Trust Fall

by Alex Ander

Devlin caught up to Patton, grabbed his shirt, and pushed him to the right. “This way.” Stealing glances over her shoulder, while wiping blood—Chambers’ blood—from her face, Devlin shoved him through the dense woodlands for the next fifteen minutes, their course knifing Z’s into the floor beneath the forest’s canopy. Her Colt’s muzzle never strayed from Patton’s backside.

  After another ten minutes of seemingly random lefts and rights, she came to a halt. “Stop.”

  Out of breath, breathing heavily, Patton turned around. “Do you think,” he sucked in more air, “we lost—” he stood straight, his eyes staring down the black hole of a 1911 muzzle.

  “Drop it. Drop the gun...now.”

  His chest heaving, he cracked a thin smile. “Are you serious?” He poked his chin at the trees beyond her shoulder. “I just saved your life back there.”

  Her face void of emotion, she lined up the Colt’s sights on his nose. “I won’t tell you twice.”

  He chortled under his breath, “You have some trust issues, Marshal Devlin...” before flipping the forty-caliber onto the hardpan earth. “...big, fat ones.”

  After glancing at the discarded Glock, Devlin kept her eyes on Patton while stooping to grab the gun. She slid the pistol into the waistband at the back of her jeans, “Get going,” and waved her forty-five, “that way.”

  “Something tells me you weren’t nursed at the breast, were you?” Patton pushed a low-hanging limb and bypassed the obstacle. “Studies have shown that breastfeeding really bonds a mother and child. And, if I’m not mistaken, it also helps children later in life...to play nice with others...to become well-adjusted to societal norms and customs...” he half turned his upper body and shot a sideways glance at Devlin, “and to be more trustworthy of others.”

  Devlin slipped by the swaying branch, her ears hearing his prattle while her mind processed the last half hour. Military hardware, tactical and coordinated maneuvers...those men couldn’t have been roadside bandits. They had to be professionals.

  Two minutes of hiking and one-way jabbering passed.

  “I sense you’re not much of a talker, Marshal Devlin.” Patton bobbed his head. “That’s okay. I don’t mind.” He paused. “However, at some point, we’re going to have to address the elephant in the room.” He lifted his hands until his restraints were stretched to their limit. “Excuse me...the elephant in the great outdoors.”

  Why were they waiting for us? How’d they know we’d be coming that way? Devlin recalled the accident outside of Villa Mainero. Was that one staged too? She saw the map of the area in her head. We were cut off from MEX-85. The only other route back to the highway was through San Fernando...and the ambush point.

  Patton glimpsed the deputy marshal out of the corner of his eye. “You know...I bet you’d be great at giving someone the ‘silent treatment.’”

  Who was the target though? She gave him a nudge. “Turn right.”

  The duo followed a faint path in the same direction.

  “So do you have a plan or are we just making random turns,” he scanned the area, “strolling through nature?”

  Alternating between taking backward looks and gaping at Patton, she pondered her question. It had to be him. She squinted at the back of her prisoner’s head. He was the target. They wanted him. Why? What’s so special about Simon Patton? She stuck out her chin. “Go left.”

  He veered left, stepped over a log, and trotted down a slope before hoofing it up an incline. “This is fun. Makes me wish I had brought my step counter with me.” He ducked under a large branch. “I know. Let’s play a game. I’ll guess which way we’re going next. If I’m right, then you have to tell me one thing about you. If I’m wrong, I promise to stop talking.”

  Devlin eyeballed him. Now, there’s a wager worth taking. She chuckled to herself. If Hawk were here, he’d have already shot this g—her mind drifted to her partner. If Hawk were here. She trudged along, wiping sweat from her brow. Simple words everyone says...if so and so were here. She rubbed the heel of one hand against her chest, hoping to dislodge the dull ache inside. Her shoulders slouching, the soles of her boots thumping off the ground, she fought to put one foot in front of the other. If Hawk were here. Devlin filled her lungs and stood straight. But he won’t be...ever again.

