Chapter 9
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Houston
Back at home, Flint’s house felt impossibly quiet after the chaos in Kentucky. No helicopter rotors. No gunfire. No tactical teams melting into the forest like ghosts. The Black Hawk had set them down forty minutes ago, but Flint could still hear the chaos in his head as he headed for the shower.
He’d changed into comfortable clothes, poured a glass of whiskey, and settled into his home office before Drake arrived. He’d stopped off somewhere to shower, too. He dropped his gear bag by the front door and walked straight to the kitchen. Ice clinked into a fresh glass. Bourbon followed.
“They weren’t weekend warriors,” Drake said when he joined Flint in the office. They clicked glasses of the good stuff and swallowed, waiting for the warmth to spread and relax them. “Military contractors. Maybe former Delta or Rangers.”
“Agreed.” Flint nodded
“We’re moving in the right direction.”
“Or we’re about to get ourselves killed.” Drake raised his glass.
They drank and burned away some of the Kentucky dust.
Flint walked to the sliding door that opened onto his back patio and stared at the gently undulating water. The pool lights were on. Peaceful. Normal. Same as when he left home this morning.
“If we take Vivian’s word at face value, Harry Fisher was a DEA informant for three years,” he said without turning around. “Why did the dealers wait that long to eliminate him?”
“Maybe they didn’t know he was the leak.” Drake settled into one of the leather chairs. “Three years is a long time to feed information to the feds. He must have been cautious enough to avoid drawing the wrong kind of attention to his actions.”
“Or maybe they found out back then and decided to send a message.” Flint turned back to face the room. “Burn his house. Kill his children. What if it was a demonstration? To make sure other potential informants understood the consequences.”
Drake’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. “Or maybe the kids were insurance? If they were kept alive, held hostage, maybe to force Harry’s silence?”
“Doesn’t make sense. If Harry knew the kids were alive, why wouldn’t he tell his DEA handler and try to get them back?
” Flint swallowed more whiskey. “I’m thinking they believed they did kill the kids, and the babysitter.
They probably threatened the wife and the teens, too.
So Harry stays silent for ten years because nothing could bring them back to life.
Eventually dies of natural causes. No more leverage needed. ”
“What about the ATM photo of one of the boys?” Drake asked.
“Lots of room for error there.” Flint shrugged. “Fisher believes in his new software, but age progression and facial recognition combined to establish a positive ID seems like a stretch.”
Drake was quiet for a moment as if the wheels were turning in his head.
“We need to get into Harry’s business at the molecular level,” Flint said finally. “Find out exactly what he invested in. Who his partners were. How the DEA approached him.”
Jason Fisher’s files contained Harry’s financial records going back several years before the fire. Business incorporation documents. Partnership agreements. Tax records.
They spent the next hour spread across Flint’s dining room table with papers arranged in chronological order. A timeline of Harry Fisher’s descent into the opioid distribution network.
“Look at this,” Drake said, holding up incorporation papers. “Appalachian Healthcare Partners. Incorporated in Nevada. Harry Fisher, primary investor.”
Flint found the corresponding financial records. “Initial capital investment of $3.2 million. Source listed as sale of thoroughbred stallion.”
“Horse breeding profits?”
“Old Kentucky money,” Flint said, shaking his head. “Vivian said the house had been in her family for over a hundred years. Thoroughbreds were her family’s business before Harry got involved.”
Drake studied the partnership structure and summarized. “Harry Fisher put up the money. Three other partners handled operations. Pain management clinics popped up across eastern Kentucky.”
“Looks like it was a legitimate operation at first,” Flint said, reading the early financial reports. “Everything looks clean for the first couple of years. Standard medical practice income and expenses.”
“Then what changed?”
Flint found the answer in a series of bank transfers starting three years before the fire. Large cash deposits that didn’t match the clinic’s patient volume. Payments to pharmaceutical distributors that exceeded logical prescription needs.
“After a year or so, someone started diverting pills. Thousands of them.” He showed Drake the financial anomalies. “OxyContin launched, and two years later, Kentucky was becoming the epicenter of prescription opioid abuse.”
Drake whistled softly. “Harry walks into the perfect storm. Thinks he’s funding rural healthcare when he’s actually bankrolling pill mills. It must have freaked him out when kids and neighbors began dying of opioid overdoses.”
