A Voice from the Field

by Neal Griffin

  “I got your message. Thought I’d stick around. Make sure you were okay.” He looked her up and down. “You seem to be all in one piece.”

  Once Tanner had identified himself as an informant, Tia had allowed him to make his phone call. A dozen federal agents descended on the field like something out of Children of the Corn, speedily followed by the sheriff’s deputies. Quickly figuring out which way the wind was blowing, Tia had called her chief, then sent a brief text to Connor. She kept it purposely vague, saying something had come up and she’d be late.

  She’d thought he’d go home, but he hadn’t, and seeing him now gave her a sense of safety and belonging. She wanted to tell him about the night. She wanted to tell him everything. She didn’t know how to begin. “Things got a little nuts.”

  “How so?”

  Everything she had been told at the briefing was classified, but in Tia’s mind that didn’t preclude her telling Connor. First, the man had a top-level security clearance from the U.S. government, and second, Tia reminded herself, she had made a commitment: she was done keeping things from Connor Anderson. She took a deep breath and started in.

  “Jessup Tanner never showed up at the club. The deputy in charge of the surveillance asked me to swing by his house, see if his van was there. You know, so we could be fairly sure he was tucked away.”

  “By yourself?”

  She shrugged, trying to downplay it. “It was just supposed to be a drive-by.” Connor looked at her, waiting.

  Tia began by telling him about finding the men in the shed and the hideous, gut-wrenching discovery of the auction. Then she took him through the rest of the night, including how she had learned the feds had been involved in a U/C operation the night she was attacked by Kane and Tanner. Connor didn’t say a word while she unrolled the entire story.

  When she fnished, he sat quietly for so long Tia wondered if she’d sent him over the edge. Eventually he took a long, deep, lung-filling breath and shook his head.

  “So the deputy DA is actually a federal prosecutor?” Connor asked, and Tia nodded. “The feds watched the whole thing in Milwaukee?”

  “Yeah. She’s as bitchy as a fed as she was when I thought she was a DA. And her lapdog is this guy named Lester Stahl out of D.C. He’s a piece of work, too.”

  Connor looked out over the cornfield. “And now you’ve been in another shooting?”

  “At least I was the one sending rounds downrange this time,” Tia said, striving for lightness.

  “You’re making jokes about this?” His voice was no-nonsense. “Two shootings in less than a year? You know they’re going to come after you, right? Call you trigger-happy?”

  “I didn’t have a choice, Connor. I was in the middle of a rescue operation. The guy pulled a gun on me. What else could I do?”

  “How about not get yourself in that kind of predicament to begin with? How about you take a cover officer with you?” With each question his voice got a little sharper, a little louder. “How about you tell the damn deputy to step up?”

  “The feds don’t seem that concerned about it, and Sawyer’s got my back. The feds are more worried about keeping their operation under wraps. The guy I shot? Feds had dope history with him, some state-level soliciting. They acted all butt hurt about it, but I don’t think they’ll have a hard time making him disappear.”

  “What about you?” Connor asked, sounding less angry, more worried.

  There, she thought. That’s the man I know. She smiled. “I’m fine. I really am.”

  He dismissed her response with a quick wave of his hand. “No. I don’t mean ‘are you okay physically?’ I can see that. I mean, when they check—you’re good, right?”

  Tia understood what he was asking. Was it a clean shoot? Was she clean? All things considered, she knew she had no right to be offended, but she couldn’t help it. She was.

  “Yeah, Connor. My BAC will be zero and I haven’t had any meds in two days.”

  Connor’s relief showed clearly, but Tia could tell he was still angry. He sat up straight and kept asking questions—Tia felt like the conversation was halfway between a debrief and an interrogation. “What about this girl? She doesn’t sound like the girl you saw in the van.”

  Despite her vow to not hold back with Connor, Tia couldn’t help cutting her answers short, as if she were talking to IA. “A stripper from the Roadhouse. The feds tried debriefing her, but she couldn’t give them much. Pretty much just a pole dancer. They plan on putting her in some sort of witness protection program. Tuck her away until we need her.”

