“No danger.”
That he knew of.
“Okay. If you’re lying to me, I’ll kill you myself.” She picked up her pen again. “What are we looking for?”
“Gunshot wounds, frangible ammunition, possibly center mass.”
“Well, gee, that’ll narrow it down.”
“The bullet leaves a hollow cavity. No exit wound. There will be bits of plastic in the body, but no slug.”
Micki pulled a face. “What the fudge? No slug?”
“No slug. Don’t ask me questions. Please. It’s better that way. Just get me the cases.”
* * *
Micki kicked him out.
His pacing made her nuts, so she pointed him toward the door and literally booted him on the ass. Now he’d have to wait.
Dammit.
Way checked the dashboard clock. Ninety minutes. That’s how much time he’d managed to kill stopping by Reid’s office and talking him into firing off a few rounds from the weapon he’d modified for him. From there, he’d driven twenty miles to the discount store, loaded up on various toiletries, and dropped them off at the post office for their homeless shelter drive.
He liked doing stuff like that. Helping those in need. His family broke his stones about it constantly, because it wasn’t unusual to see him hauling around cases of toilet paper or food for the animal shelter. Somehow, all those donations didn’t seem enough. Never enough.
He drove up his driveway, bypassing the house on his way to the barn, and parked in his usual spot next to Sam’s BMW. Normalcy. Just another day.
Stay busy.
That’s what he’d do. Because, holy hell, if that was his damned bullet…
Jesus, he could be pulled into a mess.
Way ran one hand over his face, then stared at the white trim on the barn doors. Options were plentiful, but he’d have to sit tight until Micki gave him whatever intel she found.
Still, what were the chances someone else had designed the same bullet and eliminated a gangbanger barely sixty miles away?
Stay busy. All this thinking, for a man who didn’t like thinking, gave him hives. He shoved the car door open and strode around his Tahoe to the side entrance. Inside, Sam sat at her desk. When he entered, she peered at him over the rim of funky black glasses that probably cost more than his mortgage payment.
“You’re back,” she said.
“I am.”
“Getting ready to head out?”
“Head out?”
She drew her eyebrows together and narrowed her eyes like his mother often did when trying to figure him out. Well, guess what? He didn’t need to be psychoanalyzed. Or have his goddamned mind read. That shit didn’t fly.
“You said you were hitting the road for a couple of weeks. If you can wait an hour, I’ll have some orders for you to sign off on and we’ll be good until you get back.”
Hitting the road. Yeah, he’d like to do that right fucking now. Forget about all this nonsense. This was the part of running a business he hated. All Way wanted was to build guns. The responsibility that came with it was massive. He got it. Understood it just fine. What he never wanted, ever, was for one of his weapons—or ammunition—to wind up in the wrong hands and destroy a life. Multiple lives.
Fuck. Me.
“I may hold off on the trip.”
“Why?”
How the hell was he supposed to answer this one? Gee, Sam, I may have designed a devastating bullet that is now killing civilians. “Something came up.”
Before she peppered him with questions, he jerked a thumb toward his workshop. “I’ll be inside.”
Some would call him a coward. Maybe he was. He sure as hell wasn’t gonna stand around and be interrogated by his assistant.
“Way?”
He stopped, let out a silent breath before turning. “Yeah?”
“Are you all right?”
Oh, hell no. They weren’t doing this. He held up a hand. “I’m good.”
He pushed through the door to his workshop, where his leather jacket hung on the wall-mounted coat hook. His mom had bought it for him five years ago and it now had the comfortable, lived-in softness he liked. His mother might not have been around much when he was young, but she knew the way to her son’s heart. He tossed his truck keys and wallet on the table-turned-desk next to the inbox Maggie gave him crap about.
When he’d bought the house, he’d found the square hickory table in the attic. Nothing fancy. Only solid, sturdy wood that didn’t deserve a trash heap. He gave it a good sanding and sealing and relocated it to his workspace.
On his way to the safe, he passed the three-tiered metal filing cabinet containing his alphabetized client files. Before Sam, he’d toss the files in there as he completed each job. Hell, back then he didn’t expect to sustain a business. He figured he’d make a little side money while he figured out exactly what his career of choice would be.
After the first project, he tossed the file in the drawer. Then the second, the third. Fourth, fifth, and, whoopsie, out of room in the drawer. Before long, he’d filled all three drawers and had zero organization. That’s when Maggie suggested Sam.
When Way reached the wall safe, he entered the code and placed his thumb against the security pad. He grabbed his laptop from the top shelf and carried it to the oversized worktable he kept free of clutter. A man needed a clean slate to work. His philosophy anyway.
He eyeballed the extra laptop he used to keep encrypted notes on certain items. Like frangible ammunition that virtually disintegrated when it reached its target. No muss, no fuss in terms of ballistics. No slug meant no tracing the weapon.
A minute later, Sam entered, her high heels clicking against the tile and distracting the hell out of him.
Focus here.
“I’ve got them,” she said.
Squaring up, he turned and faced her as she approached. “What?”
“The orders I told you about.” She held up a folder. “Here they are.”
Orders. Right. He took the folder from her. “Thank you.”
