Chapter Two
Missoula
“I’m Special Agent Vazquez.” A petite brunette with a sleek bun took a seat across from Christina in an interrogation room. “This is DEA Agent Mirabal.”
Another woman sat. Blonde and curvy. Long hair in a ponytail.
After they hauled her in, they’d made her wait in the room for nearly two hours. Wasting precious time. A classic technique—let the perp’s anxiety build, in the hopes they’d slip up during questioning.
With her hands in her lap, Christina fiddled with the silver ring on her finger. They’d searched her for weapons and confiscated her phone. She still had her jewelry since they hadn’t formally booked her yet, which meant they intended to do it at another location.
Christina looked over the shoulders of the agents at the one-way mirror, where she presumed Jackson was on the other side watching.
She shifted her attention to the women in front of her. FBI and DEA. Probably part of Kirk’s task force. Like Jackson. Had Kirk briefed his team about her?
He’d given her the impression her identity would be withheld until the very last minute. With her cover blown and Kirk murdered, something had obviously gone wrong.
But why wasn’t Jackson sitting across from her, handling her interrogation?
Vazquez slapped a folder onto the table. “Want to save us time and give a confession?”
“Can’t,” Christina said. “I didn’t do it.”
“Sure you didn’t.” Vazquez scrutinized her. “But that raises two issues. First, your prints, only yours, were on the murder weapon and bullet casings. You came right up in the database.”
Part of the process when joining the state bar required her to consent to a fingerprint-based background check. Maybe that’s why Hector had used her gun. To frame her. Tarnish her reputation and mess up any case Kirk had built before they killed her.
“It was my gun,” Christina said, “but I didn’t kill anyone. Hector Ibarra, a lieutenant for the Estrada cartel, did.”
“How did Ibarra get your gun?” Mirabal asked.
Taking a deep breath, Christina gathered her thoughts. “Are these really necessary?” She lifted her shackled wrists.
Mirabal uncuffed her.
Christina rubbed her sore skin. “May I have coffee?”
The blonde raised her hand, motioning to someone watching.
Good cop.
Vazquez folded her arms. “Want a pastry, too?”
Bad cop.
“No, thanks. Sugar is deadly.”
“Think this is a joke?” Vazquez snapped.
“No,” Christina said flatly.
The door opened. A man entered, wearing a Department of Homeland Security badge. One of the agents who’d been at the motel. He set the coffee on the table and stood in the corner, glaring at her.
“Ibarra,” Mirabal said. “Your gun. Talk.”
“Hector demanded my gun,” Christina said. “I gave it to him.”
“So you claim, but that brings us to the second issue.” Vazquez put her forearms on the table. “An eyewitness saw you shoot SAC Kehoe.”
Shock ricocheted through Christina. “I don’t understand. Hector Ibarra gave you a statement?” Certainly, it wasn’t his street thug.
“No.” Mirabal tipped her head to the side. “The eyewitness was a sheriff’s deputy.”
Nausea clawed through Christina. “That’s not possible.”
“The deputy was on patrol,” Vazquez said.
“Spotted a suspicious silver Ford Bronco parked by the abandoned tunnel.” She rattled off Christina’s plate number.
“The deputy entered through the opposite side. Heard you yelling about money. Then gunfire. He saw you with your cartel muscle and Kehoe. Another man was already dead on the ground. You shot Kehoe. The officer identified himself. You ran while your cartel goon opened fire on the deputy, who shot back, killing the other man. With your plate number, we identified you quickly.”
Christina had wondered how her name and image hit the news, a warrant issued for her arrest for a double homicide, within less than six hours.
Thanks to her Black and Afro–Puerto Rican heritage, she had almond-brown skin and distinctive features.
In Montana, even wearing a baseball cap, she stood out, had a face people remembered.
The person who’d checked her in at the motel had probably reported her whereabouts.
“Talk to us.” Mirabal’s tone was gentle, almost friendly. “I don’t think you waived your right to an attorney because you’re a lawyer capable of representing yourself. I think you want to tell us your side of things. We want to hear it.”
Christina reached for the steaming cup of coffee, but her hand shook so uncontrollably she reconsidered handling the hot liquid. “The deputy didn’t mention Ibarra?”
Mirabal shook her head.
“Your eyewitness is a liar,” Christina said. “He’s a dirty cop. Check his financials. Dig into his background.”
“Let’s dig into yours.” Vazquez opened the folder. “Grew up in Laramie, Wyoming. Your father was a member of the outlaw motorcycle gang the Iron Warriors. Shot dead in a drive-by four years ago.”
