Chapter 3
THREE
Deputy U.S. Marshal Tomás Gates pushed it open, stepped inside and let the door close behind him. It was so dark inside it took a second for his eyes to adjust. There were three booths, and only one was occupied.
Gates slid into it, across from a man in a DOJ windbreaker.
They didn’t bother with a handshake. A file sat open on the table between them.
The man was older, with a heavily-lined face and eyes that were too close together.
It reminded him of something his ex-wife used to say about men with that particular facial feature: that they were shifty.
This guy was, probably, or at least, no shiftier than anyone who worked in their world.
“You’re late,” he said.
Gates said nothing, just sat back in his seat.
A flat pause. Then he said, “Heard you’re running point on the northeastern corridor. Joint task force with the federales, right?”
Gates didn’t respond.
“Still don’t get why they brought you in on the Inglis case,” the contact said. “We had it covered.”
Gates scoffed. “Your ‘coverage’ has had him missing two years.”
The man flipped a page, ignoring the comment.
“As you know, back in ’23, former Deputy U.S. Marshal Ryan Inglis illegally accessed WITSEC files. He breached one of our highest-level vaults. He was looking for one name: Jessica Meeks. Federal witness in the La Mano Negra case.”
Gates nodded. He already knew every frame of this story but let the man unspool it anyway.
“Inglis used her location to negotiate with the cartel because La Mano was holding his wife, Kylie. And he broke protocol, broke the law, to try and get her back.”
“He got her back dead,” Gates said flatly.
The man blinked, as if surprised by Gates’s insensitive take on the matter.
Then he continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted.
“Once the damage was done, Inglis tried to get Meeks to safety. But she figured it out along the way and ran before he could explain. Got picked up anyway. Cartel had her for two days. She survived. Barely.” He flipped another page.
“Inglis disappeared. Burned his IDs. He’s been Marshals Most Wanted ever since.
” The man sat back, one finger tapping the corner of the file.
“Hell of a fall. The guy used to teach ethics and inter-agency cooperation.”
“I’m not here for a postmortem,” Gates said. “I’m here to find the kid.”
That got a reaction, a small tilt of the contact’s head, not sympathy, but understanding. “Noah Carmichael,” he said. “Still missing?”
“Three days. Picked up from his grandmother’s place in Tennessee. No forced entry, no ransom note. Just gone.” Gates pulled up a photo on his phone. A seven-year-old boy, red hair, crooked smile. A school portrait, the last one taken. “We think he was smuggled south,” he said. “Into México.”
The contact narrowed his eyes. “He Inglis’s?”
“Not biologically,” Gates said. “But close enough to matter.”
The man whistled under his breath. “So you think he’ll come out of hiding for the kid?”
Gates didn’t answer. He just stood and headed for the door, taking the file with him.
“So what is this really?” the contact called after him. “A child recovery op, or a rogue marshal clean-up job?”
Neither, Gates thought but didn’t say. He just pushed open the door and stepped back out into the Texas heat.