Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Massey’s was thinning to a hush when Buddy slid into one of the back booths—lunch rush fading, TV on mute over the bar, forks clinking in twos and threes. Sterling sat across from him, scanning the room with the kind of focus that only a trained operative used until his gaze landed on Juniper.
She was an attractive woman in her early to mid-thirties. Buddy was told she’d come to town a month ago and offered Holly Massey a deal she couldn’t refuse. This was long after Holly had given up selling and taken it off the market. Part of Buddy found that odd. Too good to be true.
But Juniper seemed to fit into the town like chocolate chips fit into ice cream.
Juniper wiped down the far end of the bar with the brisk, no-nonsense rhythm of someone who’d already broken up one argument today and wouldn’t tolerate another.
On some levels, it contradicted her bubbly, always-happy personality.
This place could use someone like Juniper.
Someone who could handle a rowdy, drunk fisherman while wearing a smile and carrying a rainbow.
The only thing that really made the situation odd was that Sterling had become interested.
Not that the women he dated weren’t inherently easy-going or happy.
They just weren’t over-the-top about it, and Sterling had a type.
Sophisticated, high-heels, designer everything—the kind of woman who demanded things be perfect and pitched a fit when they weren’t.
They drank dirty martinis, ate caviar, and went to the country club for weekly gossip.
Juniper wasn’t that.
“He’s late.” Sterling shifted his gaze to the front door and stared at it as if a magical puff of smoke might appear and seconds later, Flager would watch through it.
“He’s FBI,” Buddy said. “Late’s a performance choice.”
Flagler came in a second later, as if on cue—tall, tailored, the same unflinching eyes Buddy remembered from when he’d been a special agent, and they’d worked together on a few cases.
Flagler clocked exits first, then them, and crossed with the easy stride of a man who’d been told a bar was a perfectly acceptable interview room.
“Buddy Ballard.” He shook once, firm. “And you must be Sterling.”
Juniper showed up out of nowhere and dropped off water without being asked. “You need menus?” She smiled sweetly—at Sterling.
Maybe he hadn’t crashed and burned as hard as the man had thought.
“We’re good, thanks,” Buddy said.
“So, how’s the private sector treating you?” Flagler leaned back, loosened his tie, as if he needed to breathe a little.
“I like it,” Buddy admitted. “Especially the part where I don’t have to file paperwork to save lives.”
Flagler cocked his head. “We get the job done.”
“Some days. But I didn’t ask you here to discuss my exit from the FBI or to try to recruit you to the Aegis Network—though, you’d be welcome.”
“Alright. Why am I here?”
“I want to know about Jane Doe. About the case. And I want to know if you’re looking into connections to Simon.”
“Well now, that’s a mouthful.” Sterling reached for his water and took a few gulps.
Juniper appeared again. Buddy always found it fascinating how she picked specific tables to wait on. She was the owner. She didn’t have to, but she always seemed to wait on the perceived important people of Calusa Cove.
“Can I get you boys, a drink? Something to eat?”
“Just coffee for me,” Buddy said. “Oat milk, please.”
“Coffee for me as well, black.” Sterling flashed his million-dollar grin.
“I’ll have the same.” Flagler leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. He waited a few seconds after Juniper left and then said, “I shouldn’t tell you anything. But I will—on one condition.”
“What’s that?” Sterling asked.
“I need you to keep me in the loop on anything you find, because I know you're not gonna let this rest. And I’ll do the same. We work together, or I work alone. Deal?”
Buddy nodded. “We can live with that.”
“First, I’ll agree there are too many similarities to Operation Blue Eden to ignore. But you know how the Bureau works. Fucking slow. Not to mention, you made so many damn arrests and shut down one of the biggest pipelines of human trafficking they’d ever seen.”
“Are you saying they won’t even consider Simon’s setting something up from prison. That he’s still got people on the outside?” Buddy asked.
“Not yet. But I’ve filed the paperwork to talk to him.”
Buddy swore under his breath. He hated all the red tape.
“You should know, the girl’s finally awake.
Came too early this morning. Seven days of being either unconscious or sedated.
She woke up screaming. Tried to yank out her IVs.
Kicked and thrashed at the nurses. But they were able to calm her down.
” Flager stared at his water with a distance in his eyes that Buddy recognized.
It was that emotional detachment that was required to do the job.
The one that Buddy never wanted to have again.
