Aim and Fire (10 page)

“Sure, sure, just a minute.” Closing the door, he rooted around on the table until he found his checkbook.

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“Baby? Who’s there?”

His head snapped up, and the checkbook flew from his suddenly fumbling fingers. He trotted back to the bedroom, where the sleepy-eyed blonde’s head was poking out of the sheets. “Someone at the door?”

“Yeah, just a deliveryman. He’ll be gone in a moment.

Stay here for a bit, okay? You can grab a shower if you want.”

“Hmm.” She disappeared under the sheets, just as Beth banged on the door again.

“How do I get myself into this shit?” Nate muttered as he ran back to the table, his bare feet skidding on the dusty linoleum. He scribbled out a check for $150, leaving him twenty-seven until his next payday.
Jesus, I hope I didn’t
drink the rest away last night.
Going to the door, he opened it again.

“Is someone in there with you?” Beth asked.

“Just me and the TV.” He handed her the check.

Beth’s eyes narrowed, and for a second Nate thought he was busted, as she had a pretty good bullshit detector. She took the slip of paper, and her face softened. “You eaten anything solid in the past few days?”

“Yeah, I do all right. I’m still seeing Bobby this weekend, right?”

“If you’re not called in, yes.” Beth’s eyes clouded even more. “He sure misses you.”

“Yeah, I miss him, too. Tell him we’re going fishing Saturday, so make sure he has his gear.”

“All right.” She stepped in close and kissed his stubbled cheek. “Try not to get yourself killed between now and then, all right?” she asked.

The corner of his mouth crooked up at their private joke, which had started when they were newlyweds, and 88

had grown progressively less humorous over the years.

“You doin’ all right?”

“I get by. Take care of yourself now.” She strode down the apartment hallway, her hips swaying as she went. Nate shook his head as he watched the best thing that had ever happened to him walk away again.

As he closed the door, he heard the shower going, and trotted back to the bedroom, looking for clues. He picked up the woman’s purse and expertly rifled through it until he found her identification, replacing it as the water shut off. Nate started to clean up the bedroom, but realized he didn’t know where he’d begin, and settled for lighting a cheroot and waiting for her to come back in. A few minutes later, she came out, dressed and drying her hair with a towel.

“You, uh, want to get something to eat?” Nate shifted on the bed, never comfortable with this part of the dance.

His one-night stand looked older in the afternoon light, he mused—with crow’s feet and laugh lines that had been artfully disguised the previous evening. Maybe five years younger than his own forty-four years, she was thicker in the hips and legs than he’d remembered, too. But she wasn’t embarrassed, just gave him a weary smile.

“Shoot, honey, I got just enough time to get back home and cleaned up before I go back to work.”

Jesus, did I pick up a waitress?
Nate wasn’t sure to whether to laugh or blush. “Well, it was quite an evening, Sharon.”

“Oh, you remember? I’m flattered, Nate. Make that impressed, after everything you put away last night.”

“Um, yeah, well, yesterday wasn’t the best of days for me, at least till I met you.”

“That’s what got me here, you silver-tongued devil. I Aim and Fire

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gotta run.” She walked over and patted him on the cheek.

“If you ever get shot, have them bring you to Providence Memorial—I work the night shift there.”

Ah, a nurse, he realized. “I’ll keep that in mind, but why do you think I’ll be shot?”

“You’re Border Patrol—at least, that was what you said last night—so it’ll probably only be a matter of time. I’ll let myself out. See you around, Nate.”

When she was gone, he locked up and took a shower, then got dressed again and grabbed some water bottles and a bag of beef jerky and headed out to his Bronco. Getting in, he headed south out of town, keeping an ear on his scanner for border chatter.

He stopped about two miles from his destination. Pulling a pair of binoculars from the backseat, he walked out into the scrub and found a good vantage point on a small rise. Making sure the setting sun wasn’t reflecting off his field glasses, he raised them and scanned the area to the south, looking over the cordoned-off crime scene where the Mexicans and the border agents had been killed. He watched Billy Travis strutting around as if he owned the place, barking out orders.