  “I’m...going...to say,” Patton wagged his finger back and forth, “right. We’re going to hang a right up here somewhere.”

  Five minutes later, Devlin spotted an opening. “Take a right...through that gap.”

  “Yes.” Patton pumped a fist. “Nailed it.”

  They emerged from the tree line and stepped into a clearing. The beginning of more forest—hundreds of yards away—waited for them at the end of a stretch of farmland.

  “I win. Time to tell me one thing about Marshal Dev—”

  “You win?” Devlin grabbed a handful of his shirt and spun him around to face her.

  Noticing red in her eyes, he was unsure if she had been crying or was angry.

  “You think this is some damn game?” She thrust a finger behind her. “Three agents were killed back there, protecting you.”

  He followed her finger before coming back to her. She’s definitely pissed.

  Her voice grew louder. “One was a close friend of mine. He leaves behind a wife and newborn baby. He did his job, he gave everything, so that...” she jammed her finger into Patton’s chest.

  He took a quick step backward to keep from falling.

  “...you could live.”

  “Look...Marshal,” his demeanor was subdued, “I—”

  “Shut...” she closed the distance and leveled the finger at his nose, “up.”

  Patton arched his body away from her.

  “I’m not done talking.”

  He swallowed.

  “Deputy Marshal Blake Hawkins is not going to die in vain. I’m going to get you back to the States where you will stand trial...where you will be judged by a jury of your peers.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Whatever the hell happens to you from there...I don’t really give a damn. Now, just keep your mouth shut,” she aimed the digit at an old house near the opposite tree line, “and head for that structure.”

  Patton pursed his lips, glimpsed the shack, and regarded her.

  “How was that? You’ve been bellyaching to get to know me better. Did you enjoy our little...heart-to-heart time?”

  After studying her for a few moments, seeing pain and rage in her eyes and spread over her face, he made his way toward the building.

  Devlin let out a heavy breath and followed him.

  Lumbering over tilled dirt, both of them kicked up dust clouds in their wake.

  ∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞

  .

  Chapter 11

  Any Port in a Storm

  Having made a pass around the single-story structure made of weathered, unpainted planks and not seeing signs of life inside, Devlin put a boot to the south-facing door. The rickety panel flew inward. She entered and shined her Pelican 1970 flashlight in all directions.

  The wide-open interior space gave off an odor akin to rotted wood. Three windows, each facing a compass point—north, west and east—provided scant lighting. Dust particles floated in the air. Several wooden chairs encircled a dilapidated, rectangular table located in the middle of the house. A nook in the southwest corner, near a black potbelly stove, served as a kitchen area. Pans hung from hooks on the adjoining western and southern walls. Two sets of bunk beds, a window separating each, were against the north wall.

  Patton ogled the accommodations. “I guess it’s like they say...any port in a storm.”

  After giving the outside a long look, Devlin closed the door, tested a chair’s integrity, and sat.

  He took a lap around the room and claimed the seat across the table from her.

  She eyed her cell phone. One bar. The signal disappeared. She stood and spun in a circle, holding the device upward. A single bar reappeared. She pivoted back. The signal went away again. Like tuni
ng in a radio station, she toured the house, twisting and turning until she found a location where the single bar remained constant.

  Slumping in the chair, Patton observed her, as she placed a call and put the mobile to her ear. His eyes taking in her body, he scrutinized her arms, her legs, her fingers, her mannerisms, her facial expressions, the way she carried herself. He squinted. His mind went over every detail he had gleaned from watching her, beginning with their first meeting in Villa Mainero.

  “Ma’am, it’s Devlin. I need your help.”

  As she spoke, he listened to the highs and lows in her pitch, as well as her nonverbal signals during the pauses in her speech pattern. Like an artist using colors to create a tapestry, he was combining scraps of information to paint a picture of the woman with whom he was sharing his life at this moment.

  *******

  4:07 p.m. (local time)

  Alexandria, virginia

  In her office, reclining in her chair, Marshal Thorn rubbed her temple. “So let me get this straight. The prisoner exchange didn’t happen at the airport. You had to travel to...to...”

