Snowbirds

Chapter 1

ONE

Hatch

“Two hundred and forty damned hours of vacation time. You are officially off the clock as of five minutes ago. This isn’t a suggestion, Chris, this is a direct order.”

Crap .

Chris Hatch quietly released a breath of air and pinched the bridge of his nose. His boss never called him by his first name unless he was really worried about him. Normally it was Hatch this, Hatch that, Hatch, pull a damn miracle out of your ass. Hatch, save the world. Hatch, rescue the girl tied up on the train tracks before the sun sets.

Chris sniggered and nearly dropped the handset. The conversation wasn’t remotely funny, so he must have been more tired than he’d realized.

He’d been with the DEA for almost twenty years, climbing up through the ranks until he’d reached his current position. He had direct authority over a large team of agents—with one recent opening, left by Dante Castone and yet to be filled—as well as responsibilities involving a variety of investigations and agency overlap.

The job was exhausting and a lot like a jigsaw puzzle, except the human pieces didn’t stay in place. They moved all over and had to be watched constantly; the face of one specific human came to mind.

“You’re flirting with a bad case of burnout.”

Fuck. Chris blinked—McBride was still talking.

“It’s past time for you to take a vacation. If I see—or hear—even a muted whisper about you back at work before those excess hours are used up, we’ll be having another discussion.”

Chris wanted to point out that they were, in fact, not having a discussion. A discussion was the back-and-forth exchange of ideas, not a litany of tyrannical orders from on high. But he kept his mouth shut and instead stared around at the walls of his office while McBride droned on about HR and mental health.

Fucking mental health. His job was his mental health.

He liked his office. It was comfortable. And, because of its location outside North Portland, he had a partial view of the Mighty Columbia along with the most southern edge of Washington State. He’d often joked that if the uppers knew the strip mall, and thus his office, had a view, they wouldn’t have let him keep it. Heaven forbid middle management types like him enjoyed being in their workspace—couldn’t have that.

His office was a perfectly fine place to spend his days. And some nights.

Okay, a lot of nights. And a lot of hours. Chris did what was needed to get the job done. His job was his life, and that was how he liked it.

The ugly paneled walls from the 1980s were mostly covered by bookshelves that held Chris’s various diplomas and certificates, his law and reference books, a stash of John D. McDonald mysteries hidden in one corner, and several outdated textbooks. There were a few photographs—mostly work-related group shots from mind-numbing conferences. One was a snapshot of Chris with Ivan Morrison after Morrison’s team had won trivia night a couple of years ago. Chris was sort of smiling, and Morrison’s mouth was open in mid-laugh. Dante Castone had taken the picture because it was, he said, “Evidence that Chris Hatch actually leaves his cave once in a while.”

So maybe McBride had a point. Dante’d had the photo printed and framed, then gave it to Chris for his birthday as a joke. Chris scowled at the image.

Castone was a sore spot for him at the moment. He’d get over it. Mostly, he felt like a fool for pining after a man who was clearly in love with someone else and had been for some time.

“Three weeks,” McBride continued. God, he was a human steamroller Chris could do nothing to stop. “I’ve cleared your schedule. Paulter is covering in your absence.”

Chris slammed his eyes shut. The trouble an unsupervised Ivan Morrison could get into in three weeks was… unfathomable. And now Agent Paulter was going to be the agent in charge? Chris wondered if the DEA’s northwest regional offices would survive.

“Paulter? Did I hear you correctly?” Chris repeated. What the fuck was he going to do for three weeks away from his work—besides try and figure out how to surreptitiously keep Morrison and Paulter from ever being in the same room.

Fuck that, they couldn’t be in the same building.

“Dennis Paulter will do a fine job. Go visit your family, Chris. I know you have one. Or climb a mountain or something.”

“Paulter is a fool.”

The man had been involved in more than one fucked-up op and yet somehow was still employed by the DEA. Chris had counted himself lucky never to have to deal with him directly. Until now. He wasn’t sure whether the idea of Paulter in charge of Ivan Morrison made him want to laugh or cry.

