No Way Out

by Simone Scarlet

  Ring! Ring!

  There was a loud buzzing from the plastic bag on the back seat.

  I leaned over the tugged open the bag. Inside was a small, flip-top cell phone Agent Barron had given me before he’d left – along with the warning that ‘he’d be in touch.’

  Giving Christi an apologetic shrug, I reached into the back and flipped it open.

  “Agent Stone?”

  It was Special Agent-in-Charge Barron, his voice dry and even.

  “Yep,” I replied.

  “You should have let me know you were discharging yourself.” He didn’t sound too thrilled that I’d done that. “I’d have sent a car down to pick you up.”

  “I’m good,” I murmured down the phone. “A friend picked me up. We’re just collecting my bike.”

  “A friend, eh?”

  I heard Barron laugh derisively.

  “Well, that’s convenient. If your ‘friend’ is who I think it is, I’ve been told to get the both of you up to our office in Carlsbad for debriefing.”

  Debriefing. Another word for another pointless meeting, telling me what we already knew about their fruitless investigation into Coyle and his gang.

  Only, this time it wouldn’t be pointless – because there was something I could do while I was there.

  Hand in my resignation.

  Because if all of this had taught me anything, it was that I wasn’t cut out to be a Homeland Security agent.

  No more undercover work for me. No more hunting bad guys who might not have even been that bad in the first place.

  I was through.

  I didn’t know what I’d do next… But it didn’t matter. As long as I had Christi and my bike, I had everything that mattered to me…

  And I’d spent long enough riding with the Knuckleheads to know that you don’t need much more than gas money to lead a life worth living.

  “See you soon,” I told Agent Barron, and snapped shut the cell-phone before he even had a chance to respond.

  I looked up at Christi, staring expectantly at me from across the cabin of the small car.

  “That was the FBI,” I told her.

  “Yeah.” Christi rolled her eyes. “I figured.”

  “We’ve got to go and check in.” I looked up, over her shoulder, at my gleaming Harley Davidson. “Fancy headin’ there in style?”

  Christi smiled, and squirmed in her seat a little.

  “I could take a ride,” she admitted. “I left this car at my friend’s house for four months… I guess another day or two won’t matter.”

  And, with that, she pulled the keys from the ignition, and we both clambered out of her beat up little convertible.

  Moments later, the engine of my Harley gurgled into life – and before the blue smoke of the exhaust had even cleared from the air, we were screaming down the highway towards Carlsbad.

  It felt good to be behind those big, chrome handlebars again… And wherever fate took us, I knew Christi and I would be able to handle it together.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Christi

  I’m not going to lie. Only the Department of Motor Vehicles rivals the offices of the FBI for drabness.

  Not twenty minutes after Mason had received the summons to Carlsbad, we were rolling into the parking lot of a nondescript office block, and getting ushered into a dark and gloomy lobby brightened only by an American flag hanging in the corner, and a picture of the President hanging on one wall.

  Special Agent-in-Charge Barron and the rest of his team were waiting for us when we arrived – and after collecting name badges and passing through a metal detector, we were whisked upstairs to an office no less drab and dated than the lobby down beneath.

  But they had coffee, and at least the air conditioning worked.

  “Thanks for joining us,” Special Agent-in-Charge Barron announced, as Mason and I took seats across a wide table in one of their boardrooms. “How you feeling, Agent Stone?”

  Mason shrugged his broad shoulders.

  “Definitely on the mend,” he admitted, as he eased his bulk into a creaking plastic chair. “Now, why have you brought us here?”

  The FBI agents sat across the table from us – Special Agent-in-Charge Barron, plus Agents Schloemer and Mitzell.

  “Homeland Security is pressing us for a report,” Barron explained. “Think you can type one of those up for us?”

  “Type? No.”

  Mason reached into his leather jacket, and pulled out a folded sheaf of legal paper.

  “But I wrote this out by hand – everything I can remember happening.”

  The bundle of papers was slid across the table.

