Chapter Three
Missoula
As Christina walked handcuffed through the office on the second floor of the US marshals’ building, Jackson held on to one of her arms and Vazquez the other. They had allowed her to put on her jacket before shackling her wrists in preparation for transport.
“This is a mistake,” Christina said. “You should listen to me.”
“Shut. Up.” Vazquez tightened her grip, digging her nails through the lightweight material of her jacket, to the point Christina winced in pain. “You can’t scare us. Nothing is going to stop us from transporting you to a more secure facility.”
Christina looked at Jackson. “At least wear helmets.”
They were in tactical gear, with Kevlar vests, but it wasn’t enough protection.
Jackson stopped and glanced at a guy with a ruddy complexion and a mustache, DEA badge hanging around his neck. “Tillman, grab some helmets.”
“Really?” the DEA agent asked.
Nodding, Jackson said, “Can’t hurt.”
“I don’t need one.” Mirabal sat behind a desk. “I’ll hang back and get started on the paperwork. All our bosses are going to want to see this report ASAP.”
Tillman hurried off, disappearing down the hall.
“You’ve got the two extra SOG marshals,” a Black guy wearing glasses and an IRS badge said. “I was going to continue the deep dive into the deputy. Unless you need me to ride along to the airport.”
Jackson slid a furtive glance at Christina.
“If you want him to live, he should stay,” she said. “You should stay, too. Help Mirabal with the paperwork.”
Vazquez jerked her arm. “Enough out of you.”
“I agree,” the DHS agent said. Earlier someone had called him Walker or Walken. “Zip it, lady. You’re getting on that plane.”
Want to bet?
She glanced at the clock.
He was here in Montana. Not in Utah. The odds were high that their task force had proudly announced her apprehension on the news, showing the US marshals’ building in the background.
And the mole had every reason to inform him about her pending transfer.
They’d given the Reaper plenty of time to figure out how to get to her. Too much time.
“You keep looking at the clock,” Jackson said, drawing her gaze back to him.
To those sky-blue eyes that she used to lose herself in while wrapped in his arms. He’d grown a good inch or two since high school, towering beside her at six-one.
Gone was his long hair that straddled the edge between brown and blond, with loose curls around his face.
Now it was cropped short in a tidy style typical of a G-man.
No more lanky basketball body. Muscles so defined she could almost see them through the white dress shirt that clung to his taut shoulders.
Jackson continued studying her face. “Got an appointment I should know about?”
“A date with death,” Christina said dryly, using all her strength not to let her voice shake. “And he always keeps his appointments.”
Jackson furrowed his brow and opened his mouth to say something, but Tillman came back, passing out helmets.
“You don’t get one,” Vazquez said, smirking as she put on hers.
“I’m not the one who needs it.” There would be no bullet to the head for Christina. The Reaper wasn’t going to grant her the mercy of a quick death.
“Should I come along?” Glasses asked, comfortably planted behind his desk.
Jackson shook his head. “Finish the deep dive on Deputy Phillips. And Nichols, as soon as you find anything, send it out to the group.”
Nichols nodded.
A Native American with an athletic build entered the room. He was already wearing a helmet and a different color Kevlar vest with USMS SOG stamped on the front.
Special Operations Group. An elite tactical unit trained on the same level as US military Special Forces.
He might stand a chance. Maybe.
“Flores is downstairs, at the secure exit,” the SOG guy said. “We’re ready to rock and roll.” He strode up to Jackson. “Load her in the back of my vehicle. The first SUV.”
“No.” Jackson strapped on his helmet and grabbed his winter jacket, but he didn’t put it on. “She’ll ride with me in the second vehicle.”
The other marshal put his hands on his hips. “What’s up?”
“Nothing, Yazzie.” Jackson touched his arm. “I just don’t want her in the lead car. That’s all.”
They must be friends. Close.
“A police cruiser will be in the lead,” Yazzie said.
“Just listen to me,” Jackson said, “okay?”
Yazzie folded his arms. “Then I’ll have Flores drive the second SUV.”
“You two should ride together,” Jackson said, eliciting a glare from Vazquez.
“Are you buying into her scare campaign?” Yazzie gestured at Christina.
Jackson didn’t respond.
“Ortiz is riding with either me or Flores. You choose. This is what we train for, man.” Yazzie smiled. “We’ve got this.”
Hubris would be their undoing.
The Reaper trained harder, strategized every possible outcome and was a crack shot. Absolutely nothing rattled him.
Know thy enemy was his creed. He studied law enforcement methods and tactics so he was ready to outmaneuver them. Backup wasn’t necessary for him. He was a one-man army.
