by Alex Ander
Devlin leaned back and studied her fingernails.
“I’m sure I can get a recommendation from Director Jameson...all but guaranteeing me a job.” Ashford looked up at the parting clouds and blue sky. Temperatures were already higher than normal for early May. Its muffler rumbling, an older car passed by the house. He came back to her. “Think about it. We can talk tonight,” his shoulders went up and down again, “or whenever.”
“Curt,” she squared her upper body with him, “I’m not going to lie to you. Jonathon’s death hit me hard, especially the way he died. I felt like life had sucker punched me, abandoned me, leaving me to raise a four-year-old on my own.” Shaking her head, she gawked at the driveway between Ashford’s feet. “Those were tough times.”
Ashford’s protruding pectoral muscles bounced once and settled, as he folded his arms and put a shoulder to the truck’s frame.
“As time went on, however,” she lifted her head and jutted out her chin toward him, “and finding you...I’ve gotten a little better at dealing with my insecurities.” She regarded her husband for several moments before letting out a short sigh. “You were an FBI agent when I met you. You love what you do.” She laid a hand on his forearm. “I don’t want to come between you and something you love, something you’re good at. If you want to try for SWAT, I’ll support you.”
He pressed his lips together for a few seconds. “Are you sure you’re okay with that?”
She stared through the windshield, her mind revisiting the dark days from two years ago.
Ashford covered her fingers with his.
She pivoted her head toward him, a faint smile on her face. “I will be. I’m a woman. If there’s one thing women excel at...it’s overcoming, adapting, persevering.”
“Just so you know,” he held up three fingers, “that’s three things, not one.”
Devlin gave him a heartier smile and tugged on his shirt.
He listed into the cab.
She kissed him. “I love you, Curt. I’ll stand by whatever you decide to do.”
He nodded. “I love you, too, Jessica.”
She started the truck and rolled down the window. “Now, will you let me get out of here?”
He backed away from the Ford. “Before you’re late for—”
“Yes, yes, I know...” she closed the door and put the transmission in gear, “for being early.”
He laughed.
She smiled, blew him a kiss, and drove away.
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
.
Chapter 7
Simon Patton
7:54 a.m.
u.s. marshals service
alexandria, virginia
district headquarters
Devlin leaned back against the elevator car, the fingers of one hand curled around her coffee mug and pinching her sack breakfast. Her phone in the other hand, she skimmed email titles and browsed news feeds. A title caught her eye: CAPITALS SKATE BY RED WINGS, 3-1. She smiled. Curt must be happy.
Since moving to Washington D.C., Ashford had become a big Washington Capitals fan. He never missed watching them on television or updating Devlin on the score when work kept her from watching the game with him. A year ago, their first date had been dinner at her home with her daughter and her father. After putting Cassandra to bed a little early, Devlin and Ashford had cozied up to each other on the couch to take in the Capitals game. At that moment, hockey had become the couple’s official sport.
Devlin slid her thumb up the mobile’s screen. Weird, he never mentioned the game last night. She stopped scrolling and lifted her head, his words from the night before coming back to her: Whoa. You weren’t wearing that when you left this morning. Hearing the elevator bell a second ahead of the doors parting, she pushed away from the car, chuckling to herself. I guess when your wife comes home dressed like a hooker...hockey probably isn’t the first thing that comes to your mind.
Exiting the elevator, she made her way to her office, exchanging greetings with coworkers and accepting jubilant adulations for apprehending Mendoza. News traveled fast when another criminal was off the streets.
Dropping into her black leather chair, while opening her sack breakfast, Devlin heard a knock at the door. She looked up to see Hawkins, dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and striped tie, leaning into her office. “Morning, Hawk.”
“I heard the uproar a second ago,” his eyes twinkled, “and figured Caesar had returned to Rome.”
She sniggered. “I hope you didn’t waste too much of the taxpayer’s money...” she popped the lid that separated her from her yogurt and sunk a spoon into the colorful concoction, “in coming up with that one.”