  “I was bored, okay?” He shrugged his big shoulders. “There wasn’t a lot else to do in the hospital, and I knew you’d be asking for it sooner or later.”

  Barron grabbed the pile of papers, and narrowed his eyes as he struggled to read it.

  “T-thank you?”

  “I know, I know, I have a doctor’s handwriting,” Mason grinned. “But you’ll figure it out.”

  Barron passed the papers to Mitzell, who gingerly filed them away in a manila binder.

  Then it was time for more talk.

  “Ms. Lange,” Special Agent-in-Charge Barron addressed me. “We’ll need to ask you some questions as well…”

  “I told you everything I know,” I held up my hands. “Are you going to ask me the same questions all over again? Even the ones I didn’t have an answer for the first time?”

  Agent Barron bristled a little when he heard that… But after taking a deep breath, he calmed down enough to admit: “There’s more.”

  “More?” I demanded.

  More bureaucratic bullshit, from these useless people?

  The FBI agents turned and looked at each other uncertainly – as if considering whether to actually do whatever it was they had planned…

  Then, finally, Agent Mitzell turned to me, and started talking.

  “Ms. Lange… I’m sure you’re aware of the procedure of Civil Forfeiture.”

  My eyes narrowed into slits.

  “Yeah,” I growled bitterly. “That’s the bullshit excuse you used to take my father’s farm away from me.”

  Agent Mitzell cleared his throat uncomfortably.

  “Quite,” he admitted. “Or, more specifically, it’s a measure in which federal law enforcement can seize people’s property and effects, if they believe they were used in conducting a crime.”

  “Even without charging or arresting the suspect,” Mason added with a snarl. Clearly he thought civil forfeiture was bullshit too.

  And it was. Even beyond being the personal victim of it, everything I’d read about civil forfeiture made it sound like it was pretty much nothing more than legalized theft, and totally outside of the normal legal process.

  “Well,” Mitzell looked incredibly uncomfortable as he continued talking. “As you’re aware, your family farm was seized by civil forfeiture following the raid in which your father was… erm…”

  “Murdered,” I growled. I felt my blood bubbling with seething rage.

  “…in which your father passed away,” Mitzell corrected me.

  I didn’t respond. I just looked at Mitzell with the same murderous look I’d given Officers Dempsey and Sanchez, and even Coyle, when I thought he’d murdered Mason...

  “It was quite appropriate, in the circumstances,” Special Agent-in-Charge Barron spoke up, coming in to save Mitzell from his awkwardness. “I know Bandy Canyon Cannabis was legal in the state of California, but at a federal level, growing marijuana is still a crime.”

  “Yeah.” I gripped the sides of the plastic chair I was sitting on with white knuckles – trying desperately not to explode with rage. “Yeah, I fucking get that…”

  “W-well,” Mitzell cleared his throat. “Given the circumstances surrounding what happened…”

  “The fact that Officers Dempsey and Sanchez falsified information,” Barron explained, “in order to improperly obtain a
warrant to raid your father’s farm…”

  “…and that the circumstances surrounding your father’s shooting were highly questionable…”

  “Look, what we’re trying to say is… is this.”

  From the folder in front of him, Special Agent-in-Charge Barron pulled a sheaf of legal documentation and slid it across the table towards us.

  Confused, I accepted it, and spun the papers around on the sleek Formica.

  It was all legal jargon. I could barely understand it.

  “We had an internal review,” Special Agent-in-Charge Barron explained, as I struggled to scan the paperwork, “and we made a decision.”

  He took a deep breath.

  “It’s highly unusual, and pretty much unprecedented…”

  Just get on with it, I thought to myself. Agent Barron was drawing this out like a doctor struggling to give a patient his cancer diagnosis.

  “…but we’ve decided to forgo the seizure.”

  Scratch that. This was the opposite of a cancer diagnosis.

  Had I even heard him right?

  “Given the circumstances,” Barron confirmed, “we feel it would be inappropriate for the federal government to seize your father’s property.”

