Last Mile

by Katie Ashley

  A buzz from the communication device in my ear had me on alert. “Suspect has been spotted in the twelve-block radius. All teams on alert.”

  “Copy that,” I murmured.

  After I had made a quick visual sweep of the area, a crackling once again came in my ear. “ETA to Vargas is two minutes, thirty seconds.”

  “Look sharp, Sammie-Lou Hooker,” came another voice in my ear. I fought the urge to glare across the street at the unmarked sedan. Sitting inside wearing a shit-eating grin was my partner, Gavin McTavish. Since he was three years older than me, he was like an annoying older brother. He was more than just my partner—he was my best friend. We had met at the academy five years ago, and I’d shared more blood, sweat, and tears with him than with any other person in the world.

  Even without having to be radioed, I knew the moment our suspect, Chuck Sutton, arrived on the scene. An awareness hummed through my bones, and I shifted into my chameleon persona. From his teenage days, Chuck had outsourced guns to some of the toughest Atlanta street gangs. After several prior convictions, he’d grown wiser in his older age, and he had learned how to evade our usual methods. We needed him in custody on a lesser charge so we could outwit him on the case we had been building.

  That was where I came in. If Chuck had an Achilles’ heel, it was women, especially ones he bought. There must’ve been something about the illicitness that he craved.

  When I heard him behind me, I turned around. After giving him my sexiest smile, I said, “Hey there. You looking to have some fun tonight?”

  He licked his lips, and I fought the urge to throw up. “Maybe.” With slight apprehension in his eyes, he glanced around. “Is it just you tonight?”

  I gave a quick nod. “I work for myself.”

  “I like that. I don’t like middlemen.”

  I ran my hand up his arm before squeezing his shoulder. “That’s just one of the things we have in common.” To bust him, I had to have him agree to a price and start off with me. Dancing around the subject the way we were now wouldn’t hold up for an arrest. “Wanna go somewhere so I can see what else you like?”

  A slow smile spread across his face. “Yeah, I would. How much we talking about here?”

  “A hundred for an hour whether you take that long or not.” When I could see the flash in his eyes, I purred, “But I’m sure you’ll last long enough to get your money’s worth.”

  My petty compliment fueled his fire. “I’ve been known to be a big tipper if you make it worth my while.”

  “Of course I will, sugar.” I dropped my hand from his shoulder to take his hand. “Your car okay, or you want to be a big spender and spring for the motel up the street?”

  “My car is fine.”

  Just as he started to lead me to it, one of the other agents on the case pulled a dick move by jumping the gun and coming in early. The moment he stepped out of the shadows and Chuck got a look at him, the shit hit the fan.

  Chuck not only dropped my hand, but he shoved me back, causing me to stumble on my heels and fall on my ass. Then he sprinted off down the opposite side of the street from where his car was parked. “Greenburg, you dumb fuck!” I grunted at the errant agent as I tried to get my bearings.

  “We had enough to take him.”

  As I pulled myself to my feet, I glared at him. “Really? Then why the hell aren’t we taking him?” I didn’t bother waiting for a response. I hadn’t just spent the last thirty minutes in mortifying attire, not to mention having to say the sick shit I did, to lose out on a suspect.

  While my knowledge of the area was somewhat limited, I still knew of a way to catch up with Chuck. Pounding my heels into the pavement, I pushed myself to run as fast as I could go. Within my mind, I focused on the four-block radius on the map I had studied for days before the bust. After a split-second decision, I cut down a side alley.

  Glancing around, I looked for something that could incapacitate Chuck. My eyes homed in on a discarded broom, which I quickly grabbed. I then sprinted toward the end of the alley. I made it there just as Chuck ran by. I swung the broom like a bat at the backs of his knees, sending him spiraling and finally skidding along the ground. I tossed the broom and then grabbed my gun. “Don’t even think of moving!” I shouted as I pointed it at his head.

  Chuck held up his shaking hands in surrender. I didn’t bother alerting the team of my location, since they had me on GPS. After what seemed like only a few seconds, police sirens wailed down the street and screeched to a halt beside us.

