“Basically. This is when things started getting hairy. Originally, the members of the task force were supposed to be resources only. You know, helping with admin functions and such. As Jeff became more involved and the scope of the operation grew, ATF got antsy. I wouldn’t be surprised if the ATF and FBI helped finance the whole thing. My boss was suddenly a whole lot more involved, wanting regular updates.”
“They hijacked my sister’s task force.”
“Not openly, but we all understood what was going on.”
Fuckers. Maggie worked her ass off and she got screwed. Typical bureaucratic bullshit. Way rolled one hand. “So Ambrose tucks in with this distributor and what? How does he get killed?”
“We still don’t know for sure, but he’d gotten pretty entrenched. The more comfortable the players became, the more Jeff heard. Wiretaps and surveillance indicated certain, shall we say, unsavory-looking guys showing up at the distributor every week. Gang members—the Street Dragons.”
Way pointed at his notes in front of Roni. “I saw a motorcycle gang in the intel I came across.”
“Correct. There were also other individuals of interest. Not necessarily gangs. One guy owned a smoke shop on an Indian reservation. Jeff was murdered before he’d gathered enough evidence.”
Roni lifted one hand. “We don’t know if his cover was blown or what. Right after that, the operation got shut down.”
“All right, so how does this tie back to my bullets?”
“It doesn’t. Well, not in the literal sense. The only connection is the murdered Street Dragons guy. It was enough of a link that the CIA suits wanted me to leverage my relationship with Maggie to get an introduction to you.”
“And here you are.”
“Here I am. Trying to figure out how your bullets got into”—she held up one of the pages from Micki’s report—“various gang members. Two of whom are out of state.”
Way moved to the wall where he’d hung a whiteboard for noting project details. He snapped a picture of it so he’d have a copy and then erased the data.
“Give me the victims’ names?”
Roni read off the names, including Chad Hopkins III, the latest victim. Way added them to the board.
“Um.” Roni used her pen to point to his phone. “Your screen just lit up.”
He walked back to the table and spotted his mother’s photo on his phone’s screen. Here we go.
“Like I said. My mother.”
He shot her a quick text letting her know he was in a meeting and that he’d return all calls later.
There. The first step in Operation Boundaries. He set the phone back down and gave Roni a winning smile. “I told her I’d call later.”
“Good for you.”
“Let’s see if it works.” He went back to the whiteboard and picked up the marker again. “We know the first shooting was Randy Millner. That was mid-September.”
“According to this report, yes.”
“And the second one was November.”
“Yes.”
Way marked the date on the board. “And then we have one in January.”
“Wow, good memory.”
With his ass on the line? Damned straight. He tapped the marker against the board. “He’s the motorcycle gang member.” Way stepped back for a wider view. “We had murders in September, November, and January. And now Jackson and Hopkins within a few days of each other.”
Roni checked the notes in front of her again. “Yes. Our suspect is escalating.”
“You think it’s a serial killer?”
She shrugged. “Don’t know yet. But he definitely has a pattern. Frangible ammo and gang members of some sort.”
“All the shots were center mass.” Way jotted a note on the board. “I need the autopsy reports of all these cases.”
“Why?”
“I’m gonna guess the shot was taken at a distance. At least a short distance.”
Roni pointed at him. “Which would mean some level of firearms skill.”
“Bingo. Your average gangbanger isn’t trained with a weapon. They don’t prepare for wind or gravity or spindrift.” He waved the marker. “They’re amateurs.”
“All right. And we know”—she reached over to where Way left her file and rifled through pages—“that the shootings started after you sent the first batch of bullets to Langley.”
“Yeah.”
Way shoved the cap on the marker and tossed it on the worktable. “I don’t care what your boss says, someone inside Langley swiped one of my bullets. We need to find out who. Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“If you can call your boss and get Chad Hopkins’s address, we’re gonna pay a visit. See if anyone knows why or how he wound up with one of my bullets in him.”
9
Chad Hopkins’s neighborhood could be featured on America’s Worst Neighborhoods.
That’s all Way could think as he navigated his SUV down a street littered with trash and dead trees and broken-down vehicles.
Way drove past one home with boarded-up windows and a padlocked front door. Compared to this he’d grown up in fantasyland. Something, no matter how much his family hovered, he was grateful for.
Given it was a school day, the block was devoid of kids, but Way tried to imagine a bunch of seven-year-olds running and playing on these mean streets. Damn. Not an easy thought.
“Crack house,” Roni said.
From the driver’s seat, Way looked over at her. “What?”
She pointed to the boarded home. “I think that’s a crack house. It looks abandoned, but if we popped that padlock, we’d probably find needles all over the place.”
“And kids play on the sidewalk.”
“Yep. Reminds me of one of my foster homes.”
Way gawked. “Wait. You lived in a place like this?”
“The Martins. I was thirteen and spent four months with them before being moved.”
“Why’d you get moved?”
“Oh, I did that on purpose. With that neighborhood, I couldn’t stand it. I may have had a roof over my head, but walking home from school while dodging stray bullets wasn’t the life my father would have wanted for me.”
She peered out the window and Way took the hint that she wasn’t interested in continuing the conversation. She had lived a wild life.
