Chapter Two #2
The woman he had once thought he couldn’t live without. They had been teenagers in love, planning a future together. Until it ended.
Long-buried shame surfaced. For not doing more to help her with her abusive dad. For giving in to the pressure of his parents’ opinions about the Iron Warriors, about her and how they were from two different worlds and didn’t belong together.
It was the one regret he carried that sometimes kept him up at night.
Yazzie strode over, eating an apple, and sat on the edge of his desk. “Well, did her story check out with Bobby Quill?”
Others from the team, who were nearby in the large, open room where they occupied desks, stopped what they were doing and looked at him.
Leaning back in his chair, Jackson scrubbed a hand over his face. “Bobby Quill is dead. Along with most of the Iron Warriors. Someone took them out last night.”
Around the room, eyebrows raised, a few faces paled, more than one uttered surprise. Vazquez was on the phone, but that even caught her attention.
“Was it a rival gang, some kind of turf war?” Flores asked.
Jackson shrugged. “All I know is it sounded like a targeted hit. Their clubhouse was shot up, taking out bikers and their old ladies. Someone also tracked down their leadership and got them at home, too. The president survived. Barely. A guy named JD. According to him, they did have dealings with Kehoe.”
“Okay,” Mirabal said, “so Ortiz told us one truthful thing. The best lies are half-truths. Doesn’t mean her story isn’t hogwash.”
“True.” Tillman sipped his coffee. “What did this JD say?”
“Many of the Iron Warriors work, or rather worked, for Ironside Protection Services, including Ortiz, who has been out of pocket, handling an assignment for Bobby Quill. It’s a legit business.
Last year, they even hired a former detective to oversee the IPS office in Wyoming.
The owner is a former club president. Ripton Lockwood.
” A Special Forces hotshot who treated Christina like a kid sister.
“The guy cleared out the riffraff and stopped illicit activity. Lockwood opened the first office in Laramie to bring in clean money for the club, but he has offices all over these days. Including in Bitterroot Falls.” The town was a ninety-minute drive away.
Jackson was close friends with the IPS team there, most of whom were veterans, including Takoda Yazzie, Aiden’s cousin.
But Jackson had never had a reason to be interested in IPS’s history until now.
Flores opened a bottle of water. “Did the club president corroborate that Ortiz was recruited by Kehoe?”
“He doesn’t know. Neither does the former detective. If she was, only Bobby Quill was privy to the arrangement. JD is going to contact the IPS owner, Lockwood. See if he was read in.”
“Doesn’t matter if that part of her story was true,” Walken said. “Vazquez and Mirabal were right. Solid agents have gone deep undercover for too long and gone to the dark side. Even if Kehoe recruited her, and I’m not saying he did, it doesn’t mean she didn’t kill him.”
Tension threaded in Jackson’s shoulders. “Yeah, I know.”
Vazquez hung up the phone. “If you’re going to question her, Jackson, you better do it now.
Our respective bosses have made a decision,” she said, referring to their superiors at the DEA, FBI, DHS, IRS and US marshals, “and the FBI won. Christina Ortiz is ours. We’ve been ordered to transport her to the field office in Salt Lake City. They’ll book her there.”
The FBI only had satellite offices in Montana. The larger, more secure regional office based in Salt Lake City had operational control over Utah, Idaho and Montana.
“US marshals will take the lead on transport,” Flores said.
Yazzie and Flores had flown in on a USMS plane and landed at Missoula Montana Airport, fifteen minutes away.
“I’ll be on the flight with you,” Jackson said.
Vazquez rose from her chair. “Me, too.”
With a nod, Yazzie threw away the apple core. “I’ll update the pilot. Make sure we’re refueled and ready to take off when we arrive.” Sighing, he turned to Jackson. “Sucks. We apprehended Ortiz so quickly I thought I’d be able to have lunch with Takoda.”
“He’ll be disappointed not to see you.” Jackson stood. “Once things quiet down, you should come back for a visit with your wife.” She was also a marshal with SOG. A tough woman Jackson liked. “I better get to it.”
“Are you sure talking to her is a good idea?” Tillman asked, and everyone stared at Jackson. “Considering…”
Considering his history with the fugitive. No one wanted him to be part of the initial interrogation. Conflict of interest.
Once Jackson had learned his high school sweetheart was suspected of Kehoe’s murder, he’d disclosed their prior association and freely provided any clarity on her background file.
“I’m sure,” Jackson said. “You guys took a crack at her. My turn.” He looked at their IRS CI. “Hey, Nichols, check out the sheriff’s deputy, Phillips. See if there’s anything suspicious in his financials.”