“He is perfectly qualified to step in for you,” McBride continued ruthlessly.

Chris loathed Dennis Paulter. Aside from being a shitty teammate, he was an ass-kissing know-it-all. The younger agent had been after his job for years. Chris was locking his desk drawers and taking the keys with him. He briefly wondered if there was a way to booby-trap his drawers.

“For fuck’s sake,” he said to his empty office. “What the hell am I going to do for three weeks?”

Fifteen days, not including the weekends. Chris had no life outside of his job. So-called work-life balance was a foreign concept to him. He was boring and he accepted it. But he was one hundred percent dedicated to his job, so if breaking up drug and sex trafficking rings meant he was boring? So be it.

“I don’t know, but if I hear of you coming around the office, there will be disciplinary action,” McBride said before ending the call.

Chris stared down at the cell phone he held in his hand and wondered if he’d imagined the entire conversation.

“Vacation? Just like that?”

Glancing up, he caught sight of the personalized Chris Hatch Pop Figure that Morrison had given him for some ridiculous reason—National Boss’s Day, maybe. It acted as a sentry on his bookshelf and seemed to watch him from all directions. The head appeared to nod, mocking his question. The figurine even had a red cape, which Morrison had been particularly proud of.

No, dammit, he hadn’t imagined the call. McBride was forcing him to take a break.

The damn phone rang again before he could set it aside—or chuck it against one of the walls. Chris didn’t normally resort to violence, but he was feeling the need for it today.

Without checking who was calling, he pressed Accept.

“Agent Hatch.”

“Chris, honey! I’m so shocked I don’t have to leave a voicemail!”

His mother sounded so happy he’d answered the phone that he felt a bit guilty for not calling recently.

“Hi, Mom.”

But inwardly Chris groaned. He loved his parents, he truly did. They supported him in everything he did. When he’d come out to them in high school, Mom had given him a huge hug and Dad had too. They supported his career—for the most part. While Chris pretended he didn’t know his dad smoked pot on a regular basis, at least it was legal in most places now.

Like all good parents, they just wanted him to be happy.

“You sound down, honey. What’s going on? Is there a big case?”

“No,” Chris answered honestly. “I’m being forced to go on vacation. For three weeks.”

Once the words came out of his mouth, he cringed and squeezed his eyes shut again, immediately wishing he could take them back. If he’d been thinking clearly, he never would have said anything about the time off. His mom would insist he come for a visit, to Arizona where they’d retired a few years ago. Then again, it wasn’t as if he had anywhere else to go.

“Vacation?!” His mom repeated with delight. “And three weeks, too? Come down here and visit us so we can fuss over you. It’s been too long. One of our neighbors is traveling for the month, so you could do him a favor and house-sit. That way you could have some privacy.”

“I don’t know—” he began.

His mom cut him off. “Christopher Anthony Hatch, none of us are getting any younger. Including you. Live a little. What are you going to do in Portland? Hole up in your house for three weeks?”

And so what if he just holed up? That actually sounded all right. What was wrong with hiding out, his only human contact being the pizza delivery person?

Unsurprisingly, by the time he’d gotten off the phone, Chris had agreed to spend his vacation time in Arizona at his parents’ fifty-and-over community. Although he knew most of the residents were over sixty-five. Yippie-ki-yay.

Boy, didn’t that sound thrilling. Better than a case of shingles, he supposed.

“You’re our guest, so the fact that you’re not quite fifty yet doesn’t matter,” his mom had assured him. Damn, it was almost as if his mom read his mind.

By the time they’d clicked off, Chris had also agreed to house-sit for Frank, the next-door neighbor. Susie Hatch’s superpower was convincing people to do things she wanted them to without them realizing it. These days, Chris was onto her tactics, but he was almost as powerless against them as he’d been when he was a teen. She really should have been a politician.

“For fuck’s sake, what was I thinking?” Leaning back in his chair, he allowed himself to release a groan that echoed around his office.