  Tia turned her back to Connor and looked down the path; the metal of her family’s trailer home gleamed in the morning sun. The sanctuary she’d felt when she’d realized he had waited for her had vanished. She couldn’t wait for him to leave. He didn’t really understand her, did he? She shuddered at the thought of how close she had come to telling him everything. To telling him about the voice that even now hummed somewhere quietly in her mind.

  Without turning around, she spoke. Her voice was blank and revealed nothing other than a desire to be alone.

  “Sorry to have kept you up. You didn’t really need to wait for me. I’m going to grab a couple hours of sleep. Later, there’s a briefing in Milwaukee about the planned takedown of Kane. I’m going.”

  “Tia, you’ve been in a shooting, not to mention awake for two days. You can’t be serious. You are not working tonight.”

  “Sawyer already approved it,” she said, turning back to him at last. “A few hours of sleep, something to eat, and I’ll be fine.” Her tone said, Don’t push me.

  She could see Connor process the information. He folded the paper and set it on the side table, then double-checked the tightness of both prostheses. When he stood, a quick blast of pain crossed his face. He walked past Tia without another word, went down the steps and to his truck. Before he’d reached the vehicle, Tia had gone into the house, the screen door slamming behind her. She gave some thought to running back outside. Don’t let him leave, she thought. Not like this. Tell him. Tell him everything.

  She heard Connor’s pickup start and glanced up in time to see him back out of the driveway. Shaking her head, she turned toward her bedroom, the dog following close behind.

  THIRTY

  Kane tucked the forty-five in his waistband, making sure the grip was plainly visible, then walked into the bar to meet Curtis Bell. One last time, he thought. Kane had come to realize this particular relationship had pretty much run its course. Bell sat alone at the bar, projecting his usual air of smug arrogance. Kane strode forward, Tanner tagging along behind. The smaller man’s head hung low; his pockmarked face was stunned with disbelief. It was obvious to Kane that the pressure was getting to Tanner. He couldn’t take much more of the high-stakes gambling. It was a good thing that it would all be over soon.

  When Kane approached the bar, he saw Bell’s gaze shift briefly to his gun, then move away. Kane couldn’t help but be impressed with how calmly the man accepted the fact that the only gun in the conversation belonged to someone else. He knew Cobb had made Bell turn over his weapon at the door.

  “It’s delivery time, Kane,” Bell said by way of a greeting. “Your shipment is in the truck outside. How about my hundred grand? You got it?”

  “Every dime of it.” Kane stood in the well so the bar was between them. “Big day for us. We oughta celebrate. How about a shot for old times’ sake? What’re you drinking, Curtis?”

  Bell gave Kane a smirk. “Little early for me. Let’s just get this done.”

  “Aw, hell, Curtis. Couple of old bikers like us? It ain’t never too early.” Kane stared at Bell, wanting it to come to the man piecemeal. He pulled the bottle of Jack Daniel’s from under the bar, never taking his eyes off the other man. Grabbing two glasses, Kane poured a couple of healthy shots, pushed one toward Bell, and raised the other to his lips. “Here’s to old times, friend.”

  Kane held the shot in the air, waiting. He picked up on the slightest
twitch of doubt in the man’s face, impressed that he stayed in character. After a moment, Bell picked up his glass. “Old times, Gunther.”

  Kane threw back his shot and Bell did the same. Both men grimaced briefly. Kane moved to pour two more shots, but Bell put his hand over his glass. “I’m good. Like I said, let’s get this thing done.”

  “God damn, boy. I’ve never known you to be in this big a hurry.” Kane looked at Tanner and winked. “I mean, you’re always a bit prickly, but what the hell? You got a date?”

  Kane saw a flicker of worry in Bell’s eyes. To his credit, the man again recovered quickly. “I’m just not crazy about having a stolen arsenal sitting in a parking lot. I say we make the deal, tuck the equipment away, and then we can throw a damn party.”

  Bell met Kane’s gaze steadily, easily, looking like nothing other than a man ready to close a major arms deal. Impressive.

  The head of the NAF poured himself another shot and threw it down, thinking, Time to quit fucking around. “Throw a party, huh? I guess we could do that, but tell me something, Curtis. Who would you invite? Some of your make-believe biker friends?”

