Prologue
DEPUTY U.S. Marshal DJ Collier stared at the destruction. Computer monitors were broken, CPUs gutted, memory sticks still smoked from the acid poured over them. Bags of shredded paper left little doubt as to the fate of the contents from emptied file cabinets. Reports ricocheted through radios. Every floor of Black Root’s headquarters had been ransacked. Pissed, she wanted to put her fist through the nearest wall. Too late. They were too late. The Black Root people were in the wind. Her phone dinged with a text message.
Conference room, 20th floor.
Without a second thought, she caught the elevator and headed up. The executive floor had partially burned, but the in-house fire suppression system contained the flames, leaving behind sodden piles of blackened paper and melted plastic. Stepping gingerly, DJ found the conference room at the end of a lengthy hallway. The long mahogany table glistened with puddles of water from the sprinklers, but her eyes were drawn to an open laptop showing the blue screen of death. It sat at the head of the table. A yellow sticky note stuck to the screen captured her attention—especially since her name was written in bold black letters, along with a message. As she got closer, she noticed a flash drive sitting in the middle of the keyboard.
You’ll find what you need on the USB. The trail leads to the highest echelons of power in this country. Follow if you dare.
The note held no signature. The thumb drive and sticky note disappeared into her pocket. She checked behind her, but no one had followed. She was alone. She replied to the text with a one-word question.
Why?
The answer came almost immediately. Because.
I don’t play games.
But you play fair.
DJ snorted at that text and then glanced around. She was still alone. The coast remained clear. Her thumbs pecked across the virtual keyboard. No I don’t. What now?
She waited for a reply. It didn’t come. The elevator dinged. With a guilty start, she headed back down the hallway. The drive burned a hole in her pocket, but she wore her best poker face when she greeted several task force members as they stepped off the elevator. She helped them search the floor but never mentioned the USB device, the note, or the anonymous texts. She deleted them the first chance she had.
TWO WEEKS after New Orleans, DJ still hadn’t done anything with the flash drive. At the moment, she was glowering at the files piled on her desk. “Why me?” she groused.
The deputy marshal at the next desk snorted. “Because you’ve got the best clearance rate in the office.”
She leaned back until her chair creaked. “That’ll teach me.”
“ Awww , whatsa matter, hot shot?” Another deputy grinned from two desks away.
“You’re just jealous.” She could banter with the best of them. She wasn’t the only female in the office but she was more like one of the guys than the other women.
He eyed the stack. “Better you than me, darlin’.”
With a heavy sigh, DJ grabbed the top file, opened it, and proceeded to read the first page.
Two hours later, she closed the last folder and flexed her right hand, surprised it wasn’t cramping from the copious notes she’d made on each case. She was weird. First set of case notes were always long hand. She’d read them and transcribe them to her computer later. Twisting in her chair to stretch the stiffness in her back, she eyed the eight empty paper cups littering her desk. When the heck had she drunk all that coffee? She hadn’t left her chair. Evidence indicated they’d just magically appeared. She stared, dumbfounded.
“They do go quickly, don’t they?”
She glanced up at the deeply masculine and cultured voice. And blinked. The man was completely at odds with the image her brain had instantly conjured. No sexy 007-type hunk this. Nope. He was slender, bespectacled and short. “Excuse me?”
“Criminals and cups of coffee. They go down swiftly, do they not?”
“Who are you?”
“Newton Graham. FBI. We need to talk.”
DJ did not reach into her pocket to finger the USB card. Instead, she put on her game face and prepared to lie through her teeth.
HER INTERCOM buzzed and the brusque voice of her supervisor ordered her to report to his office. She rubbed sweaty palms against her slacks to dry them before squaring her shoulders and stepping inside.
He didn’t say a word, simply pushed a file across the desk. She picked it up, flipped it open, and read. The report detailed the resignation of Colonel Joshua Harjo and the decommissioning of a minor military compound in southern Oklahoma. The name Hannah McIntire leaped off the page. The former Department of Security Services agent had also resigned. Unnamed members of a Special Operations unit had gone AWOL.
She whistled softly and said, “Damn.” She knew exactly who’d spooked Black Root into destroying their own HQ. She’d been dogging their trail since that dust-up in Texas a couple of years ago. Then there was the situation in Louisiana last year. She glanced up. “No trace of them?”
He shook his head and looked even more hang-dog than normal. “Something’s not kosher, DJ. About any of this shit. Frankly, I’m worried they’ve been…disposed of.”
Snorted laughter escaped before she could stifle it. “You never met those guys, boss. Just when you think you know and understand them, you don’t. Trust me on this. Somebody’d have to use a freaking Marine Corps division to take them down. They’re out there somewhere, in the wind. Like ghosts.” Her hand dipped into her pocket and she fingered the USB drive nestled there. She carried it everywhere. “Do you want me to find them?”
When he shook his head, she held the folder out to him. He didn’t take it. “Keep it.”
DJ arched a brow and he lifted both shoulders in a gesture of tired resignation. “You never know, DJ.” A double vee wrinkled her forehead at his statement. “That’s the only copy,” he added. Swiveling his chair, he turned his attention to his computer monitor. “Don’t you have some cases to work?”
She recognized his dismissal. Halfway to her office, her phone buzzed. She pulled it from her pocket and glanced at the anonymous text.
Scorched earth.