Alone and battling constant change with different families—and shitty neighborhoods. Wow. He couldn’t fathom it.
"You’re a strong woman, Roni Fenwick.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw her give up on the window and turn back to him, so he glanced over. “I mean that,” he said. “It couldn’t have been easy.”
“Thank you. I like to think I learned a lot.”
Way turned right at the corner. Two teenagers who should have been in school stood on the sidewalk watching as Way and Roni cruised by. The taller kid’s gaze, even from the distance, locked on to the SUV and Way sensed something in his eyes. Something desperate and lonely.
Needy.
The streets did that to kids. He’d seen enough of it in the military to know kids between the ages of twelve and seventeen, when faced with rough neighborhoods, had a high risk of winding up in some form of criminal life.
Way shook his head. “This is a brutal way for these kids to live.”
“Sure is.”
The GPS lady’s voice announced their destination.
“Third house up,” Roni said.
Way pulled to the curb and studied the two-story brick home with the small front porch. Grading on a curve, this home could be considered above average. Meaning no broken windows or crumbling facades. Chipped trim paint and sagging gutters were the worst of it.
A man appeared at the front screen door, peering out at them. No doubt, someone—maybe one of the teenagers—had alerted him to the vehicle at the curb.
Based on the other cars parked on the street and in the short driveways, a newer model SUV would bring attention that came with outsiders.
“So much for staying low-key,” Way said.
“Not in this neighborhood. Places like this, they know who belongs.”
“For the record. I thought about coming alone, but figured you’d rip me one if I tried.”
“You figured right.” She reached to the floorboard, retrieved her nine-millimeter from her briefcase. “I’m not about to let you treat me like a damsel in distress.”
He offered up a smile. “You scare me too much for that.”
Way slid his own handgun from the steering column holster. He tucked the weapon into his waist holster. “You ready?
“Definitely. You do the talking. My experience is, they’ll be more forthcoming with a man. I’ll hang back. Sound good?”
Why not? He’d never had a problem making conversation. “Sure. You watch my six. Something about those two on the corner isn’t sitting right.”
Before exiting the vehicle, Roni adjusted her waist holster, slid her gun home and draped her shirt over it in a way that kept the weapon hidden but easily accessible.
She met Way on the sidewalk where a hunk of cement had cracked and broken off, revealing the dirt beneath. If she caught a boot heel in there, she’d snap an ankle.
He grabbed her elbow, guiding her around the hole. “Watch that.”
She moved left, bumping him slightly. Her breast made contact with his side and—yow—all that soft lush skin shouldn’t be the thing on his mind right now.
Totally not his fault, but the jolt of heat storming him was definitely a problem. Roni-the-firecracker had a way of charging the space around her.
He kinda liked it.
The man behind the screen door continued to eye them. As they approached, Way kept his head on a swivel. Half-dead bush, far-east corner. Bare branches left no room for hiding.
A deep growl sounded. West side. In the neighbor’s yard, a large dog peered through a rusty chain-link fence, baring his teeth at the unwanted visitors.
The gate was closed, the latch down, so Way cut his gaze back to the front porch where the man kicked the ancient aluminum door open, banging against the brick. The guy wore a ripped sweatshirt and tattered cargo jeans. His greasy blond hair was pushed back away from his face and Way guessed his age at around thirty.
Thirty going on eighty with the way he lumbered through that door.
Way inhaled, taking in the heavy odor of burning wood and rubber. Someone was burning something somewhere. He exhaled, releasing the bitter taste.
“Help you?” the man asked.
When they were ten feet from the porch, the dog’s growl escalated to a bark. Too close. Even with the dog locked behind the fence, he didn’t see a need to get him riled up. That bad boy was big enough to leap straight over that thing.
Way halted, holding his arm out to block Roni from going any farther. “Is this the Hopkins home?”
“You a cop?”
“No.”
The man jerked his chin at Roni. “What about her?”
“No.”
"Then whaddya want?”
“My name is Way Kingston.” He jerked a thumb at Roni. “This is Roni. We’re sorry about Chad. We have questions about his…death. You a relative?”
The man nodded. “His brother. Cody. I’m the oldest. You gave me your names, but if you’re not cops, what the fuck do you care about my brother?”
A young girl—maybe four years old—appeared at the doorway, her curly blond hair sticking up in all directions. She clutched a tattered blanket to her chest while sucking mightily on her thumb.
She studied Way and Roni for a long few seconds, then removed the thumb from her mouth. “Can I have chocolate milk?”
The man swung around. “Stay inside,” he said, his voice gentle, but firm. “I’ll get the milk in a minute. Close that door.”
Whoever this guy thought they were, he didn’t want the kid anywhere near them. Then again, in this neighborhood, the residents probably spent most of their time in the back of the house.
Away from the street and possible drive-by shootings.
The girl disappeared inside.
“Cute kid,” Way said. “Yours?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
Way shrugged. “Making conversation.”
“Dude, I’m gonna ask you one more time. If you’re not cops, who the fuck are you?”
Behind Way, Roni cleared her throat. Probably his cue to not fuck this up. He held his hands up. “We’re looking into some murders.”