It wasn’t a drive-by. But it was her fault.
“They’re not an outlaw gang,” Christina said. Not anymore. Not since it was cleaned up by the former club president, Ripton Lockwood. Former Special Forces, he was like a big brother to her.
“Graduated high school at sixteen.” Vazquez continued reading the file. “Went to Southeastern Wyoming University. Accelerated programs. Got your bachelor’s and juris doctor in five and a half years. Speak four languages. Impressive. Who paid for your tuition?”
If they were asking, they knew the answer.
Jackson must’ve told them. Not even Kirk had been aware.
In high school, Jackson had been her best friend long before he became her first…
everything. She’d told him her secrets. Fears.
Dreams. She’d foolishly imagined a future with him.
Until she’d realized he didn’t love her.
He was ashamed of her and believed what his rich family called her. Biker trash.
“The Iron Warriors covered the cost.” They’d allowed her to graduate debt-free, from a financial perspective, provided she represented them whenever necessary.
They were legitimate, making it an offer she couldn’t refuse.
“They’re my family. They love me and I love them.
The money was clean. No crime against family paying for a college education. ”
“Want to know what I think?” Vazquez asked.
“Your outlaw biker family decided to buy themselves a lawyer with blood money. Someone who’d be loyal, no matter what.
Through their drug ties, you became associated with the Estrada cartel.
Just connect the dots to how you ended up in a tunnel, killing a federal law enforcement officer. ”
“The Iron Warriors never had dealings with the Estrada cartel. But they did with Kehoe. It was through them—Bobby Quill, actually—that Kirk found and recruited me to be an asset,” Christina said, and the two seated at the table exchanged surprised looks.
Even the DHS agent appeared taken aback.
“Kirk was my handler for six years. I didn’t kill him. Hector Ibarra did.”
Vazquez narrowed her eyes. “No way Kehoe could’ve hidden an asset, off the books, for six years.
But let’s say he went rogue, past the point of no return, risked his job cultivating a civilian asset to infiltrate the cartel.
That means you’ve been in deep with the Estrada syndicate since you were, what, twenty-two years old?
Quite young. Impressionable age. Easy to get corrupted by all that power. ”
“Interesting fact,” Mirabal said. “The frontal lobe controls judgment, self-control, decision-making. It doesn’t fully develop until you’re twenty-five.”
Wetting her lips, Christina wished she’d asked for water. Kirk had told them nothing about her. Not even that he’d had an asset inside the cartel. “Maybe Kehoe figured if eighteen is old enough to join the military, die for one’s country, at twenty-two, I could handle it.”
Vazquez flashed a wry grin. “We know seasoned, highly trained agents who’ve gone that deep for less time and lost their way.
Did dirty things they regretted. Committed crimes.
Killed people they shouldn’t have.” The grin faded.
“What happened in the tunnel? Did Kehoe discover your dirty deeds, something to do with money? Is that why you murdered him in cold blood?”
They didn’t want the truth. To them, she was guilty. They wanted to understand, to get closure. This was personal for the entire task force. Except the mole—a snake hidden in the grass that could strike at any time.
“I’m done talking to you.” Christina braced for things to turn nasty. “I’ll only answer questions from US Marshal Jackson Powell.”
Vazquez slammed a fist on the table, spilling the coffee. “You gunned down Kehoe like an animal! Shot him in the back three times while he was restrained. Why?”
“I’ll only answer questions from US Marshal Jackson Powell.”
Mirabal’s expression hardened. “Murdering an FBI agent is a federal crime. The state attorney general is going to strip the bark right off you. Then they’re going to put you in a four-by-six cell for the rest of your life.”
Guess the good cop, bad cop routine was done.
“It’ll never happen,” Christina said easily.
The cartel would kill her first. She glanced at the clock on the wall.
A chill slithered down her spine. He had already landed.
She looked past the agents and at the one-way window.
“Jackson, verify what I said with Bobby Quill. Then I’ll answer any of your questions. You need to hurry.”
But would Jackson believe her?
Missoula
Friday, April 13, 11:45 a.m.
GROANING IN FRUSTRATION, Jackson hung up the phone in the office. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d been hoping for or expected when he reached out to the Iron Warriors back home in Laramie, but it sure wasn’t what he’d discovered.
Part of him wanted third-party verification of the things Christina had told Vazquez and Mirabal. Even if it came from an Iron Warrior. Maybe he just didn’t want to accept the grisly alternative: that she was a murderer.