After watching the scene for a few minutes, he panned right and left, searching the horizon for anything out of the ordinary, but he was too far away.
I can either cool my heels
in the desert, or I can go piss Travis off some more,
he thought. That was no choice at all. He walked back to his Bronco and drove over to the crime site, pulling up near the crime-lab van. Grabbing a cold bottle of water from his cooler, he walked up behind the van, keeping out of sight of Travis for the moment. “You look thirsty, Kottke,” he said.

The balding, bespectacled tech mixing up a batch of plaster of paris glanced up to see the sweating bottle 90

hovering above him. “Hey, Nate, thanks.” He drained half the water in long swallows. “Aren’t you on leave pending that drug-bust investigation?”

“What can I say, I happened to be in the neighborhood.”

Kottke handed the bottle back and kept stirring the plaster. “Better check your zip code, then. You’re aimin’

to bust Travis’s balls again, aren’t you?”

“Won’t be a need to as long as he don’t come around and try stickin’ them in my face. What you got so far?”

“Right now, just the three
B
s—bullets, blood and bodies. Looks like one of the agents spooked someone they shouldn’t have, and got perforated for his trouble. Second one came around to assist, got the same thing, then the per-petrators—anywhere from two to four—went to town on the illegals. Looks like machine pistols of some kind, all 9 mm. Different kinds of weapons, Ingram M-11s, maybe a couple of Uzi pistols. No survivors—these guys were thorough.”

“What about the truck?”

“Wheelbase and axle width indicate it was a 1.5-ton panel truck, probably a Chevy G30, maybe a small IH

model. We’ll know more once we run the tread pattern. The two agents were dumped in the SUV, which was driven out five miles to the middle of nowhere and torched. Second team’s working that now—at least they were dead before they burned.”

“Amen to that.” Nate repressed a shudder at the thought of how the Colombian and Mexican cartels killed undercover agents or screwups. One of the most common methods was to hang a tire soaked in gasoline around the victim’s neck and light it, guaranteeing a hideous, drawn-out death.

“That’s about all we’ve got right now, until we can get everything back to the lab—”

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“Kottke, where the hell are you, that tread was supposed to be cast—”

Travis barreled around the corner of the van pulling up short when he saw Nate. “Goddammit, get that plaster over there and take those tire casts now.”

“Yes, sir.” Kottke shot Nate an apologetic glance, then scurried away.

“Now, what in the hell is an agent who’s supposed to be on leave doing sniffin’ around a crime scene he’s got no business being at?”

“Aw, Billy, don’t get your tighty-whities in a bunch. I just thought I’d drop by to see if you guys could use an extra hand, us being so short staffed and all.”

Travis got right in Nate’s face, his words spraying out only inches away. “Jesus Christ, Spencer, what part of
on
leave from active duty
do you not understand? I am not going to have this investigation fucked up because of an off-duty agent who doesn’t know when to quit! Now go home and crawl into your bottle, or whatever the hell it is that you do when you’re not making everyone’s job harder.”

“By God, Travis, you best step back before you find yourself flat on your ass. And if anyone asks, you can say you tripped and fell against the van door,” Nate growled.

The other border agent glared at him for a moment longer, then stepped back. “Get out of here right now, Spencer, or my next call is to Roy, to tell him to put a leash on his dawg.”

“Piss on you, Travis.” Nate spun on his heel and stalked back to his Bronco, hoping the other agent would push it and give him a chance to knock him on his can. But the expected hand on his shoulder never came, and Nate opened the door of his little truck and stopped to look 92

through the window at the busy agents and technicians working the scene.

Goddammit, that should be me in there, not that sanctimonious prick,
he knew. He got into the Bronco, slammed the door and drove away in a cloud of dust.

The sun had long disappeared by the time Tracy walked out of DHS headquarters. The old Navy complex had been given to the new department when the deal for their new quarters in Chantilly, Virginia, had fallen through just before they were to go live in 2003. At first there had been talk of moving to newer quarters later, but as time passed, those intimations had slowed, then stopped altogether.