“Investigators?”
“Sort of. We think Chad’s murder is connected to others in the last few months. Have the cops given you any details about Chad’s shooting?”
The guy snorted. “They don’t come around here too much. They asked the typical stuff. Who’d want to hurt him, blah, blah. What kind of connection you looking at?”
“Your brother was killed with a particular type of bullet. I have an interest in that bullet.”
From Roni’s right, the squeak of an engine belt sounded and the dog started in again. Barking and growling at the activity.
Way glanced back at Roni, checking the street. An Oldsmobile—late nineties model—with rims that cost five times the worth of the car pulled behind Way’s SUV.
“Company,” Roni said.
Two men exited the Oldsmobile, both wearing hoodies. One wore dark wash jeans and the other basketball shorts. They could have been any two American teenagers, but their cocky struts and hard-edged, lean faces said otherwise.
Life on the streets.
If he were a betting man, he’d lay a hundred on both of them carrying an assortment of weapons. Baggy hoodies made for excellent concealment.
“What’s this?” the shorter guy said to the blond man.
“They’re here about Chad.”
The kid in the basketball shorts gave Roni the once-over, pausing way too long in the chest area, and most definitely tripped Way’s trigger.
That look? He didn’t like it.
Not one bit.
He should have done this alone. Dealt with her wrath afterward.
“Cops?” Basketball shorts asked.
“No,” Cody said. “Go inside.”
“Then you should get the fuck out,” the kid said, his hard gaze still on Roni. “Unless,” he grabbed his crotch, “I can do anything for you.”
Yeah. Here we go. The minute these fuckers got out of that car, Way knew they’d be a problem.
“Shut up, Reggie,” Cody told him.
Roni took that moment to shift sideways, brushing her shirt tail slightly away and revealing her .38. “Not interested,” she said to Reggie. “Now back off.”
And, ooh, he didn’t like that. He gritted his teeth as his face flushed with color. Way kept his arms loose at his sides, his right hand close enough to snap his weapon up.
Reggie’s arm moved and—gun!
Shit.
Simultaneously, Roni and Way drew their weapons, pointed them at Reggie.
“Okay,” Way said, keeping his weapon steady. “Everybody chill.”
Reggie jerked a giant .45 at Way, then back to Roni. His aim, if he was even aiming, was somewhere around her collarbone. Amateur. Could be good. Could be bad.
“What do you say now, bitch?"
“Goddammit, Reggie,” Cody said. “Put that thing away. You want the cops showing up?”
Way stepped sideways, shifting toward Roni. If he could get close enough, he’d slide right in front of her. “Lower that weapon, Reggie, and nobody gets hurt.”
“Reggie!” Cody hollered, his voice snapping like a pissed-off gator. “You dumbass. Cut the shit.”
Then Cody entered Way’s field of vision. He swung the weapon, but Cody stormed straight to Reggie. In one swift move, he grabbed the back of the hoodie, threw Reggie to the ground and whipped the gun from his hand.
For emphasis, he smacked the kid on the back of the head and the pfft nearly made Way chuckle.
“Nobody disrespects me on my property,
” Reggie hollered from the ground.
Cody shook his head. “First of all, it’s not your property. I’m letting your loser ass live here. Now you and this other idiot go inside while I talk to these people.”
Roni shot Way a raised-eyebrow look. “I like this guy,” she said.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he said. “My little brother’s manners are shitty.”
“No problem,” she said. "Thanks for handling him before it got ugly.”
With Reggie disarmed, Roni tucked her weapon back in the holster while Cody walked back to the porch and set the gun down.
In the first-floor window, the little girl stood there watching the whole fucked-up scene.
Well, damn.
“Great,” Cody said. “She saw that.”
“I’m sorry,” Roni said. “I didn’t realize she was there.”
He let out a heavy sigh and lowered himself to the top step, his body seeming to cave under its own weight. “Not your fault my brother’s a stupid fuck. You’re pretty good with that thing. You sure you’re not a cop?”
Roni met Way’s gaze. Before leaving the car, they’d decided this was his show.
“She’s former FBI.”
“Huh.” Cody looked back at her. “No shit?”
She smiled. “No shit.”
Making use of Cody’s wonder over the female FBI agent, Way took a step closer. “Look, Cody. We’re not here to cause trouble. Like I said, I have an interest in the bullet used in Chad’s murder.”
“Why?”
“Can’t say. Any idea who may have killed your brother?”
Cody blew air through his lips. “Who the hell knows? That kid was into all kinds of stuff. Our mother passed six years ago. Single mom trying to control three boys? She didn’t stand a chance, man.”
“Your father’s out of the picture?”
“Prison. After my mother died, I moved in here with my wife. Trying to keep these two clean. Reggie is the youngest. Chad’s twenty-three. Was twenty-three.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too. He had all the brains in the world.” He gestured to the road. “These streets are a bitch, though. And now I got my daughter to worry about. I'll lose my mind if she winds up in trouble. It’s fucking survival here, man. Chad was a good student. Honor roll until he got to high school. Then he started with the drugs and it was over.”
Burning Ache Page 8