He waggled his head. “I’m good at multitasking.”
“I’m sure you are. What’s up?”
“Thorn told me she wants to see us as soon as you got here. She’s in her office.”
Devlin took a couple quick spoonsful of fruit-infused yogurt before deserting the plastic container and joining her partner for the short walk to their boss’s office. “Did she say what this was about?”
He shook his head. “No, but I got the impression it’s important.”
“Why’s that?”
“She’s been back to my office twice in the last ten minutes, asking if I’ve seen you.”
Puckering her lips, Devlin faced forward. A tick later, she eyed him again. “Speaking of time...how’d you end up beating me here this morning?”
“I didn’t. You’re just late.”
Thinking of her husband, she lifted a corner of her mouth. Thanks Curt...for making me late for being early.
*******
Seeing her employees through the bank of windows between her office and the cubicle area, Marshal Marissa Thorn stood and came out from behind her desk. She beckoned them when they made it to the door. “Come in.”
Devlin and Hawkins headed for the two chairs facing the desk.
The fifty-three-year-old woman lifted a hand. “Don’t bother sitting. This won’t take long. And you two have a flight to catch.”
Stopping short of the chairs, the deputy marshals exchanged a look.
Wearing a navy blue pantsuit, white blouse, and black high heels, Thorn leaned back against the edge of her desk, lowering her five-eight height. She clasped hands in front of her body and crossed ankles. Her thin build, smooth, dark-toned skin, and dark hair—the same length as Devlin’s—gave her the appearance of a woman in her mid-forties.
Single, never married, no children, Thorn had been with the agency for more than two decades. At this point, her years of service were equally split as a deputy marshal and a full-fledged United States Marshal. When she was the former, she had been involved in numerous high-profile arrests, many of which included criminals on the U.S. Marshals Service 15 Most Wanted Fugitives list.
After removing her black eyeglasses and stuffing them into a shirt pocket, “Late last night,” Thorn slid two manila files off her desk, leaned forward, and held out the folders, “a man was arrested in a bar in Mexico...”
Devlin and Hawkins perused the paperwork inside the tan jacket. The first thing to draw their attention was a photograph: a white male with nearly a full, dark beard, brown eyes, and a narrow face that ended with a square jaw.
“...Simon Patton...wanted on charges of embezzlement here in the States.”
Devlin eyed Thorn. “How much?”
“Over a million. I want you two to go down there and bring him back to stand trial. As we speak, marshals from our Mexico City office are working with Mexican authorities to prep him for transport.” Thorn folded her arms over her chest. “So it should be a short turnaround. Pick him up at the airport and get right back on the plane.”
Devlin closed her file. “When do we leave?”
“Your jet is waiting.” Thorn checked her watch. “I want you in the air by nine, so you better get a move on.” She stood tall and circled behind her desk. “Have a safe flight.”
“Thank you, ma’
am.” Devlin headed for the door.
Hawkins followed her. “Do you want us to bring you back any souvenirs while we’re down there, ma’am?”
“Just the one...Simon Patton.”
“Copy that.”
When her agents had left, Thorn sat in her chair and withdrew a cell phone from a desk drawer. Her thumbs tapped out a text message:
My best people are handling the matter we discussed. They know nothing of its sensitive nature. I’ll keep you posted on developments.
After mashing the ‘send’ icon and throwing the mobile into the drawer, the marshal watched Devlin and Hawkins disappear from sight, as they passed the last office window. She closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath, and pressed palms against her temples for several seconds.
Unable to hold her breath any longer, she blew out a gust of wind, slammed the desk drawer shut, and went to work, her fingers pecking away at the computer keyboard.
Two sentences later, biting her lower lip, she flicked her eyes toward the bank of windows, toward the last image of her people. Another long and heavy breath later, she focused on completing her report.
*******
Hawkins caught up to Devlin who had her phone to the side of her face. “I’m going to grab a few things. Meet you downstairs?”