“Sure.” Nichols pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. “I’ll get right on it.”
“Are you kidding me?” Vazquez rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me you believe her story.”
Jackson debated how much to share, but he needed to tell them. Better to do it now while they were all together instead of in Salt Lake City. “Kehoe did have an off-the-books asset, deep cover for six years.”
The room fell so silent you could hear a pin drop.
Mirabal hopped out of her chair and marched up to him with such intensity her ponytail swung like a pendulum. “Why are we just now hearing about this?”
“I only found out myself. A few weeks ago. Kehoe didn’t give me a name. I only know it’s a civilian woman. Someone he needed to push for as much information as quickly as possible and find a way to extract her safely. He described her as a triple threat. A weapon the cartel would never see coming.”
“Triple threat, huh?” Walken rubbed his jaw. “Ortiz has got beauty and brains. Can she handle herself, too?”
Jackson nodded. “The motorcycle club taught her.” Lockwood had trained her himself in case her dad didn’t accept the message that beating her wouldn’t be tolerated under his watch.
Vazquez eyed him with blatant skepticism. “Convenient how you tell us this after your ex-girlfriend spun her wild tale. A story we can’t corroborate with Kehoe because he’s dead.”
Anger sparked inside Jackson, but he tamped it down. “I admitted to having had a teenage dalliance with the suspect. I wouldn’t lie for her.”
“I guess we’re just supposed to take your word for it,” Vazquez said.
“Hey.” Tillman put a hand on his shoulder. “You want backup in there?”
“No. I’ve got it.” Turning, Jackson strode down the hall to the interrogation room. He grabbed the knob, took a beat. Reminded himself sometimes a person you’d known for years was only wearing a mask, pretending to be a friend, hiding their true face underneath.
That of a foe.
Four years he’d worked on the task force. They were tight, celebrated and commiserated together. But one of them was a traitor. Who had fooled him and most likely gotten Kehoe killed. Jackson refused to play the fool with Christina, regardless of their ancient history.
The others started down the hall, headed to the observation room, where they’d scrutinize everything.
Jackson went inside the interrogation room and sat at the table. He stared into the sultry brown eyes he’d never been able to forget, no matter how he’d tried. The beautiful, wild girl she’d been had become a stunning woman.
A possible murderer.
She flattened her hands on the table. “Thank you for talking to me.”
“I’m only here to do my job.”
Her brow crinkled. She lowered her head. “Did you talk to Bobby?”
“Bobby is dead,” he said gently, and she looked up at him. “Many of the Iron Warriors were killed last night. Attacked at their clubhouse and homes. Possible turf war.”
Christina slumped back in her chair as though the words hit her like a physical blow. Tears welled in her eyes. Her hand began to tremble.
A ribbon of unwelcome emotion slowly unspooled through him. It took everything in him not to reach out and comfort her. “I’m sorry. I know what they meant to you.”
Tears spilled, running down her cheeks. “It wasn’t a turf war.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “That’s why he was in Wyoming.”
“He who?”
Shaking her head, she whisked away her tears. Glanced at the clock. “You’re going to move me. Probably soon. When that happens, you should stay here.”
One second, she was grieving. The next, she was telling him what to do.
He was controlling this interrogation. Not the other way around. “I’m willing to entertain the possibility you were Kehoe’s asset. But we have a credible eyewitness account. A murder weapon with your prints. Give me something to prove you didn’t kill Kehoe.”
“There’s no body-cam footage, right?”
“Correct. Phillips’s camera was disabled at the time.”
“Of course it was.” Shuttering her eyes, she wrung her hands. “Where did your eyewitness say Kehoe was when I allegedly shot him? Standing? On his knees?”
“Standing. Kehoe was running away from you when you shot him in the back.”
Christina met his gaze, her eyes glassy and hard.
“Kirk tackled one of Ibarra’s thugs. He was giving me a chance to get away.
They both fell to the ground. That’s when Hector shot him, also hitting his own guy in the abdomen.
Have the bodies moved to a different county.
Use a medical examiner you trust. It’ll check out. ”
He wanted to believe her, but he couldn’t forget how easily she could turn a blind eye to illicit activity. Long before the Iron Warriors became legit, she hadn’t cared that they were dirty.
“You claim Kirk tried to help you in the tunnel,” he said. “But he was restrained.”
“My cover was blown. Somehow, the cartel found out he was my handler. Kirk gave me a coded message to come here.”
Here? “What was the message?”