The Bodyguard's Broken Cover
1. The Man Who Doesn’t Exist
The Man Who Doesn’t Exist
Chris Walker had two speeds.
Stopped.
And fast.
There was technically a speedometer mounted in the center of the FBI training vehicle, but Chris had stopped looking at it somewhere around ninety.The engine screamed as he dropped the black Dodge Charger into the next curve.
“Walker, brake.”
The instructor’s voice crackled through the radio.
Chris didn’t.One hundred and two.The pavement disappeared beneath the hood as the road dropped sharply downhill.Ahead, orange cones marked a hard right.Chris waited.
Waited.
Waited.
“Walker—”His foot slammed the brake.The Charger pitched forward.Ninety-seven.Eighty-two.Sixty-eight.Chris twisted the wheel.The rear tires broke loose.
For half a second, the Charger was pointed toward nothing but concrete barrier.Then Chris caught it.Countersteer.Throttle.Straighten.The rear end snapped back into line.He shot out of the turn at seventy-three miles per hour and buried the accelerator again.
The engine roared.“Jesus Christ,” someone muttered over the radio.Chris smiled.
The straightaway opened in front of him.Eighty.Ninety.One hundred.One hundred and eleven.Red and blue emergency lights flashed in his rearview mirror.The pursuit vehicle was gaining.Chris glanced at it once.Special Agent Logan Price was driving.Logan was good.
Very good.Chris knew because they’d been through advanced vehicle operations together years ago.But good wasn’t the same as Chris Walker. Chris checked the approaching intersection.Barricades blocked the road directly ahead.Left turn.
Narrow lane.Concrete divider on one side.Temporary fencing on the other.
“Walker, you’ve got approximately ten feet of clearance.”
“Plenty.”
“That’s not plenty.”Chris downshifted.The engine jumped.He tapped the brake.
Not enough to slow considerably.Just enough to transfer the weight forward.Then he threw the Charger left.The rear stepped out.The tires screamed.Chris’s left hand fed the wheel through while his right corrected.The Charger slid sideways through the turn.
The passenger-side mirror passed the barrier by inches.The driver’s side came just as close to the fence.Chris straightened.Accelerated.Seventy-eight.Eighty-nine.Ninety-six.
Logan attempted the same turn behind him.Too wide.His pursuit vehicle clipped three cones.Chris laughed.The radio crackled.“Go to hell, Walker.”
“Keep up, Price.”
“I hate you.”
“You’re supposed to catch me.”
“I’m working on it.”
“You’ve been working on it for ten minutes.”The radio went silent.Chris could practically hear Logan swearing.He approached the next section of the FBI’s tactical driving course.
This one simulated city streets.Parked vehicles.Blind intersections.Delivery trucks.
Construction barriers.Pedestrian cutouts.Everything designed to force an agent to process multiple threats at high speed.Chris’s expression changed.The joking stopped.
His eyes started moving.Mirror.Road.Intersection.Mirror.Parked car.Rooftop.Side street.
Pedestrian mannequin.Escape route.The trick wasn’t driving fast.Any idiot could push an accelerator.The trick was knowing exactly what the vehicle would do before it did it.
Chris knew.He knew how much weight would shift when he braked.How much traction he had left.How violently the rear tires would break loose.How much steering input would recover the car.How much speed he could carry into a corner without losing control.Most importantly, he knew how to stay calm while doing all of it.A white SUV suddenly shot from a side street.Chris reacted instantly.Brake.Downshift.Hard right.The Charger missed the SUV by less than three feet.Chris accelerated through a narrow service lane.The pursuing vehicle stayed behind him.
“Better,” Chris muttered.Logan heard him.
“Shut up.”Chris approached another ninety-degree corner.No room for a wide entry.
Concrete walls boxed him in.He dropped to fifty-six.Turned hard.The rear tire kissed the curb.The entire car jumped.
Chris corrected before it could rotate.
Then he accelerated again.
Sixty.
Seventy.
Eighty-five.
He emerged onto the final straightaway.
Logan was still behind him.
Closer now.
Chris looked in the mirror.
“All right, Price.”
He smiled.
“Let’s see what you’ve got.”
“Walker,” the instructor warned.
Chris floored it.
The Charger surged.
Ninety.
One hundred.
One hundred and fourteen.
One hundred and twenty-one.
Wind hammered against the vehicle.
The end of the straightaway was coming.
Fast.
A concrete barrier waited beyond it.
The instructor’s voice exploded over the radio.
“Walker, shut it down.”
Chris held the throttle another second.
“WALKER.”
He braked.
Hard.
The ABS hammered beneath his foot.
One hundred and seventeen.
Ninety-eight.
Seventy-three.
Forty-five.
Twenty.
Chris guided the Charger into the marked stopping box.
Zero.
Perfectly centered.
Silence.
Chris rested both hands on the wheel.
His breathing was barely elevated.
The pursuit vehicle stopped twenty yards behind him.
Logan climbed out.
He removed his helmet and stared at Chris.
Chris lowered his window.