  At the sight of Greenburg, I said, “You can haul him in.”

  He gave a sheepish nod before beginning to work on Chuck. I was putting my gun back in my holster when I felt a hand on my shoulder. “You okay?” Gavin asked, his deep blue eyes filled with concern for me.

  “Fucking fine and dandy now that I took out that douche bag.”

  With a shake of his head, Gavin asked, “Nothing really rattles you for long, does it?”

  “Nope. Just dumb-asses pissing in my Cheerios,” I replied, glaring at Greenburg.

  “You mean people trying to steal your thunder,” Gavin countered.

  “Watch it, McTavish, or I’ll take you out at the knees with a broom, too.”

  Gavin slipped an arm around my shoulder as we started to head back to the car. Pretending to be a prostitute in the scorching Atlanta heat was just one of the many masks I wore as an agent with the ATF—or Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. When my father was gunned down over the long-standing war on drugs between the feds and bikers, I lost all interest in following in his footsteps to the DEA. After I’d earned a criminal justice degree at FSU, my interest in the FBI eventually led me to the ATF, where I had spent the last four years as an agent. With the ATF, I was able to fulfill my childhood dream of putting away the bad guys, as well as feeding my need for a job that kept me on my toes.

  When we reached the car, our superior, Grant Peterson, was leaned against it.

  “Good evening,” he said, with a smile.

  “Evening,” Gavin replied.

  “Did you feel like slumming a bit tonight? I mean, you’re used to your cushy office with its air-conditioning,” I said. Although Peterson was my boss, we had a comfortable rapport with each other.

  Peterson laughed. “A good general always stays in the trenches.”

  “I see.”

  “As always, nice work, Vargas.”

  “Thanks, sir,” I said as I balanced on one leg to take off my heels. I groaned in ecstasy once my feet were freed from their stiletto prison.

  Glancing between the two of us, Peterson asked, “You guys got anything else tonight?”

  Gavin shook his head. “We were planning on working on the debriefing first thing tomorrow morning—if that’s okay with you.”

  Peterson nodded in agreement. “Since you’re free, why don’t you two let me buy you some dinner?”

  Gavin’s and my eyebrows rose in unison. “Hmm, sounds like you’ve got something pretty heavy to talk to us about if you’re offering dinner,” I replied.

  With a chuckle, Peterson said, “You know me too well.”

  I might’ve been exhausted, with my bed calling my name, but my stomach growled in approval of Peterson’s offer. “Sounds good to me.”

  Gavin chuckled. “You think I’m ever going to pass up a meal on the bureau?”

  “Don’t hold your breath that it’s going to be a fine dining experience. I see a Waffle House in our future,” I teased.

  “Oh, I’m way classier than that,” Peterson argued.

  “IHOP?”

  He grinned. “Yep. How about the one off Exit 243 in ten?”

  “Okay. We’ll be there.”

  Peterson eyed my attire with a grimace. Before he could say anything, I held up a hand. “I have a change of clothes in the car. Okay?”

  “Good. I didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to us.”

  I batted my eyelashes at him. “Are you saying I’m a distraction dressed l
ike this?”

  He grinned. “Let’s just say I don’t think with you dressed like that, I could sit across from you and be able to hold a serious conversation without letting my mind wander.”

  Smacking his arm playfully, I replied, “You old perv.”

  “You know me too well. See ya in ten,” he said before heading off down the street.

  I followed Gavin across the street to the car. After we slipped inside, I asked, “What do you think is going on?”

  Gavin appeared thoughtful as he cranked up. “Must be something pretty big, considering he’s wanting to discuss this over dinner rather than waiting to do it in the morning at the office.”

  “That’s what I was thinking. I don’t think we’ve ever been propositioned for a case outside the bureau.” I grabbed a T-shirt out of my bag and pulled it on over my bustier. “As long as it doesn’t involve me in another ensemble like this, I’m game.”

  With a snicker, Gavin pulled out into the street. “You know, Vargas, you might not spend so many nights alone if you dressed like that more often.”