She gave us a name when she finally calmed down. Tannette Runon.”
“I’m glad she’s awake.” Buddy leaned back. “What did you find out about her when you ran her name through the database?” Buddy asked.
“Absolutely nothing,” Flagler said. “No state record. No federal. Nothing with HHS or DHS. She has a bit of an accent, but it’s not thick.
I’m leaning Vietnamese—maybe Khmer. Could be Thai.
She’s terrified. Won’t look men in the eye.
Anyone in a uniform, or with a badge and gun, makes her shake like a building’s about to collapse on her. ”
“What about bringing Chloe in?” Buddy said. “No badge. No gun. No uniform. Just a nice woman with a friendly face.”
“Did that two hours ago. She’s the one who got her name.” Flagler finally lifted his gaze. “Chloe thought she could be undocumented.”
Sterling tapped his fingers on the table, something he did when he was thinking, and it drove Buddy up the wall.
“Do you believe she was trafficked into this country? Because the pipeline Buddy shut down was internally run, or girls were shipped overseas. While Simon did have a flow coming in, it wasn’t his main business. ”
“But it happened. And while Simon did work mostly inside the US, I’ve worked a case where hundreds of kids were brought in to work our version of sweatshops—rich white dudes who want a young foreign girl. Nothing shocks me anymore,” Flagler said. “We’re running foreign queries. It’ll take time.”
Juniper stepped to the edge of the table with a tray. She placed their coffees in front of them and slid a basket of fries onto the table like a peace offering. “You boys look like you could use some think tank food.”
“Thanks,” Buddy said. His phone vibrated against his pocket. He pulled it out and stared at the screen.
Unknown number. No preview.
He opened it.
If you want to save Fallon, you’d better hurry. He’s out there again, and he wants her.
The blood ran cold as the words sliced clean through him.
“What’s going on?” Sterling asked.
He raised his cell so Sterling and Flagler could see the text.
“Fuck,” Sterling mumbled.
“Buddy typed a message to the unknown number.
Who is this? Where?
It went underlived.
He hit call. Disconnected.
“God damn it.”
“It’s a trap,” Sterling said.
“I know.” Buddy stood, tucking more than cash under the basket of fires to cover at least a couple of meals they hadn’t ordered. “Doesn’t matter. We can’t just leave her and Cullen out there, even if we do warn them.”
Flagler was already up. “I’m coming.”
“Follow me to the marina,” Buddy said. “And call Dawson on your way. Tell him I need to borrow a boat and that he should meet us there. Tell him what’s going on.”
They were out the door in a line—Buddy first, Flagler two steps behind, Sterling the anchor. The afternoon heat radiated off the sidewalk. Buddy climbed into his borrowed truck—courtesy of the Aegis Network. Flagler followed in his four-door sedan that screamed federal agent.
He set his cell in the carrier and tapped Fallon’s contact information.
“Hey, what’s up?” she said, picking up on the first ring.
“Listen, I need you and Cullen—”
“Sorry, call coming over the radio. I gotta go. I’ll call you back as soon as I can.” The line went dead.
“Fuck.” He smashed his hand against the steering wheel and pressed the gas pedal, just a tad. Lots of people out walking. “Take my cell and text her.”
“And say what? Run? Hide? She’s answering a work call.”
“I get it. But ask her to text me back her location.”
“Okay, but let's face it. This isn’t about her, and we both know if they wanted her dead, they could’ve killed her.
Harley told us she thought they missed Fallon on purpose.
That they were aiming for the boat. The water.
Not Fallon, and the only reason Trent got shot was because he tossed a motherfucking big ass snake at them.
They wanted to scare Fallon and send you a message, and that’s what this is, too.
Or maybe they just want to kill you.” Sterling spoke faster than Buddy had ever heard before.
And when he spoke quickly, it meant he wasn’t thinking about the words.
He wasn’t choosing carefully. His instincts were kicking in.
And maybe—just maybe—he was right.
“Besides, Keaton will know where she went if it’s a work call.”
That was true, but it didn’t make Buddy feel any better. Whoever was targeting Fallon—targeting him—was going to pay.
He was going to make damn sure of it.
The stillness of the Everglades usually brought a sense of serenity to Fallon’s aching heart—especially this time of year, when the air turned heavy with memory. Out here, surrounded by cypress and sawgrass, something in her settled.