“What?”
“You have psychological problems.”
“That’s hurtful.”
“You took that last straight at a hundred and twenty-one.”
“One twenty-three.”
Logan stared at him.
Chris shrugged.
“Speedometer’s calibrated.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“That feels more accurate.”
The passenger door of the training vehicle opened.
Supervisory Special Agent Daniel Mercer stepped out.
Mercer was fifty-two and looked like he’d been born wearing a suit and disapproving of everyone around him.
He crossed his arms.
“Walker.”
Chris looked at him.
“You trying to kill one of my instructors?”
Chris glanced at Logan.
“He’s fine.”
Logan pointed at him.
“That’s not the point.”
Mercer didn’t smile.
“Inside.”
Chris’s grin disappeared.
Something about Mercer’s expression told him this wasn’t about the driving course.
“Now?”
“Now.”
Chris killed the engine.
Ten minutes later, the helmet was gone.
So was the smile.
Chris walked through the secured corridor of the federal complex wearing black tactical pants and a gray training shirt still damp across his back.
An agent met him at the security door.
“Phone.”
Chris handed it over.
“Watch.”
He removed it.
“Anything electronic.”
Chris gave him a look.
“I know how a SCIF works.”
“Then this should be easy.”
Chris dropped the watch into the secured locker.
His badge got him through the first door.
A PIN got him through the second.
The third required biometric verification.
Whatever Mercer wanted to discuss wasn’t routine.
The lock clicked.
Chris entered.
The briefing room was cold.
That was the first thing he noticed.
The second was the wall.
Photographs covered almost every inch of it.
Men.
Women.
Warehouses.
Restaurants.
Cargo vehicles.
Luxury homes.
Maps.
Financial diagrams.
Border crossings.
Surveillance images.
Seized narcotics.
Several photographs showed bodies covered by white sheets.
Chris stopped.
His mood shifted instantly.
Mercer entered behind him and closed the door.
Two other agents were already waiting.
Chris recognized one.
Assistant Special Agent in Charge Rebecca Sloan.
Organized crime.
The other man wasn’t familiar.
Mercer gestured.
“Sit.”
Chris didn’t.
He walked toward the wall.
At the center was a large photograph of a man in his late thirties stepping from the back of a black SUV.
Dark suit.
No tie.
Controlled expression.
Two security men behind him.
Chris read the name underneath.
MATEO VARGAS.
“Vargas organization,” Chris said.
Sloan leaned against the table.
“You’ve heard of them.”
“Everyone in organized crime has heard of them.”
“Then you know why you’re here.”
Chris kept studying the photographs.
“Probably not to compliment my driving.”
Mercer sat.
“No.”
Chris’s eyes moved across the evidence board.
Locations throughout Texas.
Arizona.
Connections extending south toward Mexico.
Shell businesses.
Transportation companies.
Import firms.
Restaurants.
Construction companies.
The organization was large.
More importantly, it was insulated.
Chris could see that immediately.
Everyone surrounding Mateo seemed to have another layer between themselves and the actual narcotics.
Smart.
Chris finally looked at Sloan.
“How long?”
“Four years.”
Chris frowned.
“You’ve been investigating him four years?”
“Different agencies have been trying longer.”
“And?”
“We arrest distributors. Couriers. Mid-level people. Occasionally somebody close enough to make us think we’re getting somewhere.”
“What happens?”
“They lawyer up, disappear, recant, or die.”
Chris looked back toward one of the covered bodies.
“Convenient.”
“Very.”
Sloan walked toward the board.
“Mateo Vargas doesn’t touch product. Doesn’t negotiate directly with street-level distributors. Doesn’t put himself anywhere near anything that can easily be tied back to him.”
“Somebody does.”
“Of course.”
“Then flip them.”
“We’ve tried.”
Chris turned.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Sloan looked at Mercer.
Mercer answered.
“We’re done trying to work toward Vargas from the outside.”
Chris understood before Mercer finished.
“You want somebody inside.”
Nobody answered.
Chris looked between them.
Then laughed once.
“Of course you do.”
Mercer leaned back.
“You have a problem with that?”
“No.”
Chris walked closer to the board again.
“Who?”
Sloan didn’t answer immediately.
Chris turned.
She was looking directly at him.
His expression slowly changed.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
Mercer said, “We’re not.”
Chris stared at them.
“You want me inside the Vargas cartel.”
“We want Chris Walker nowhere near the Vargas cartel.”
Chris frowned.
Sloan slid a thin folder across the table.
“We want him.”
Chris opened it.
A driver’s license stared back at him.
His photograph.
Different address.
Different information.
Same first name.
CHRISTOPHER ROMAN.
Chris stared at it.
“Roman?”
Mercer shrugged.
“You don’t like it?”
“I’ve had worse.”
“You’ve had significantly worse.”
That was true.
Chris turned the page.
Employment history.
Arrests.
Addresses.
Associates.
Everything fabricated.
Except the details cleverly built around pieces of Chris’s real capabilities.
Mechanic.