Truthfully, he’d had no real choice once his mom got started.

Truthfully, sitting at home for three weeks didn’t appeal that much.

Chris had no hobbies outside of work. The pizza delivery guy was too young for him even in an imaginary porn flick, and he hated watching TV. The office was where he liked to be, in the eye of the hurricane.

Toeing the carpet, Chris spun his chair around in a slow circle.

Recently, that hurricane included Ivan Morrison. With Dante Castone permanently off the team, Morrison wasn’t in the field as often as he had been. These days, he was invariably underfoot for reasons Chris couldn’t begin to fathom. Morrison constantly turned up, claiming he had work to do that could only be taken care of at the office. Not long ago, he’d even cut his unruly hair, although it still wasn’t quite regulation. And more unsettling, Chris wasn’t sure he approved of the new style—he’d kind of liked the wild Morrison look.

The front office staff adored Ivan. More than once, Chris had had to yell through his office door, “Keep it down out there,” like he was some sort of playground monitor.

Morrison was a damn good agent though. He played the fool, much to the bad guy’s dismay but also something that often drove Chris up the wall. However, Chris couldn’t complain too much when the bad guys kept falling for it.

Chris hadn’t minded when Morrison started showing up around the office since it meant the agent hadn’t been assigned to another undercover assignment. He would be soon though. Morrison was an excellent agent. But he couldn’t help thinking that, if McBride thought Chris needed three weeks off, Morrison was definitely due for at least three months.

Chris stopped the chair for a second and reconsidered Morrison’s increased visits. Was Morrison checking in, possibly worried Chris was upset that Dante had chosen Andre and not him? There were few personal secrets in an office the size of theirs. Chris had been distressed—at first. But ultimately, it didn’t matter. He didn’t have time for a relationship, and he’d never had a chance with Dante anyway.

Maybe , a little voice in his head had whispered when the dust settled, you wanted him because you knew he’d never be yours . Which was a truth that still stung more than anything else he’d considered.

Okay, that did it. Time to stop thinking and start planning the next few weeks.

One thing Chris did know was that he would miss Morrison’s antics while he was away—his face peeking around Chris’s office door, eyebrows waggling, his voice booming down the hallway as he finished telling the receptionist a joke.

How Morrison had gotten into undercover work in the first place, Chris couldn’t begin to imagine. The man was not subtle.

Pushing against the carpet again, he spun himself in the other direction. He knew he should have left already. McBride’s local spies were probably already clamoring to tell him that Chris was still in the building.

Fine. It would be fine. Everything would be fine.

The phone rang yet again. Chris eyed it and checked the screen this time. With a sigh, he clicked Accept.

“When I said today and now, I meant today and I meant now ,” McBride barked, then clicked off without letting Chris respond.

“Fucking hell.”

With a sigh and a scowl, Chris rose to his feet and shrugged into the raincoat hanging on the back of his chair. Defiantly, he grabbed his laptop and shoved it into his briefcase, then snapped the case shut. If McBride thought Chris was leaving that item behind for Paulter to even sneak a glance at, he was sorely mistaken.

After one final quick look around, Chris released another sigh and headed out into the corridor. He grimaced at the newest front desk person as he passed by. Chris hadn’t had time yet to learn their name, but they responded in turn with a tentative smile, so most likely he hadn’t looked too threatening. It was lunchtime and no one else seemed to be in. Probably they’d all been given the heads-up by McBride.

Cowards.

Twenty-four hours later, Christopher Anthony Hatch, the man who never took a day off—no sick time, no personal time of any sort—found himself knocking on the front door of his parents’ modular home in Surprise, Arizona.

“Christopher!” his mom exclaimed, a huge smile on her face, almost as if she was surprised he’d actually shown up. “It’s so good to see you. Get yourself in here so I can give you a hug!” His mom grabbed the front of his hoodie in a tight grip. “Lance, get rid of the evidence, your son is here!”

Rolling his eyes, Chris allowed himself to be dragged over the threshold and tried not to groan too.

It was going to be a long three weeks.