“Hey Curt...” she nodded at her partner, “it’s me. It looks like I’m not going to be able to pick up Cassie from school.” Devlin ran fingers through her hair, stopping to scratch her scalp at the back of her head. “Give her my best and tell her I love her and...” Devlin sighed, “tell her I’m sorry I couldn’t take her to the park.” She rubbed her forehead with a thumb and middle finger. “I’ll make it up to her.” Entering her office, “If all goes as planned,” she mentally ran through a checklist of items she might need for the plane trip, “I should be home for dinner.” She looked around the work area, “Okay,” before kicking off her flats, “I have to go,” and grabbing a pair of black A.T.A.C. six-inch side zip tactical boots from 5.11 Tactical. “I love you. See you soon.” She ended the voicemail message and stepped into the first boot.
*******
two hours later
10:15 a.m.
51,000 feet above alabama...
The Gulfstream V had taken off from Ronald Reagan Airport at nine o’clock and was now cruising at 647 miles per hour. The aircraft would reach its destination by eleven-thirty, ten-thirty local time. With a fully stocked galley and able to sleep six—and carry sixteen—passengers, the G5 offered its two travelers plenty of space and amenities for the flight.
Having exchanged his suit for blue jeans, a light gray long-sleeved tactical shirt, and black tactical boots, similar to Devlin’s, Hawkins sat opposite her, clutching a cup of coffee and a bagel slathered with cream cheese. Crossing his legs, ankle on knee, he took a big bite of the bagel and spoke in between chews. “You want me to...get you something?” He swallowed while motioning toward the jet’s ceiling. “This thing’s loaded.”
Breaking away from the file on Simon Patton, Devlin motioned toward the brown bag on the leather seat to her right. “I’m good. Curt sent me off with something this morning.”
Hawkins sipped his beverage. “How is Curt?”
“This isn’t adding up.” She crossed her legs. “This guy Patton—” she pulled her nose away from the folder. “I’m sorry. Curt’s doing well.” She hesitated. “He...” she recalled their conversation about him wanting to join the SWAT team. I can’t get into that right now. She blinked a few times. “He’s doing well.”
Not convinced, Hawkins tipped his head to the side. “Is everything okay?”
She forced a smile, “Everything’s fine,” and went back to the information. “So this guy Patton embezzles one point five million and heads to a tiny little town in Mexico.”
After peering at her for a few seconds, Hawkins decided to let go of the issue. She’ll tell me when she’s ready.
“Why,” Devlin rubbed her temple, “why wouldn’t he go somewhere else? I can think of a hundred other places that are better than,” she flipped a page, “Villa Mainero...it’s got like four hundred people there...total.”
“Sounds like a good place to,” Hawkins grabbed another bite of his breakfast, “disappear...blend in with the locals.”
“Yeah,” she scanned the material, “maybe. But, if he was trying to blend in, then why start a fight with a couple of those locals? And this report says he paid for his drinks with hundred-dollar bills.” She eyed her partner. “Getting into fights and flashing that kind of cash doesn’t speak to a man trying to go unnoticed.”
Hawkins shrugged while stuffing the remainder of his meal into his mouth. “In my experience, criminals never were very smart.”
Devlin pinched a piece of paper and read the line just above her thumbnail. “Witnesses reported that when police arrived, Patton simply surrendered.” She faced Hawkins. “Why wouldn’t he try to get away before police showed up?”
“Look,” Hawkins put both feet on the floor and leaned toward her. “You’re putting too much energy into this, Dev. Sometimes things don’t add up,” he showed her a palm, “because sometimes they just don’t add up...period...end of story. We have a job to do here. We pick up this Patton guy and bring him to the U.S.” Hawkins sat back in his seat. “The courts take it from there.”
Devlin half closed an eye at him. “It’s nice everything is so simple for you, so black and white. Don’t you ever question things?”