  Devlin: “Villa Mainero.”

  “Right...Villa Mainero...where you were ambushed?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And the agents assigned to pick you up at the airport are dead...along with,” in her mind, she pictured one of her own, “Deputy Marshal Hawkins.” Thorn heard a long moment of silence.

  “That’s right, ma’am. He died saving...”

  More silence.

  “...he died saving me, so I—” Devlin’s voice cracked, “so I could get the prisoner to safety.”

  Thorn removed her spectacles and shut her eyes. Pinching an arm of the eyeglasses, she rubbed the bridge of her nose with the middle finger of the same hand. “Are you all right, Jessica?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Good. Where are you now?”

  “We’re holed up in a cabin of sorts, in a clearing...maybe a mile south of San Fernando.”

  “Okay.” Thorn donned her eyewear and scowled at a distant wall. “We have assets in the area. I’ll have the techies ping your cell. Once we have your exact location, I’ll scramble an S.O.G. team. Hang in there, Jessica. We’re coming for you.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Thorn disconnected the call and retrieved a different phone from a desk drawer. Her fingers flew over the screen and she pressed the device to a cheek.

  Five seconds passed.

  “It’s Thorn. There’s been an incident in Mexico...with the prisoner exchange. My people were attacked.” She waited before shaking her head. “You never told me about that.” More waiting. “This wasn’t what we discussed. You—” she gripped the mobile tighter. “No sir. I sent my two best agents, and now one of them is dead. I need—” Thorn stood, circled behind her chair, and rested her free forearm on the chair’s back. She hung her head. “I understand, sir. I’ll handle the matter discreetly.” Standing tall, “Yes sir,” she ended the call, tossed the phone onto the desk, and cursed.

  After shoving her chair out of the way, Thorn tapped a button on the desk phone and planted hands on her hips.

  A man’s voice came from the speaker.

  She glanced at the dial pad. “This is Marshal Thorn. I need a location on a cell phone. And I need it yesterday.”

  *******

  3:59 p.m. (local time)

  san fernando, mexico

  Devlin sauntered toward a window. After ending the call with her boss a half hour ago, she had not spoken a word to Patton. Her thoughts were jumbled. Images of the attack mixed with those of Hawkins’ fate. Cassandra’s face popped into her head. Damn it. She checked her watch. I have to pick... Devlin shut her eyes and touched a flat hand to her forehead. What am I doing? Curt’s picking her up from school.

  From his chair, Patton scrutinized Devlin’s physique. Sexy. Sleek. Fit. He studied her stomach. Tiny paunch...hardly noticeable. He bobbed his eyebrows one time. They say it’s tough to lose those last few pounds of baby weight.

  Devlin intertwined her forearms and gazed through the dirty glass, staring at the farmland near the house.

  He recalled grabbing her and throwing her back behind the oak tree to protect her from a hail of gunfire. She would have given her life to save her fellow marshal. He slowly nodded. Deeply loyal to her friends.

  For the next ten minutes, while feeling Patton’s eyes all over her, Devlin gawked out the window. Unlike a horny teenager’s unwanted attention, his interest in her seemed more like an inspection. Spinning on her heels, “All right,” she strode toward the table. “Just who the hell are you?” She claimed the chair across from him. “Those men were after,” she flung a finger in his direction, “you.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  She shook her head. “Don’t give me that look. You’re more than some banker who stole a million dollars...and got caught in another country. You handled that Glock like you’d been shooting since you were a kid.”

  His clasped hands in his lap, he lifted a shoulder. “What can I say? I watch a lot of movies. They always say it’s easy...flick off the safety, point, and squeeze the trigger.”

  “I call ‘BS’ on that. You’ve got military training. I saw you breaking twigs when we made turns on the way here. You were leaving a trail. And I’m guessing they don’t teach that on Wall Street.”

  “I think your trust issues have morphed into paranoia, Marshal Devlin.”

  “That’s another thing. You have this whole...” with an open hand, she made circles in the air between the two of them, “wise-guy persona you’re portraying, but it’s a little too much. It’s not natural. You’re overcompensating for something.”