  I blinked.

  For a moment, I couldn’t even move. I just sat there like a statue – only my eyes moving as I scanned the paperwork below me, to see if it confirmed what I thought I’d just heard.

  ...and even with my limited understanding of legal jargon, it seemed to.

  I felt my chest tighten.

  Reaching out one hand, I entwined my fingers with Mason’s, and squeezed.

  I squeezed for dear life – like I was drowning, and Mason was the only thing holding me afloat.

  “We’ll have police officers meet you at the farm to remove the locks and security,” Agent Mitzell concluded. “And, on behalf of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, we apologize for any distress this matter might have caused you.”

  The moment he mentioned an apology, reality suddenly hit me. I was finally able to absorb what they’d just told me – and it changed everything.

  I looked up from the paper.

  I felt fat, hot tears rolling down my cheeks.

  For the first time in as long as I could remember, they were tears of joy.

  “T-thank you.” I struggled to find the words. “Oh, my God, thank you.”

  The three FBI agents exchanged uncomfortable glances – clearly not used to a show of genuine gratitude.

  Typical guys. They’d face down deadly men like Coyle, and the Knuckleheads – but the moment a girl starts crying in front of them, they act like a bunch of scared little boys.

  But I didn’t care. I just sat there, tears rolling down my cheeks, and thanked them again.

  “I-it’s quite all right,” Agent Barron muttered, his cheeks burning.

  I didn’t want to prolong their torture, so I stopped thanking them – and, with a lot of pointless shuffling of papers, the three agents finally nodded at each other, and Special Agent-in-Charge Barron declared: “Unless there’s anything else, I believe this concludes our business…”

  “For today,” Agent Schloemer corrected him. He turned to look at Mason, and reminded him: “We’ll still have questions for you, Agent Stone.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Mason replied curtly. “And don’t worry – I’m not going far. You know how to reach me if you need me.”

  He held up the flip-top mobile phone Agent Barron had given him.

  “That we do,” the FBI agent acknowledged.

  Special Agent-in-Charge Barron glanced left, at Agent Mitzell, and then right, at Agent Schloemer.

  “Gentlemen… Is that all?”

  “Wait.”

  Mason’s voice echoed across the table.

  I turned to him, and watched as he did something totally unexpected.

  “There’s one more thing,” Mason told them, reaching once again into his leather jacket.

  He pulled out another crumpled sheet of legal paper – another letter he’d presumably hand-written while bored out of his mind in that hospital bed.

  The FBI agents studied him curiously.

  With a wry smile, Mason slid the letter across the table.

  Nervously, Special Agent-in-Charge Barron leaned forward and took it from him.

  “What is… this?”

  “It’s my letter of resignation,” Mason told him flatly.

  The three agents looked up at us and blinked.

  “I’ll file it formerly with my supervisors at Homeland Security tomorrow,” Mason reassured them, “but I wanted it out there as soon as possible.”

  He leaned back in his seat, and crossed his beefy arms.

  “It’s over,” Mason told them. “It’s done. I’m out.”

  Special Agent-in-Charge Barron picked up his resignation letter and narrowed his eyes, as he struggled to read Mason’s handwriting.

  “Y-you’re sure?” Mitzell looked across the table at Mason. “You’re one hell of a field agent, Stone. The government needs you.”

  “Nah,” Mason shook my head. “And even if they did, there’s somebody else who needs me more right now.”

  And then he turned, and looked me right in the eye – squeezing my hand tightly as he did so.

  I nearly melted.

  Blinking back tears, I squeezed Mason’s hand in response, and mouthed the words: “I love you.”

  Before he could respond, Special Agent-in-Charge Barron sighed.

  He’d read Mason’s short letter, and he didn’t seem too thrilled about it.

  “I’m sorry to red this, Agent Stone…”

  “Former Agent Stone,” Mason correct.

  Barron ignored him.

