Chapter Sixty
AUGIE LLOYD HAD claimed one of the corner offices on the third floor of the FBI’s New Orleans Field Office, overlooking Lake Pontchartrain. The building’s upper floors were secured by keycard access and biometric scanners, but Lloyd’s office felt more like a private club than a federal workspace.
He sat behind a polished mahogany desk, eyes sharp behind rimless glasses that caught the morning light.
Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a sweeping view of the lake, shimmering in the afternoon heat.
Lloyd’s walls were curated with precision: framed commendations, photos of him shaking hands with senators and cabinet secretaries, and a shadow box displaying his Bureau badge alongside a pair of brass handcuffs engraved with the FBI seal.
Stanton stood with arms folded, his posture rigid. J.J. stood just behind him, silent.
Lloyd didn’t bother to rise. He had summoned them to his desk like a principal calling in a pair of underperforming students. He tapped the printed police report on the Dorado Freight attack, the bolded line referencing the suspected death of a law enforcement officer.
“The DA sent this over,” Lloyd began. “Wanted to make sure I saw it personally.”
Stanton gave a curt nod.
“This sicario, this mercenary, the man you identified as Chris Walker, is starting to look more like a domestic terrorist,” Lloyd said, voice low and deliberate. “At minimum, he’s a serial killer. And that’s not a good look for the Bureau.”
You mean for Icy, Stanton thought, noting his boss’s tired eyes.
“Please give me some good news.”
“We just came from Dorado,” Stanton said. “Scene’s a bombed-out mess. No video. No prints. But the blast was surgical. It only took out two vehicles of foreign nationals of unknown origin. Whoever did it knew exactly what they were doing.”
Lloyd didn’t blink. “Where are we with it?”
“We are following the evidence,” Stanton said evenly. “Not the optics.”
“Your job is to produce results.”
“And to get it right,” Stanton retorted. “The facts point to Dorado’s involvement in something bigger. The absence of evidence is just as telling as the blast itself.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dorado looks less like a warehouse and more like a pipeline. Sugar for sure. But something else as well. I’d like to loop in the Coast Guard to help locate the company owner, Charlie Babineaux. With your approval.”
Lloyd leaned back, his chair creaking beneath him. “Your job, Agent Stanton, is to find the sicario, or contract killer, mercenary, or whatever the hell he is.”
Stanton’s jaw tightened. “We’re trying to understand the whole picture. Casting the net as wide as we need to.”
“No.” Lloyd’s voice was calm but edged with finality. “You’re chasing a killer. That’s your priority. Not corporate logistics. Not sugar manifests. Not cartel economics. And certainly not maritime manhunts for a guy who’s out on his boat fishing.”
He paused, letting the silence stretch.
“A man is killing cops in this city,” Lloyd continued. “That’s what matters. Stop the bleeding. Then worry about what caused it. I want to know what you’re doing, now, to nail this guy.”
Stanton held his ground. “We’re building the case. If we move too fast, we miss what’s underneath.”
Lloyd’s eyes narrowed, just slightly. “You’ve always been thorough, Jarrett, but the Bureau doesn’t get credit for patience. It gets credit for arrests. I want one.”
J.J. glanced at Stanton for the briefest moment.
“We’re building a profile based on the information Agent Stanton was able to cull from the Office of Personnel Management and what he could extract from the CIA.”
Lloyd’s eyes shifted between his two agents, landing back on Stanton. “Your contact at the Agency. Fisk?”
Stanton gave a single nod.
J.J. flipped a page in her notebook and continued, her voice steady.
“Chris Walker is a former SEAL Team Six operator recruited into the CIA’s Ground Branch.
Medically retired. Multiple deployments to Afghanistan with both the Navy and CIA.
His last mission in 2021 seems to be the reason he parted ways with the Agency. ”
“And the CIA won’t give us details, is that right?” Lloyd asked, his tone clipped.
“This was Special Access Program level. Fisk wasn’t willing to fill in the blanks,” Stanton said.
J.J. pressed on. “It took some digging through the Portland Field Office, but they were able to find early childhood records. He’s adopted.
The adoptive father split early on. Adoptive mom passed away from cancer when Walker was in his teens.
Oregon State testing indicates he has a Mensa-level IQ and OPM records confirm him as exceptionally intelligent based on all his military aptitude tests.
He completed his degree right after leaving the Navy, then pursued a doctorate in philosophy at NYU.
I spoke to one of his former professors. ”
Lloyd raised an eyebrow. “And?”
“He said Walker was a brilliant thinker, obsessed with moral philosophy. As if he had seen too much war, too much death, and could not quite put it behind him.”
“Well, his morality seems to have found a home with the cartels.”
“Possibly,” J.J. said. “But he’s not sloppy. He’s tactical. He’s choosing his targets. Our interest in Dorado is to understand the motive behind those choices. That part’s still unclear.”
Lloyd stood abruptly, the chair snapping upright. He walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back, staring out at the lake. His reflection hovered faintly in the glass.
“You need to find him,” he said. “Leave Dorado to the DEA. You focus on Chris Walker. Bring this killing to an end.”
“Understood,” Stanton said.
“I’ve reached out to contacts at CIA and DEA as well. If they can shed any additional light you’ll know as soon as I do,” Lloyd said. “For now, I want you two bloodhounds to track down Chris Walker. He is our number one priority. That’s your job. Clear?”
“It’s clear, sir,” Stanton replied.
“Give me a minute with Jarrett, would you,” Lloyd said to J.J.
She closed her notebook with a soft snap. “Yes, sir.”
When Stanton and Lloyd were alone, the SAC turned from the window, his expression unreadable against the bright sky.
“I know you’ve got your eye on this seat when I retire next year, Jarrett. You’ve more than earned it. But let me give you a little piece of advice. A parable, if you will.”
He stepped closer to his desk, voice dropping.
“You know,” he said, “a man can build a thousand bridges, but then he sucks one cock and he’s forever a cocksucker. Don’t make a mistake here, Jarrett. You fuck this up and that’s all anyone will remember. If Walker keeps killing, you can kiss this office goodbye.”
His eyes bored into his subordinate.
“Find him before he kills again.”
The phone on Lloyd’s desk rang. Annoyed, he gestured for Stanton to stay and picked up the receiver.
“I thought I said no calls… I see… Put him through… Hey… You’ve got to be kidding me… Keep me posted.”
He hung up the phone and sank into his chair.
“That was the superintendent. The divers found the car. Detective Gormley’s dead. Drowned. Locked in the back of his Charger.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“There’s something else.”
“Oh?”
“Another bomb went off.”
“Where?”
“Horse country.”
“What?”
“A car belonging to Walt Kimbel of Genyra Pharmaceuticals. Seems someone made off with the body.”
“I’ll get out there right away.”
“Jarrett, you and J.J. watch your backs. We’ve lost enough of the good guys. Walker’s a trained killer. If there’s any doubt, put him down.”