  Inwardly, Patton grinned. Add intelligence to her list of attributes.

  “So my original question still stands...who the hell are you, Mr. Simon Patton?”

  He looked away, his lips pursed, his chest swelling. Deep horizontal lines formed on his forehead. He exhaled and stared at the gouges in the table’s splintered surface. Everything’s gone down the crapper.

  “Your mouth hasn’t stopped moving since we met. What’s stopping you now from...sharing?”

  Chewing on his lower lip, Patton shifted his gaze from Devlin, to her phone on the table, to the handcuffs around his wrists, to the door. In his mind, he saw a replay of the shootout. It wasn’t supposed to go down like this. After making another cycle—Devlin, her phone, his restraints, the door—he sat straight, slid his butt closer to the chair’s back and looked intently at the deputy marshal. A few beats later, he sighed. I guess it’s time to read her in.

  Sitting erect and squinting at him, Devlin noted the change in his demeanor. A second ago, he was smug. He was sarcastic. He was flippant. Now the face gaping back at her showed the opposite of all those things. She frowned. Either he has a split personality, or—

  “Marshal Devlin,” Patton leaned forward and fixed her with a deadpan stare. “I’m DEA.”

  ∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞

  .

  Chapter 12

  Noah Randall

  Patton scooted his chair closer to the table. “I’m working undercover for the Drug Enforcement Administration. I’ve been tasked with finding a person—high up in the Marshals Service—who’s been trafficking illegal arms to Mexican drug cartels.”

  Devlin’s eyebrows shot upward before she could control them. She recovered and folded arms over her chest.

  He noticed her response. “I know this is difficult for you to take in, but I assure you. My superiors have solid Intel that the traitor is in your organization.”

  “What’s the Intel?”

  “For weeks now, we’ve been working to stop the flow of drugs from the Juarez Cartel...into the U.S. We’ve set up sting operations and raids. All of which have come up empty. At one point, we were even able to track Escobar Juarez’s cell phone to a specific location. When agents arrived, he was gone. He was tipped off. Someone,” Patton jabbed a finger at De
vlin, “high up in your agency, told him we were coming.”

  “How does this point toward,” she poked her chest with her thumb, “my agency’s involvement? Where’s the proof?”

  Patton held out his arms as wide as they could go before the chains stopped him. “Do you think I’m going to carry that around with me?” He pumped a hand toward her. “Trust me. The people above me have all the evidence...and it leads to someone in the Marshals Service.”

  Devlin was stoic.

  “Oh, that’s right. I forgot. Trust isn’t your strong suit, is it? How about this? About a month ago, we intercepted a shipment of small arms—AR15 rifles, nine-millimeter pistols, and magazines and ammunition for both. The tech gurus at the DEA followed the money trail to a couple of cutout buyers. They said their contact person was,” Patton hesitated, “a United States Marshal.”

  “What was the name of the marshal?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Why?” Devlin shot back, showing him her palms. “You want me to trust you, but yet you won’t—”

  “I can’t tell you, because I wasn’t read in on that information.”

  Devlin stood and resumed her spot near the window, peering at the woodlands, her mind overflowing with questions. Is he telling the truth? Is there a traitor in our ranks? Cupping an elbow, she rubbed her forehead with her free hand.

  “Look, I know this is a lot for you to process right now. One of your own is dirty. People are shooting at you. And your partner was kill—”

  “Don’t,” Devlin whirled around and took a step toward Patton, “don’t you dare go there.”

  He leaned away and showed surrendering hands. “Too soon...I get it.” He nodded. “My apologies, Marshal Devlin.”

  “And will you stop calling me that? I’m a deputy marshal...deputy marshal.”

  “I’m sorry. I assumed those terms were interchangeable.”

  “They’re not.” After a minute of glaring at the floor, at nothing specific, she wandered back to the table. “All right, Patton,” she let out a heavy breath, “even if I were to believe you—which I don’t—how was the DEA planning to find this crooked marshal?”