  “I’ll inform my superiors,” he nodded. “I’m sure they’ll have questions.”

  “Well, I’m not sure they’ll like my answers,” Mason admitted, pushing back his chair, “but they can reach me the same way you can.”

  With that, the meeting really did seem to be over. The five of us clambered up, and Mitzell gestured towards the door.

  As Schloemer held it open for me, Special Agent-in-Charge Barron grabbed Mason’s elbow.

  I could see Mason stiffen when he did that. After months riding with a biker gang, you develop a low tolerance for people putting their hands on your body without permission…

  But the moment passed almost instantly – and ignoring the FBI Agent’s hand on his elbow, Mason turned to Barron and nodded curiously.

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re sure you won’t reconsider?” Barron asked, holding up Mason’s resignation letter. “You did great service to your country with the Rangers. You can still do great service for them with Homeland Security.”

  “Nah.” Mason shook my head. “That isn’t me anymore. One taste of it was enough.” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “I’m done.”

  Barron nodded, and held out his hand.

  As he and Mason shook hands, Barron demanded: “So, what are you going to do now?”

  Mason smiled, and turned to face me.

  I was standing in the doorway of the meeting room – the deeds to my father’s farm clutched triumphantly in my hand.

  The moment my eyes met his, Mason smiled.

  “Oh, I dunno,” he grinned – and I felt my heart swell as I watched him deal with the FBI so confidently. “I spent so much of my career blowing things up in the desert… Maybe it’s time I tried growing something there instead.”

  Barron sorted derisively.

  “Nothing illegal, I hope,” he warned Mason.

  But Mason didn’t answer. He just shook Barron’s hand one final time, and then turned to face me.

  Hand in hand, we left the offices of the FBI – and emerged into the California sunlight feeling like we’d left a lifetime of emotional baggage behind us.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Mason

  There was something slightly forlorn about the police officers who met
us at Bandy Canyon Cannabis, hours later that afternoon.

  Officer Brady and Officer Tobias stood beside their gleaming cruiser, and Brady held up a massive pair of bolt cutters eagerly…

  …only the big, chain-link gates that had sealed shut the driveway to Christi’s father’s farm were already swinging open – the rusted chain and lock that had kept them sealed for so many months dumped unceremoniously in the dirt a few feet away.

  I rolled up behind the cruiser on the back of my Harley, with Christi following along behind in her beaten-up Sunbird.

  As I cut the big, grumbling engine, and kicked out the stand, the two cops trudged through the dirt towards me and Officer Brady held up the bolt cutters.

  He scoffed: “I guess we didn’t need these after all.”

  I left the heavy bike rest on its kickstand, and swung my leg over the saddle.

  I’d forgotten myself that Coyle and his boys must have chopped through the lock when they came to clean out the farm the other night – and that meant the ceremony of ‘officially’ handing back the farm to Christi was somewhat anticlimactic.

  Not that I minded.

  Christi had pulled her car to a halt by the side of the dirt road, and as she stepped up behind me, she wrapped her arm around my waist.

  She fit the build of my body perfectly – her shoulders falling neatly under the nook of my arm.

  “Sorry to drag you boys out here,” Christi told the police officers, as they stood there uselessly. “I guess you didn’t need to come.”

  Officer Tobias, a hulking man with a blond buzz cut, snorted bitterly. He reached through the open window of his squad car, and pulled out a clipboard and pen.

  “Actually, we still needed you to sign this,” he admitted, handing the clipboard over to Christi, “and we can take a look around the place if you want. Make sure there’s nothing…” He narrowed his eyes. “Unexpected.”

  “No,” Christi was adamant. “It’s fine.”

  The two police officer glanced at each other uncertainly, as Christi scribbled her signature on the form.

  “Hey, listen,” Officer Brady reached out to take the completed form back, “the Precinct Captain didn’t tell us the whole story… But we’re not dumb.” He shuffled his feet nervously. “We heard that Officer Dempsey and Officer Sanchez… Well…”