“Sure.” She pointed at the laptop. “Is there anything I can help with?”
“I’m good,” he said. “I’m checking my notes on a project.”
She glanced at the laptop, then back to him. “I keep a copy, also, if you need help.”
The only help he needed right now was someone to tell him his damned bullet didn’t wind up in a dead gangbanger. He didn’t know the guy and had no use for violent street gangs, but that ammo should not have killed Roy Jackson.
Or any other civilian.
Sickness overcame him, burning straight through the lining of his stomach. Was this what it felt like when that acid hit flesh?
He drew in a hard breath, concentrated on not losing his shit in front of his assistant. Way needed to be left alone to figure out what the hell his next move should be. Alone, he could deal with this.
Except…Sam. Right in front of him. In his space. “Sam, you don’t have these notes. I’m the only one who has them. And now I need a damned minute.”
The minute the words flew from his mouth, guilt slammed him.
Shit.
She looked at him with big, round, and extremely wounded eyes.
“Wow,” she said. “Excuse me for wanting to help.”
She spun away and marched toward the door. Dammit. This is what he hated about relationships. Intimate or otherwise. His family liked to harass him about being the emperor of his own world, but in his mighty kingdom of one he didn’t have to deal with people in his goddamned business all the time. Questioning him, analyzing him. And leaving him with guilt when he disappointed them.
All the donations he could conjure wouldn’t solve that problem. “Sam, I’m sorry.” He held up his hands. “I shouldn’t have gotten up in your grill. No excuse. It’ll never happen again.”
Narrowing her eyes, she pursed her lips. “Apology accepted. I was only trying to help.”
“Hey, guys.”
They both looked over at the doorway where Micki stood, a large envelope in hand.
She’d found something. Otherwise, she’d have called or e-mailed him the file. Whatever this was, his cousin decided it warranted an in-person delivery.
And that probably wasn’t a good sign.
6
“Hey,” Way said as Micki strode into his workshop.
She slid a glance at Sam. “Hi, Sam.”
“Hi. This is a surprise.” Sam held her hand out. “Can I hang your jacket for you?”
“No. Thanks. I won’t be long.” Micki came back to Way. “I, um, have those reports you were interested in.”
This wouldn’t be good. He faced Sam. “Can you give us a second?”
Right now, he didn’t know a lot. What he did know was that he didn’t want Sam in on this conversation.
“Certainly,” she said. “Let me know if you need something.”
She left the room, closing the door behind her. Way waved Micki over to the worktable. “That was fast.”
“I hit on a good file.”
Slapping the folder down, she flipped it open and retrieved what looked like an autopsy photo. She set the photo on the table. Beside that, she placed a typewritten report…and then another three.
“I found three other cases.”
His head lopped forward. “Three?”
“Yes. All within two hundred miles of us. I was able to grab these photos and the ballistics reports from the lab along with some case notes.”
Way picked up one of the reports, skimmed it. Large caliber bullet, no exit wound, hollow cavity.
Crap.
Next report. No exit wound, bits of plastic.
Crap, crap.
Next report. Center mass, massive internal damage, frangible ammo.
Micki slid the last photo—the same one Maggie had shared— and another report in front of him.
“This is the Waynesville case you asked me about. Roy Jackson. He’s an area leader for the Dragons.”
“Were the other cases gang members?”
“Yes. Not the same gang, though. It’s all in the reports. Maybe it’s a turf war or something, but they’re all different gangs. Two were in South Carolina. One was a motorcycle gang. Two in North Carolina.”
What the hell? All four shot with the same ammo and yet they were all different gangs. “The only connection is these guys were all affiliated with a gang of some sort.”
“So it seems.” Micki held up a finger. “I found one interesting thing.”
As she was a former employee of a fixer, if Micki thought a case was interesting, it had to be damned fascinating to the average Joe. “What’s that?”
She skimmed the report from the Roy Jackson case. “Here.” She pointed to a paragraph midway down the page. “Read this. It says ATF was investigating Roy Jackson for cigarette smuggling.”
“So? He’s in a gang. They resort to illegal activity, and I gotta believe it’s fairly easy for gangs to buy cigarettes in low-tax states and then sell them in higher tax states. Or on the black market. They’d make huge profits.”
“Exactly. But if you’d read this, like I asked, you’d know that there was an entire task force made up of multiple agencies.”
“Maggie told me about a task force. It’s how she met Roni Fenwick.”
“The Jackson report mentions an ATF agent. Past tense. I was curious, so I did a search on his name. He was murdered six months ago.”
That had to be the guy Maggie and Roni knew. Now they were getting somewhere. “Were there any details on the dead agent?”
Micki shrugged. “I couldn’t get into any of the files on him. All I found was an obit.” She tapped the file. “It’s in here. I’ll keep working on it, but it might take some time to crack the ATF’s system.”
Ya think? So much for the guilt over having her break computer fraud laws. Somehow this thing had escalated to her hacking the ATF.
“If the agent was undercover,” he said, “they may not put a lot in a report. Which agency ran this task force?”
“You’re not gonna be happy.”
What else was new? The whole damned thing made him unhappy. “Who was it?”