Getting her was not only a professional obligation, but this was also personal.
“You’re not prepared for what’s coming,” Christina said.
“Head games don’t work on me.” Yazzie cut his gaze from her and looked at Jackson. “You brought us here to watch your back. Let us.”
“What is he talking about?” Vazquez asked. “Watch your back? From what? I thought you requested SOG because we were dealing with the high-threat apprehension of someone who killed one of our own. But he’s made several remarks like that. Only this time to our faces. Right, Walken?”
Walken nodded. “It’s true.”
“I noticed it, too. We all have.” Tillman frowned. “The little huddles off to the side with you, Yazzie and Flores, where the rest of us can’t hear what you’re discussing.”
“They helped us catch her,” Jackson said. “Mission accomplished. Drop it.”
“No, I won’t drop it.” Vazquez stepped in front of him. “What’s going on? There’s something else you’re not telling us. I can feel it.”
Jackson sighed. His jaw clenched. “There’s a mole. One of you on the task force is a traitor.”
Walken’s eyes flared wide. Nichols choked on the coffee he was drinking. Tillman swore. Blondie—Mirabal—shook her head slowly as if in a daze.
Based on Yazzie’s expression, he’d already been briefed.
All the blood drained from Vazquez’s face. “No way. Impossible,” she said, her bluster deflating.
“Someone in this room leaked the names of the Cutthroat Creek Mining Company employees who were prepared to give up information about the money-laundering scheme with the cartel. That’s why Kehoe became tight-lipped about everything and had us polygraphed.”
“But…” Nichols hesitated. “But we all passed.”
“Congratulations to whoever it is for being able to beat a poly,” Jackson said. “Until we root out the devil among us, I can’t trust any of you. Satisfied, Vazquez?”
The FBI agent stood speechless.
“Let’s go,” Yazzie said and headed down the stairs.
Moving out, they followed Yazzie. They left the building through a side exit, leading into a small, secure garage that was only big enough for four vehicles. Brick walls. No windows. Steel roller doors on either end.
Two police cruisers with uniformed officers inside sat waiting.
Yazzie gestured to the officers and spoke to Flores before climbing into the first black SUV. Jackson hopped into the back of the second SUV, helping Christina get in beside him. Flores joined them, sitting behind the wheel.
Vazquez unshackled Christina’s left wrist and locked the cuff to the grab handle above the right door before closing it. Earlier when they’d transported Christina from the motel to the marshals’ building, she’d been sandwiched between agents.
“We should ride in the other vehicle,” Vazquez said to Walken and Tillman, not bothering to lower her voice.
She flicked a glance at Jackson. “So far, he’s the only one I don’t trust. The only one who has been keeping secrets from us.
About a supposed leak. About Kehoe’s unsanctioned asset—his ex-girlfriend, who’s been living three hours away in Bozeman.
What if she isn’t his ex? What if they got back together?
Maybe he’s lying to protect her because he’s the leak.
We don’t know. What else isn’t he telling us?
” Without waiting for a response, the FBI agent stormed off and got into the back seat of the first SUV.
The other two men stepped away from the vehicles and exchanged words.
Jackson hung his head.
Secrets came with the territory in this business, but it was tearing apart Kehoe’s task force. Divide and conquer was the smartest game for the mole to play.
Christina reached over with her free hand and put her palm on Jackson’s leg. He looked down at his thigh, where she touched him.
“I wish I had known you were in Missoula,” she said. “I wish Kehoe had told me sooner.”
“Why?” Jackson’s voice was a whisper.
Because I missed you.
Even though he’d turned his back on her and broken her heart, she still thought of him. And every time she did, she ached.
Kehoe had asked her about her first boyfriend, how intimate they’d been, and she’d called Jackson the love of her life. Told him they’d shared everything, had been everything to each other—or so she had thought.
But he never saw the real her. She’d been a plaything to him, someone convenient. The club had warned her. He won’t bring you home to meet his mama. You’ll see.
Christina should’ve spared herself the grief he eventually brought her and listened to the Iron Warriors.
Looking at her, Jackson covered her hand with his. “Why?” he asked again.
“None of it makes any difference now.”
“Sometimes the why behind something can change everything.”
It wouldn’t bring Kehoe back or get her out of handcuffs or resolve her current predicament.
She turned her head from him, and her gaze met Flores’s in the rearview mirror. Pulling her hand back into her lap, she recalled Alice’s sixth commandment.
Stay frosty, stay alive.
Christina reined in her emotions, hardening her heart. “Jackson, if things go sideways, don’t be a hero.”