“Not,” he inspected his coffee, “if I...” before dipping the tip of his pinky into the brown liquid and wiping the digit on his pants, leaving behind a black speck, “don’t have to.” He sipped. “Not everything has to have an answer.”
She slowly nodded her head. “Well, that must be nice...to be able to just let things go.”
He chuckled. “You were never in the military. I was. I learned real quick not to ask questions when my drill sergeant wanted me to run...jump,” he lifted his fore finger away from his cup and gestured at nothing in particular, “climb that rope, Hawkins...crawl under that wire, Hawkins...drop and give me fifty, Hawkins...get your scrawny little as—”
“Okay, okay...” Devlin sniggered while placing the manila folder on the seat beside her, “I get your point.”
“I questioned him once, and he tacked on another fifty push-ups.” Hawkins shook his head. “From that point on, ‘yes sir’ and ‘no sir’ and ‘thank you sir’ were the only words that came out of my mouth.”
Grinning, Devlin stood. “I’ll think I’ll have that cup of coffee now.”
He poked his chin toward the rear of the Gulfstream. “Try the hazelnut blend. It’s delicious.”
Shaking her head, her amusement growing again, she made her way toward the galley. “Thanks for the tip.”
He lifted his drink, “My pleasure,” and took another swallow.
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
.
Chapter 8
Snag
10:42 a.m. (local time)
monterrey, mexico
general mariano escobedo
international airport
The Gulfstream V’s retractable staircase touched down on the tarmac, as the jet’s engines wound to a halt. Devlin descended the steps ahead of Hawkins. Two deputy marshals met them near the front bumper of a black Chevrolet Suburban. She extended a hand, “Jessica Devlin,” and gestured over a shoulder. “Blake Hawkins.”
Handshakes were exchanged while two more names were added, Frederick Mills and Celeste Chambers; the former belonged to a short and stocky man in his thirties with a shaved head while the latter identified a twenty-something woman the same height as Devlin, but twenty pounds heavier. Modeling sunglasses, both agents wore dark suits despite the sunny day and temperatures in the middle eighties.
Mills spread apart his jacket and planted hands on hips while eyeing the newcomers. “I have bad news for you two. We’ve run into a snag with processing your man.”
Feeling the heat s
mothering her like a blanket, Devlin pinched her blouse and fanned herself. “What kind of snag?”
“The Mexican police are dragging their heels on releasing Patton.”
She rolled eyes and crossed arms over her chest.
“Everything’s still on track, but we’re now going to have to pick him up.”
Hawkins showed upturned palms. “Why?”
“They didn’t want the exchange to take place,” Mills wagged a finger at the surrounding area, “here...at the airport. Not quite sure on the reasoning.”
Sighing, Devlin wiped a wrist across her forehead, “Fine,” and dried the perspiration on her pants. “Let’s get going.” She headed for the SUV. “How long is the drive?”
“There and back...five hours.”
Her shoulders drooping a bit, she shut her eyes and inwardly groaned. Great. There goes dinner with the family tonight. Devlin took out her cell phone, climbed into the right-rear passenger seat, and tapped the icon of Ashford’s smiling face.
*******
three hours later
1:34 p.m.
villa mainero
The drive had been long and boring. There was not much to see, except one tiny town after another. Three hours deeper into Mexico, the thermometer had risen close to ninety degrees. Fortunately, the SUV’s air conditioning kept the heat at bay.
For Devlin, the last twenty minutes of standing in the open air, waiting to take custody of her prisoner, had been brutal. Her Virginia-in-the-month-of-May blood was not ready for the sudden spike in heat and humidity. She tried fanning herself, but her shirt was sticking to her skin. Another ten minutes and I could enter the local ‘wet t-shirt’ contest.
Swiping at sweat beads below her hairline, Devlin stepped away from the Suburban and the heat radiating from the black vehicle. “So why aren’t we waiting inside the climate-controlled interior of,” she jabbed a finger at the Chevy, “that thing?”
