ready to get your ass back to work?”

  “Veteran therapy program. Not a—”

  Nope. Gil cut himself off. He refused to explain himself to this man. That he’d needed time to heal physically, after being shot and almost killed, and mentally after his long stint undercover, shouldn’t have come as a revelation. Gil held out the envelope. “I came to give you this.”

  Spinks appraised him. The SAC’s cropped hair had gone straight to white, and the afternoon Wyoming sun streaming through the plate-glass window made it look like a crusty layer of ice. Instead of reaching for the envelope, Spinks folded his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair. He didn’t put his feet up on the table, he wasn’t that kind of guy.

  “What’s that?” Spinks’ tone held a note of impatience as if he wanted to rush to the punchline of the joke.

  Gil dropped the envelope next to the laptop. “My resignation.”

  Spinks didn’t look surprised.

  He also didn’t try to talk Gil out of it.

  Spinks sat forward, his fingers working the keyboard again, his attention more on the screen than Gil. He stopped long enough to slide the envelope back toward Gil. “Talk to me when your leave is up.”

  “I’m not changing my mind.”

  Spinks glanced up, his fingers slowed but didn’t stop. “Didn’t ask you to. I told—”

  “Yeah.” Gil picked up the envelope and stuffed it into the rear pocket of his jeans. “I heard you.”

  He stood there a moment longer, not knowing quite what he’d expected or what he was waiting for. He turned to go.

  He’d made it to the door when Spinks said, “Brant.”

  Gil stopped and glanced at his SAC over his shoulder, wondering if Spinks was going to toss in an obligatory ‘great seeing you, man,’ or an offer to buy Gil a beer sometime that he would never take Spinks up on.

  “Close the door.”

  Spinks never failed to disappoint. “Yeah, sure.”

  Before Gil left, he stuck his head into the other conference room the ATF had on loan. The long table had been removed, and two sets of desks sat back to back, abutting the long window. Another desk was shoved up against the short wall. But instead of his fellow agents, all that greeted him were desks stacked with files and cold cups of half-drunk coffee.

  It wasn’t that he really missed anybody, being deep undercover for as long as he’d been with only a handler for contact, had made it near impossible to maintain any work-related relationships, but it might have been nice to see a familiar face.

  It wasn’t until he’d made it outside, striding across the parking lot that he became aware of the tink, tinking of his spurs strapped to his dusty cowboy boots. He chuckled to himself, never in a million years did he think he would prefer that sound to the feel of his Glock 22 strapped to his hip.

  He opened the door of his truck. He didn’t click a key fob. The beast was too old of a vehicle for that. Not classic old where he’d have to worry about it getting jacked, but the kind of old where he could leave the windows down and the doors unlocked, and nobody bothered touching it.

  “Hey, cowboy.”

  Gil turned at the sound of the familiar voice and broke out a genuine smile when he saw his buddy, and ex-handler, Isaac Lang jogging over to him.

  Gil clasped Isaac’s hand and brought him in for a warm one-armed hug and a clap on the back. “Hey Iz, how’s it hangin’?”

  Isaac smiled that cocky smile he never seemed to wipe from his face. “I don’t think you really want to know.”

  “You’re probably right.” Gil leaned back against his truck. “Haven’t seen you around lately. Tricks taking you out of town?”

  There were lines at the corner of Isaac’s eyes where a few months ago there hadn’t been any. His usual laid-back lankiness hel
d a hint of tension. Make that a lot of tension.

  Isaac shrugged, but the gesture didn’t come across as carefree. “Got a bit of a thing going on. Taking up a lot of our time. When are you coming back?” Isaac slapped a hand against Gil’s right shoulder, and Gil couldn’t hold back the wince. “Oh man, sorry, bud. I totally forgot that was your hurt shoulder.”

  “No worries.”

  “But seriously, man,” Isaac said. “When are you coming back?”

  “That’s what I came to talk to the SAC about. I don’t want word getting out yet, but I ain’t coming back.”

  Isaac barked out a loud laugh. “Good one, man. No, seriously?”