  The movement was small, but Kane was sure he saw Bell bite the inside of his cheek. Kane found himself enjoying the moment just as much as he had thought he would. The time had come to call the man out. “Or some of your real buddies in the federal government?”

  As he said the last words, Kane pulled the forty-five from his waist and in one smooth motion centered the muzzle against Bell’s forehead. Bell’s mouth dropped open and Kane heard the air run out of the man and saw the life drain from his face. To his credit, Bell was able to muster real anger in his response.

  “Jesus Christ, Kane. What are you talking about?” The man sat perfectly still.

  Kane held the gun steady and shook his head. “Gig’s up, Delafield. That is your real name, ain’t it? Special Agent Curtis Delafield?”

  “My name is Curtis Bell. You know that. Take that piece off my head. Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you?” Though Kane knew the man had to be scrambling for some kind of control, he had to admit Delafield was holding up a lot better than Tanner had under the same conditions. Tanner had nearly shit himself when Kane called him out.

  “What’s wrong with me?” Kane asked.

  “Yeah, Kane. What the hell are you talking about? With what we’ve been through? You think I’m a cop? Get ahold of yourself for Christ sake.”

  “I don’t think, Curtis; I know. You are Curtis Delafield. You live at 5123 Old Ranch Road, Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Now, who you with?” Kane pulled the gun away from his prisoner’s forehead long enough to wave it at the door and cock the hammer, then returned the muzzle to Delafield’s skin. “Who’s out there right now?”

  The supposed arms dealer swallowed hard and said nothing. Kane grinned and went on, nodding at Tanner, who still stood nearby. “If you’re wondering, it was this dipshit right here who blew your cover. Once I figured out Tanner was a snitch, I thought back to our first meeting. I’m damn embarrassed to tell you how long it took for it to come to me. You remember? Sturgis?”

  Kane shook his head. “Looking back on it now, I swear, if I could kick myself in my own nuts I’d do it, and don’t you know I’d deserve it. Dumb-ass old me. Jessup carried on about how he’d never really been to a bike rally before. All about the party at Sturgis. How he wanted to go and tear it up. ‘Come on, Gunther,’ he said. ‘It’s on me,’ he said. ‘We’ll kill it,’ he said. Then I stumbled into a bar and happened to meet a man who changed my life. And dumb-ass old me, I bought it.”

  Curtis raised his hands as if trying to reach Kane’s more reasonable side. “Look, Kane, I don’t know how you got this all in your head. Maybe your dumb-ass friend is a snitch, I don’t know, but that ain’t got shit to do with me. Now, I’m telling you. Take that piece off my head.”

  Kane reached into the pocket of his denim vest. “And I’m telling you to save it. Game over, Delafield.”

  He tossed the Polaroid pictures onto the bar. Delafield looked down, grabbed the photographs, and screamed, “Jesus and Mary! God damn, Kane. What have you done?”

  Delafield stood so quickly his barstool fell and smacked hard against the floor with a sound like a shot from a gun. He held the pictures in shaking hands. Kane rammed the forty-five harder against his head.

  “Get hold of yourself. You want to see them again, you will settle your ass down.”

  Delafield fell to his knees, holding the pictures to his face as if he hadn’t heard a word Kane said, his mouth hanging open in a silent scream. Kane knew he needed to reestablish control. He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his jeans pocket and threw them to Tanner.

  “Get over here. Cuff him up. Move your ass.”

  Tanner vaulted the bar and reached out to grab Delafield by the arms. The bigger man pulled away and shot a look of aggression at Tanner. Suddenly he seemed ready to go on the offensive. Kane shouted, “I swear, boy, you go with the program or I’ll skin one of your little ones alive while you watch!”

  Delafield sagged in place and offered no resistance when Jessup moved again to handcuff him. He turned to Kane and asked weakly, “How?”

  “How? Well, I guess that really is on you, Curtis. I mean, you get a few miles from Waukesha County and you take on a whole different personality, don’t you?”