“The crisis takes hold and begins to escalate. DEA finds Harry’s name on everything. Bank accounts. Leases. Corporate filings.” Flint could visualize how it played out. “They investigate, arrest him, give him a choice. Cooperate or face prosecution for murder and running a criminal enterprise.”
Drake drained his bourbon and poured a second glass. Flint declined. He wanted a clear head.
“So Harry becomes an informant,” Drake said, resettling into his favorite chair. “Feeds information to his DEA handler for three years. Patient lists. Pill counts. Meeting schedules. Anything that helps the feds build a case.”
“Until someone in the pill ring figures out they have a leak,” Flint said.
The story ended when the house fire on that October night destroyed everything Harry held dear. Three children and a babysitter gone without a trace.
Flint leaned back in his chair. “We need to find out who Harry was reporting to. His DEA handler died two weeks before the fire. Supposed suicide.”
“Convenient timing.”
“Yeah.” Flint pulled out his phone. “I’ve got a contact at DEA. Specialized in informant protection protocols during the opioid crisis.”
“I know someone too.” Drake nodded. “He can access old case files without triggering security alerts.”
They agreed to split up the investigation. Drake would work his contact to identify Harry’s dead handler and research the specifics of the DEA operation. He’d also continue investigating the tactical team that had ambushed them.
Flint would handle follow-up interviews with locals who might remember details about the Fisher family that hadn’t come out in the original investigation.
“Where will you start?” Drake asked.
“Small towns have long memories. Someone saw something that night.” Flint gathered the financial records into a neat stack. “I’ll work the neighbors. People who knew the family.”
“Better you than me. I hate small-town politics.” Drake grinned. “Meanwhile, I promised Scarlett I’d stop by and walk Whiskers. She and Maddy are at the movies.”
Flint grinned. He had given Scarlett’s daughter, Maddy, a Schnauzer puppy for her seventh birthday.
Scarlett pretended to be annoyed about the gift, but Flint could tell she was warming up to the little dog.
In truth, Whiskers was a stinking cute bundle of joy for Maddy.
Which made the gift a big success as far as Flint was concerned.
Scarlett would have to forgive him. Eventually.
After Drake left, Flint sat alone in his study reviewing what they’d learned.
Harry Fisher had been an unwilling participant in an illegal opioid distribution network. The DEA had leveraged his exposure to turn him into an informant.
The criminal distribution ring had discovered Harry’s betrayal and decided to send a message that would resonate throughout the regional opioid trade.
Which meant that the fire that destroyed Harry’s home and killed his family was a calculated business decision.
Flint shook his head. “Cold-hearted bastards.”
All of that history would normally have been forgotten more than twenty years later. But someone still considered the truth dangerous enough to deploy military contractors to kill Flint and Drake.
Which meant the conspiracy had grown. Expanded. Still worth killing to protect.
None of which could have happened by wishful thinking. There was a powerful force behind the evolution. Who or what was it?
Flint’s encrypted phone buzzed with a text message. He recognized the number.
He’d sent a message to Sheriff Milliken two hours ago. Available to meet tomorrow afternoon?
Milliken had typed back: Yes.
Flint asked, What time works for you?
The response came quickly: 2 p.m. Mount Warren Sheriff’s Department.
Flint replied Okay and then deleted both messages before he turned off the phone.
Flint was juggling two investigations now. Both were cold cases with no immediate urgency. But Jason Fisher’s case took priority because he was a paying client and because Flint had agreed to take on the matter.
His mother’s murder was less urgent. He was still ambivalent about taking it on anyway.
Both cases involved official investigations that had failed.
Both families deserved better.
Tomorrow he’d drive to Mount Warren and begin asking questions that should have been asked thirty-two years ago. Whoever killed Marilyn Baker got away with murder.
Time to change that.
But Jason Fisher’s siblings could still be alive, if Flint could find them first.
He checked his weapon and travel gear. After the ambush in Kentucky, he wasn’t taking any chances.
Mount Warren was a seven-hour drive. Plenty of time to think about how to approach a cold case murder without revealing that the victim was his mother.
He glanced outside where Houston’s city lights stretched toward the horizon.
Somewhere out there, tactical teams were reporting to their employers. Whoever was pulling the strings would know the Kentucky operation had failed.
They’d try again. Different approach. Better planning.
Let them come.
He set his phone alarm for 6 a.m. and fell into bed.