  Gil braced his hands on the tail bed behind him. “Seriously.”

  “Dude… That’s not even funny.” Isaac stepped back and ran a hand through his blond hair curling over the collar of his shirt. Isaac had height. But at six foot four, Gil had a half a head on him. “Look, we’ve got some shit starting, and we need a guy like you on our team. You can play cowboys and Indians on your own time. This shit is serious.”

  “That’s the thing. This shit is always serious. You know that. And I know that.”

  “But this shit is big.”

  Gil was going to regret this, but he said, “What do you have?”

  Isaac glanced around as if making sure no one was within earshot. “You know I can’t talk about a case to someone who’s not on it.”

  “Right.” Gil climbed into the truck and glanced back at his friend. “It was great seeing you, man.”

  “Jesus, Brant.” Isaac leaned on Gil’s open window. “Spinks will kill me if I say anything.”

  Gil cranked the starter. The motor spun and chugged to life, sending a cloud of white exhaust through the open window. “Then don’t say anything. I’m late.”

  Isaac didn’t remove his hands from the door. He glanced off in the distance as if mulling something over in his mind. “How about I buy you a beer? For old time’s sake? Tomorrow night?”

  “Old time’s sake.” Gil couldn’t keep the thick skepticism out of his voice. Isaac wanted to talk, just not here where there was a possibility they could be overheard.

  Isaac shrugged like it didn’t matter, though Gil knew it did. Isaac wouldn’t have asked to buy him a beer if it hadn’t. You didn’t spend eighteen months with someone as practically your only point of contact with the outside world, and not get to know them inside and out. To live that kind of life, you have to trust, and trust wholly.

  “I’ve got plans tomorrow night,” Gil said. “At least I hope I will.”

  Isaac got a sly smile and leaned in. “Hot date?”

  It was Gil’s turn to shrug. His sex life wasn’t up for discussion.

  “Anyone I know?” Isaac shook a finger at him as if someone had come to mind. “Let me guess, that curvy DEA agent on the task force with the—” He held his hands out in front of him indicating someone with a big rack.

  Forget the DEA agent. Gil had his sights on a certain helo pilot that rocked a flight suit the way most women rocked a little black dress.

  “Sunday then?”

  Officially, the Healing Horses therapy program had a no drug or alcohol policy. Unofficially, as long as you weren’t in an alcohol or drug treatment program, what you did off the ranch was your own business.

  With a crisp nod, Gil said, “Sunday. I’ll call you.”

  Isaac tapped the roof of the truck and walked back into the station.

  Gil tossed his resignation letter into his glove box. Already late, he beat it back to the Lazy S Ranch. He’d promised the Healing Horses program director, Jenna Nash, that he’d be back by four to help work the mustangs that had been turned over to the program for training.

  He glanced at his watch. He had ten minutes to get back. He stomped down on the gas and leaned into the curves, accelerating through the twists and turns of the mountain roads paving a ribbon of asphalt through the shadows of the Rockies.

  Behind the fences on the side of the road, cattle grazed, their heads down, doing their best to turn grass fields into hamburgers.

  Gil was curious about what his buddy and the ATF had cooking. But that wasn’t his life anymore. He’d meet for the beer, settle his idle curiosity, then let it go.

  You should have made Spinks accept your resignation before Isaac sucks you back in.

  “I’m not changing my mind,” he said to no one in particular, the wind whipping his words away as if they had no weight. As if he hadn’t spoken them at all.

  Lieutenant Tessa Sterling banked her UH-60 Blackhawk helicopter and headed south along the foothills of the Rockies. The bird was an older military helo that the task force had converted for its own purposes, part tactical, part rescue, part medical transport, a setup that served the community well.

  The sun was on its downward arc, she blinked against the grit in her eyes as they headed back to the municipal airport on the outskirts of Murdock. Too much flying and not enough sleep.

  The whump, whump, whump of the heavy rotor blades, and the steady drone of the twin engines worked together, lulling her senses. Tessa shook her head to clear out the cobwebs.

  “Want me to take over?” Lieutenant Quinn Powell said from the co-pilot seat.