  Delafield looked confused. Kane smiled and let him have it. “You fucked up. Got a little too comfortable. Last time we met, I followed you to your little rendezvous with Mrs. Delafield. After you left the hotel, I hung out for a while in the parking lot. She headed straight down to Cedar Rapids, picked up the boys from the neighbors, and went home. That teenage daughter of yours? She must give you fits, huh?”

  Kane let it all sink in and watched as the man realized his cover was blown all to hell. “Don’t blame the wife, Curtis. It really comes back on you. Involving civilians in this sort of bullshit. I figured you’d be trained to know better than that.

  “Don’t that gnaw at you fellas that work these lying-ass assignments? That somehow you might screw up? Put your family in the crosshairs?”

  Kane pulled the handcuffed man to his feet and sat him roughly in a chair. He picked the pictures up and spread them out across the table. One had been taken at an odd angle, showing a pretty brunette about the same age as Delafield lying on a carpet. She was staring at the photographer, her eyes filled with terror and her mouth covered in thick gray duct tape. From the size and shape of the shadow that fell over her Kane knew that Buster Cobb had taken the pictures himself.

  “Seems like she’s gone a little pudgy over the years, probably from pushing out all those children for you. That does play hell on a woman’s body. Bet there was a time she could stop a clock, huh?” Kane’s tone was conversational and he tapped a fat finger against the Polaroid. “But let’s give credit where it’s due. That is still a very fuckable woman.”

  Delafield stared silently at the array of photographs, panting. Kane figured it best to give the man a few minutes. Cobb had done well. The entire Delafield family was laid out on the table.

  Kane took a moment to study the images. The wife he’d already considered: she might be worth a go even though she was a bit on the old side for his taste. The teenage daughter, whose angry gaze shouted, Put it anywhere near me and I’ll bite it off, was definitely one to spark a man’s interest. But even Kane had to admit the picture of the twin boys was disturbing. They looked to be about four and the fear etched on their faces jumped out at him.

  One of the blond boys stared straight into the camera, his face contorted in what could only be a mixture of a scream and a sob. The other sat with his tiny arm around the waist of his identical brother as if trying to comfort him or maybe seek comfort. But that boy’s eyes haunted Kane. His gaze was focused somewhere off camera, reflecting a kind of emptiness. Kane figured all three children were already well beyond scarred for life.

  “We’ve had a good run, you and me, Curtis. My understand
ing is, it was all supposed to end today. But I’m calling for a change of plans.” Kane grabbed Delafield’s chin and forced the man to look him in the eye. “We got some business between us yet, and if it don’t go the way I say I guarantee each of these precious folks will be boxed up in a shipping crate and headed to one of the four corners of the earth.”

  Kane picked up the photo of the boys. “The market for little white boys in a few spots in Central America is off the hook. I’m just wondering how exciting it will be to offer a matched set. Damn, they’re like bookends, huh?

  “Now this one here,” he said, tapping the picture of the teenage girl, “I’ll bet she’s a handful. She’ll bring top dollar, but it won’t be pretty for her.”

  He took the last photo, the woman, and stuck it an inch in front of Delafield’s face. Kane’s voice was dismissive. “Middle-aged housewives usually end up in domestic work. Mostly housecleaning and dick sucking.”

  Delafield finally broke. His voice was hollow. “Listen, Kane. You can’t do this. I’m a federal agent. You know what they will do to you?”

  “Well, there we go.” Kane smacked Delafield with an open hand across the back of his head. “I’m glad we got that out in the open without having it get too ugly.”

  “Let my family go and I’ll do whatever you want. We can make whatever deal you want,” Delafield said. “Keep the money. The hardware, a hundred machine guns, is in the van. You can have all of it.”

  Kane laughed. “Think about that, Curtis. Every word you’ve ever spoken to me for damn near three years has been pure bullshit. Every fucking word. Why would I believe a damn thing you say now?”

  “I swear, Kane. I’ll do whatever you say. Just let them go.” Delafield changed tactics. “You’re HA, Kane. You don’t do this. You don’t involve civilians in this sort of thing.”

  “Normally that would hold true, but I don’t think that sort of professional courtesy should apply in this particular situation. Just my feeling on it.”