Chapter 7 Jordan
SEVEN
JORDAN
—@CAL_FIRE
Jordan expected a US Marshal to be a rectangular chunk of man with weathered features, piercing eyes, and a no-BS Texas drawl.
This one had the piercing eyes, but that was about it. She was a fit-looking Asian woman with spiky hair and a loose-jawed surfer accent that sounded wrong coming from someone who wanted to relieve him of his command.
“US Marshal AJ Wen with the Pacific Southwest Regional Task Force,” she said, squeezing his hand vigorously.
“Madera County Sheriff Jordan Burke,” he said, gripping her hand just as hard.
He waited for her to let go first. Petty, maybe.
Behind Wen, three mismatched men, presumably also US Marshals, leaned against a black Ford Explorer with tinted windows.
The wide-shouldered blond one looked like he had to turn sideways to get through doorways.
The tall, slender Black one was sizing Jordan up, his mouth pursed like he was holding in a wiseass remark.
And the fair-skinned, redheaded woman, if this were a movie, would have been the one who could hack into a criminal mastermind’s Swiss bank account from an ordinary laptop.
Beto stood shoulder to shoulder with Jordan, eyeballing the Feds impassively. Jordan knew the deputy had stonewalled them while he angrily retraced his route.
“I welcome your help, even though I would have appreciated a heads-up,” said Jordan, hiding his frustration. “But you might have wasted a trip. Before you called me back here, my K9 team found a blood trail and we’re following it.”
“No offense, Sheriff?” said Wen. “But we haven’t, like, been driving since zero-dark-thirty just to turn around and go back home.”
“You should have seen the traffic on the Five,” said the Black guy.
“The only time US Marshals head home is when we have the fugitive in handcuffs,” Wen added.
Jordan was starting to take offense. “The fugitive is injured and losing blood. It’s only a matter of time before we catch up to her.”
“That’s a pretty big assumption.”
“So what do you want here, Wen?”
Wen tilted her head to indicate the people and vehicles around them. “You’ve got a growing, multiagency operation. Let me coordinate.”
Most of his deputies and S&R guys were in the field, but there were still plenty of onlookers.
Above the paper masks some of them were now wearing as protection against the thickening smoke, eyes were watching.
Ears were listening. Jordan knew he had to handle this without losing his temper.
But while he stood here negotiating with the minutes slipping away, Silverman was still shadowing his search party.
“And who gets the credit? You guys?”
“Credit for what?” said the Black guy. “You guys haven’t caught her.”
“Am I talking to you or this guy?” Jordan asked Wen, hearing an ugly tone in his voice.
“Crosby, chill,” warned Wen.
He raised his hands in mock surrender.
“Let’s start over?” said Wen. “You need our help, whether you think you do or not. Every major news outlet is scrambling reporters, and if you don’t make a quick catch, these guys are going to be, like, camped out inside your butt crack. You ever deal with something like that?”
Jordan couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “We’re getting chased by wildfire . . . and you called me off a hot trail . . . to tell me I need to hurry up.”
Wen glanced around and seemed to realize the onlookers listening to their confrontation were inching closer. She nodded toward the MCP.
“Can we talk in there?”
Seething at the delay, Jordan nodded. There would be fewer witnesses when he flew off the handle.