  She glanced over at her copilot. They hadn’t been flying together long, and Powell was new to the Blackhawks. The more time he had at the stick, the better for the both of them. “Sure, take it away.”

  After Powell had taken the controls, Tessa rung out the stiffness in her hands and settled more deeply into her seat. Agent Isaac Lang sat in the jumpseat behind her. They’d been shorthanded, and he’d flown along with them as their spotter.

  Over the comms, Tessa said, “What do you think, Lang? Any of those landing strips or helo pads a good fit for these gun runners?”

  Lang was slow to answer. “Any of those helo pads are a possibility, but if The Wolf is moving the merchandise by plane, he’s going to need either a lot of small planes or a longer runway.”

  Powell eased back on their speed as they approached the municipal airport, spoke with the tower. Then to her and Lang said, “Until we have better intel on what they’re trying to move, and how much, it’ll be hard to narrow down possible locations.”

  He banked right as he maneuvered downwind of the airport’s helo pad and came in for a landing. Tessa eyeballed their airspeed, the altimeter, and the fuel gauges. “At this point, I feel like we’re wasting our time. Too many unknowns.”

  Powell eased down on the collective, their altitude dropped, and Powell landed the big bird with skill and grace. The task force had been lucky to snag Powell up after he’d discharged from the Marines. That man had been born to fly.

  “Agreed,” Lang’s voice was low and thick with fatigue.

  They’d spent the better part of the past week scrounging the foothills and surrounding areas for any landing zones or private airstrips that The Wolf—a heavy hitter in illegal arms dealing circles—could use for smuggling.

  If helos were involved in the operation, an expensive halo pad wasn’t needed to set down. All that would be needed was a patch of grass or dirt with enough clearing that the rotors wouldn’t be caught in trees or high lines. The truth was, Wyoming was vast, and unless the task force could get someone on the inside, their chance of finding where the gun runners were taking off and landing was slim.

  The Blackhawk’s wheels had barely touched down when Lang slid the side door open and hung up his headset. He tossed a wave over his shoulder as he headed to the hanger for his debriefing with his SAC. She and Powell started their shutdown procedures. As the rotors spun down, Tessa removed her helmet, yanked her ponytail holder free, and scrubbed her fingers through her sweaty hair, scratching all the itchy spots. “Nice landing. Couldn’t have done it better myself.”

  Powell opened his door. “Damn straight. Better watch out. I’ll be sitting in the pilot seat in no time.”

  “As long as it’s in your own bird and not mine, more powe
r to you. But if you think you’re going to pilot my bird, you’ll have a fight on your hands.” A good-natured threat.

  Mostly.

  Quinn flashed her an amused smile, his eyes unreadable behind his reflective aviator lenses. “Just you wait, Sterling. I’m gunning for you.”

  “Good luck with that.” Powell was good. Great even. But she had seniority, and she was better.

  That wasn’t conceit. It was fact.

  Still, knowing the task force was in the process of sourcing another bird didn’t hurt either.

  The fuel truck pulled up and started refueling. A cloud of JP-8 fumes tickled her nose. After she and Powell completed their shutdown procedures, they secured the helo for the night and headed back to the hanger themselves. Her legs were stiff, and her lower back bitched and complained. There was a hot bath at home with her name on it.

  “You’re coming with us tomorrow to run the cattle over to the other canyon, aren’t you?” Powell asked. “With Jenna’s grandparents and Pepita on their UK tour, we could use all the warm bodies we can get.”

  She got to the hanger doors first and held it open for him to walk through. “I don’t know. My ex-husband skated on taking our son this weekend. I was thinking of sleeping in.”

  “He’s welcome to tag along. Besides, he’s seven years old. You’re kidding yourself if you think he’s going to let you sleep late.”

  True, and her son would love nothing more than to go on a mini cattle drive, but he hadn’t been riding horses for very long. Hell, she had only been back in the saddle in the past few months since she’d met Quinn.

  This wasn’t a pony ride. These were real cowboys, real cattle, real dangers. Someday she would take Jack, but neither one of them were ready for that adventure yet.