“It appears to be the brainchild of the Haywood County Sheriff’s Department.”
Fuck. Me.
Way knew his sister was involved, but running it? “Come on! Maggie was in charge of this thing?”
Not only was the ammo he designed possibly being used to murder civilians, his sister might have led a goddamned investigation involving one of the dead guys.
He needed to get his head together on this. Figure out what to do. Go to Maggie, spill it all, and see what she knew. Except, as good at her job as she was, this was over her head. She had zero experience with frangible ammunition—or dangerous covert agencies.
Focus. Work the problem. He held up a finger. “How did Maggie get involved?”
“I don’t know. All it says is she created the task force to combat illegal cigarette sales within the county. You should talk to her. If she finds out your bullets are somehow linked to this, she’ll rip you.”
Blindsiding his sister wouldn’t be the smartest thing he’d ever done. But if these were his bullets, they had bigger problems than Maggie being pissed at him.
Next issue. “What about Fenwick? Supposedly, she was on the task force.”
Micki tapped the folder. “It’s all in there. Work and family history. Anything I can find. Mother was a drug addict who walked out. Her dad raised her until she was eight.”
“He left, too?”
“No. Cancer. He died and she went into foster care. She’s one of the lucky ones. Made her way to college. She has a master’s in psychology and became a federal agent. Five months ago she left the Bureau.”
“Why?”
“Couldn’t find that.”
“So, what’s she doing now?”
“She’s putting that degree to work as a psych trainer. For the CIA.”
* * *
The second Micki left the workshop, Way dug his cell from his front pocket, dropped onto the barstool, and hoped to all hell Clay Bartles picked up. He needed his old Marine buddy to talk him off a goddamned ledge.
“Hey,” Clay said, his voice huffy. Out of breath.
“Bad time?”
“No. It’s good. Late lunch. Just finished a run. What’s up?”
Did he have a week?
“This is gonna sound nuts.”
“Based on the shit I hear every day, you got nothin’.”
After leaving the Marines two years earlier, Clay had landed a job at the State Department as an aide to an aide to someone in the secretary of state’s office. Who the hell knew the kind of crap he dealt with on any given day? Clay’s boss, though, was former CIA and, through him, Way had made a contact. A contact that led him straight to the science and development department at the CIA.
Where one hundred of his extremely deadly bullets were being tested.
“Good point. Is this a secure line?”
“Uh-oh. Let me call you back in a sec.”
Way disconnected, tapping his foot until his phone screen lit up with a number marked private. He punched the button. “Is this you?”
“Yeah,” Clay said. “We’re good. Talk to me.”
“Have you heard anything about that frangible ammo I designed?”
“Far as I know, it’s still being tested. Why?”
“There was a shooting in the area the other night. My sister came to me this morning with autopsy photos. The bullet ripped the guy apart and disintegrated.”
“And what? You’re thinking the CIA is running tests on live humans?”
“No. I’m thinking my bullets got outside CIA walls.”
“No chance.”
He couldn’t know that. “You sure someone didn’t pocket one of ’em?”
“Yeah. I’m sure. Do you know what it would take to get one of those out of Langley? It’d be damned near impossi
ble. Anyone would be stupid to try it. With the procedures they have in place, they’d get caught fast. No chance.”
“Then maybe the design got out?”
“Or maybe someone else developed a similar bullet. Look, Way, you’re good, but who’s to say some other gun-geek didn’t come up with this?”
“I thought of that. But, seriously? What are the chances that someone in this area designed the exact same bullet? Between the plunger inside, the plastic capsule, the acid, it took me months to get that design right.”
All in all, he’d done a helluva job.
Now that design had made its way to the street. Despite what the public thought, the CIA did occasionally operate on US soil. What Way didn’t get was how they’d be connected to Maggie’s cigarette smuggling case and a bunch of gang members.
Clay sighed. “I don’t know, Way. But I’m telling you, there’s no chance this trails back to Langley. No way. It’s gotta be a freak coincidence. And you don’t wanna start making noise about it. The agency will deny it and you’ll be ruined. You’ll blow this deal.”
“It’s not about the money.”
But it sure as hell was about Roni Fenwick, a CIA employee and former member of Maggie’s task force, showing up. He wouldn’t mention that intel to Clay. Otherwise, it’d lead to a whole bunch of questions Way didn’t necessarily have answers to.
“I know it’s not about the money, but how do you think it’ll go over if the public thinks the fucking CIA lets secret weapons out of its control? How’s that sound for national security? Russia would love that.”
Screwed. That’s what he was. “My ammo might be killing civilians, and I’m supposed to do nothing?”
The silence across the phone line was met with a sigh from Clay. “All right. Just, stand down for a day or two. Let me see what I can find out. How many samples did you send?”
“One hundred. Exactly.”
With material like that, a responsible man didn’t lose count.
“I’ll see where science and development is at on it.”
That’s all Way could ask. “Thanks. All I need to know is whether they have all hundred accounted for.”
It wouldn’t explain how Roy Jackson came to be shredded by a similar bullet, but if Clay could confirm the CIA still had all of Way’s samples, he’d be off the hook.
Burning Ache Page 5