  I shot him a death glare before unbuttoning the flimsy skirt. As I shimmied it off my hips and down my thighs, I thought about Gavin’s comment. While he might have been joking, there was a lot of truth to what he said. I did spend a lot of nights alone. It had been at least a year since my last long-term relationship. Each one seemed to end because of the same thing: I was married to my job. Although most men found my profession sexy at first, they soon were turned off by always taking second place. In the end, I couldn’t blame them, because who really wants a relationship with a workaholic risk taker?

  Shaking my head free of those thoughts, I pulled a pair of yoga pants on. I crumpled my hooker clothes into a ball and shoved them into my bag. The IHOP Peterson had chosen was in a better neighborhood than we had just been in. At the same time, it was pretty secluded, and there weren’t many customers inside. At the hostess stand Peterson requested a place for us in the very back, away from everyone else.

  I slid into the booth beside Gavin while Peterson took the spot across from us. After a waitress took our orders, Peterson dug into his briefcase and got down to business. “How much do you two know about the Hells Raiders MC?”

  My stomach churned at the mere mention of an MC. In that moment, I was no longer a self-possessed thirty-year-old ATF agent. Instead, I was an eight-year-old kid peering out the car window at a man in a leather cut who was about to murder my father and shatter my once-perfect existence. Just the sound of motorcycle pipes was like a PTSD trigger. Of course, the agency didn’t know that. You couldn’t afford to have any form of emotional deficit when it came to cases.

  “Never really heard of them,” Gavin replied while I nodded in agreement.

  “As far as the criminal element of one-percents goes, their Georgia club has a relatively small membership. Over the last few decades, they’ve flown under the radar. Compared to some clubs, they keep themselves pretty clean by only dealing with small-time gunrunning without a lot of assault weapons, interstate gambling, and a strip club with no backdoor prostitution.”

  “How admirable,” I mused.

  Peterson gave us a tight smile. “Because of the drugs and assault weapons that the Nordic Knights and the Gangbangers out of Tech-wood were pushing, our attention was kept elsewhere, while the Raiders weren’t worth much of our time. Until recently.”

  “So what’s changed?” I asked.

  Peterson paused as the waitress returned with our drinks. Once she was gone, he said, “It appears the Raiders have made an alliance with the Rodriguez cartel.”

  “Holy shit,” Gavin muttered.

  I leaned forward on the table with my elbows. “Wait a minute. Didn’t I hear of some hush-hush ATF and DEA presence at a takedown involving some bikers a few months ago?”

  Peterson nodded. “A former lieutenant from the Rodriguez cartel became expendable—a man named Mendoza. A long-standing beef he had with the Raiders’ president, Nathaniel ‘Rev’ Malloy, led to a hostage situation. Rev was tortured and shot by Mendoza, but he made a full recovery. From what I could gather from reading between the lines in the records, which are now black-lined confidential, it all stemmed from the human trafficking of Annabel Percy and her rescue by the Raiders.”

  My eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Rescue? Don’t tell me the Raiders did something remotely heroic,” I scoffed.

  “They risked their lives and club to go in after a club member’s daughter who had been abducted. While the member’s daughter unfortunately got killed, they saved Annabel.”

  “She remained unscathed after her time with the Raiders?” I questioned skeptically.

  Peterson chuckled. “She’s married to Rev now.”

  I slowly shook my head back and forth. “You’re telling me a former deb like Percy is married to some MC scum? She must’ve had one hell of a case of reverse Stockholm syndrome.”

  Gavin eyed me suspiciously. “Since when do you have such a hatred for MC gangs?”

  With a shrug, I replied, “They’re criminals who demean women and hide their violence behind an alleged love of motorcycle riding.” I then turned my attention away from Gavin’s inquisitiveness and started devouring my bacon cheeseburger. While he might’ve been my best friend and knew some of the details of my father’s murder, I had never admitted that it was a biker who had killed my dad.

  Peterson cleared his throat. “The bottom line is we could be on the precipice of one of the greatest interstate gun trafficking cases of my career. It’s not just small-time sales to lowlifes and felons. We’re talking about funding the cartel with weapons right here in our own backyard.”