Now the behemoth department was stuck in the decrepit collection of buildings that were supposed to be refur-bished when time and budget allowed, which, in government parlance, meant never.

After clearing security, which had been rigorously improved since someone had walked out with four pistols from the secure vault the previous year, she walked out to her six-year-old Nissan Altima, keeping an eye on her surroundings all the while. Just because she worked at DHS

didn’t mean something bad couldn’t happen there. Driving off the lot, she headed north on the always busy highway toward Chevy Chase and her fiancé’s condominium.

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During the week, she stayed with him, since his place was closer than her apartment on the south side. Although Tracy always tried to let the stress of the day drain away on her drive, her shoulders were still tense as she pulled into the driveway, got out of her car and headed up the walk.

As she reached for the door, it opened and there stood Paul, who greeted her with a kiss. “Hey, there. Another long day, huh?”

“Yeah.” She slipped off her pumps and hugged him for several seconds, then slipped free and walked into the living room. “Late enough for a beer, I think.”

“Come on, you need something to eat, too. I kept a plate warm for you.”

“Is that the scrumptious aroma in here? Smells heavenly,” Tracy said.

“Just shrimp scampi with linguini and steamed veg-etables. Nothing fancy.”

Tracy raised a skeptical eyebrow. Paul was an avowed foodie, and a “simple” dish for him often involved hand-made noodles, seafood caught less than twelve hours ago and fresh herbs from his own garden. As usual, she marveled at how he found the time to do all that and work his day job, as well.

Sitting, she allowed him to serve her with a flourish, capping the simple yet elegant meal with a cold Heineken.

“This is wonderful,” she said between mouthfuls. “I almost feel like I don’t deserve it.”

“Why would you say that?” Paul turned a chair around, sat and clinked his beer bottle against hers.

“Oh, I baited Gilliam again.” She summarized the day’s events to him as she polished off the pasta. “But he deserved it, dammit, no matter what he claimed he was going to do.”

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Paul shook his head. “Sweetheart, you’re never going to get anywhere looking for trouble and butting heads like that.” Seeing her head come up, he held up his hands. “Not that I’m saying it wasn’t justified, but really, don’t you think you should pick your battles more carefully?”

Tracy rose to take her plate to the dishwasher. “Yeah, but I’m just so tired of the whole thing. I know we analysts are supposed to be behind the scenes, but still, when the behind-the-scenes people don’t get the credit for a job well done, what else is there? Even though a lot of people would consider that a little thing, it was the thousandth little thing, and I’ve just had enough.”

Paul got up, as well, moving behind her to rub her shoulders. “Well, if it’s that bad, like I’ve said before, you could always come to work for Globeview. With your experience, we could have you briefing units in the field in about two weeks, and actually making a difference where it counts, instead of battling the inexorable DHS bureaucracy.”

Tracy leaned back into him, trying to remain focused on the conversation but becoming more relaxed under his ministrations. Paul was a lawyer for Globeview Security Systems, one of the new wave of private security companies that had sprung up in the wake of the expanded global war on terror that was stressing America’s armed forces to their limits. Ever since they had met at a military defense convention in Las Vegas two years earlier, he had been working on bringing her over to the company, and although she couldn’t help but feel a distinct dislike for what was essentially a mercenary outfit, there were times—like now—where it sounded better than heading back to the office in the morning. That thought also brought a stab of guilt with it.

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With an effort, she pulled away from him. “Paul, we’ve been over this before, and you know how I feel. There are just some things I think our government should handle, instead of outsourcing them.”

“It’s the wave of the future, Tracy. You of all people should know that there will never be a standing army large enough to cover all the potential conflict areas, and there are plenty of other areas where the U.S.—or other countries—will want to have influence without being directly involved.”

“You mean carrying out whoever’s orders, no matter what the consequences are to the indigenous people and country. That’s how coups are carried out, Paul, as we both well know.”

“So you would rather have hundreds of thousands of people suffering every day, while some insane dictator subjects millions to countrywide hell?”