  “I can assume that the bureau hasn’t gotten shit with the usual methods of phone tapping and surveillance, and they want to get some agents inside. Correct?” Gavin asked.

  With a nod, Peterson replied, “These bikers might be small-time gangsters, but they’re smart gangsters. All business between them and the cartel has happened either face-to-face or on burner phones.”

  “So where do we come in?” I questioned.

  “Gavin, you grew up working in your father’s garage, didn’t you?”

  At the mention of his blue-collar roots, Gavin winced slightly. “Yeah, my dad and my grandfather were mechanics. I helped out there from the time I could tell a socket wrench from a combination wrench.” He took a swig of his coffee. “I’m not sure how that knowledge has any bearing on this case.”

  Peterson flipped through his files before stopping at one. He took out a picture and put it on the table. “This is the Raiders’ sergeant at arms, Benjamin ‘Bishop’ Malloy.”

  “Hmm, he’s a looker,” Gavin mused as he rubbed the stubble on his chin.

  I nudged him under the table. “I’m pretty sure he doesn’t bat for your team.”

  “Pity.”

  Peterson rolled his eyes at the two of us. “May I continue?”

  “Yes,” Gavin and I replied.

  “Bishop has just taken a mechanics apprenticeship at a local garage—one that has no affiliations to the Raiders.” At what had to be Gavin’s and my identical expressions of surprise, Peterson added, “Apparently, he’s looking to go legitimate in his career choice and have no help from the Raiders.”

  Straightening up in his seat, Gavin asked, “So you guys want to put me to work at this garage?”

  Peterson nodded. “We’re hoping you can gain his trust and become a hang-around for the club . . . maybe even work up to prospecting.”

  “I can do that. I might need a week or two to do a little refresher on mechanical terminology.”

  “We have you booked into a garage to do just that starting tomorrow. We won’t put you into the one where Bishop works until after you’ve completed the refresher.”

  Gavin choked on the french fry he’d been chewing. “Tomorrow? Damn, Peterson, you guys sure as hell were banking on me saying yes.”

  “You’re the only one with the credentials to do
it. This case isn’t just about someone who knows cars. It’s also about motorcycles. Correct me if I’m wrong, but it’s in your file that you ride your Harley every chance you get.”

  I couldn’t hold back a snort of amusement. “He’s at best what bikers call a ‘weekend warrior.’”

  Gavin glared at me. “I sure as hell could hold my own if I had to.”

  Picking up Bishop’s picture, I waved it in front of his face. “You’re telling me you could be BFFs with this guy and be convincing as a hard-ass biker?” When Gavin jerked his chin up defiantly at me, I merely smiled at Peterson. “For him to even remotely have a chance, you need to book him for one hell of a makeover—the best the bureau has when it comes to undercover. I’d start at the top, with weeding out the hair product, and then work my way down.”

  “Bitch,” Gavin muttered under his breath, but then he winked at me.

  After wiping his mouth with his napkin, Peterson said, “You also need to come up with a new last name. We don’t want anything that can be traced back to you.”

  Gavin tilted his head in thought. After a few seconds, he said, “Marley.”

  Wrinkling my nose, I questioned, “Why Marley?”

  “’Cause I love me some Bob Marley, and then my initials don’t have to change just in case I draw a blank sometime.”

  I rolled my eyes but laughed in spite of myself. Jerking my chin at Peterson, I said, “So it sounds like you have Gavin all sorted out. I can’t help asking where I come in.”

  Peterson shifted uncomfortably. “One of the last places you can be ‘out’ and be accepted is in the biker world.” He stared straight at Gavin. “As an attractive man, you will immediately garner the attention of the sweet butts and club whores.”

  Gavin swept a hand to his chest. “Thanks for the compliment.”

  With a shake of his head, Peterson added, “But the first time one puts her tits in your face or grinds her ass on your dick and you don’t rise to the occasion, so to speak, you’re in big trouble.”

  “I could fake it,” Gavin argued.