Stealing Justice (The Justice Team) (35 page)

“He’s a brave one.”

Syd smiled up at Grey. “He is indeed.”

“Well, then, let’s try a cupcake.”

Grey held the box so her mother could grab a treat. Syd took one also. “I told him about the bakery we used to go to all the time.”

“Oh, we loved that place didn’t we? I was so sad when it closed.”

“Me too, Momma. Me too.”

Her mother peeled the paper from the cupcake and Grey took the garbage from her. Fed Boy was working his charm today. Good for him.

Her mother took a bite and chewed. “Oh, my.” Slowly she licked a bit of frosting off the top of the remaining half, then looked at Syd. “It’s them. Take a bite.”

Little tingles shot up Syd’s arms because she wasn’t quite sure if this was wishful thinking on her mother’s part or if Grey had done his magic.

In a rush, Syd peeled back the paper and bit into the cupcake. The flavor, that heavenly mix of just the right amount of peanut butter and cocoa, triggered memories of strolling down Pennsylvania Avenue and inhaling the smell of fresh baked goods.

She spun to Grey and with a bite of cupcake still in her mouth said, “Where did you get these?”

He grinned at her, all Mr. Smug. “Is it them?”

“It’s them,” her mother said. “Give me that box.”

Grey laughed and handed it over. Yes, he was proud of himself. As he should be. She quite simply adored him. With half her cupcake still in hand, she stepped closer, wrapped her free hand around his waist, and snuggled into his neck. Finally, a keeper. “Thank you.”

He kissed the top of her head. “You’re welcome.”

“Where did you get these? It’s unbelievable.”

“Believe it. I used my contacts to track down the original bakery owners. I told them about you and your mom and they made you cupcakes.”

Syd backed away. “You did that for us?”

Mr. Smug again. “Yep.”

She glanced at her mother who was into her second cupcake. “Mom, you’d better save me one.”

“No,” her mother said. “You’d better marry him and make him bring me more.”

Grey snatched a cupcake from the box, peeled the wrapper away, and bit off half. “Ladies, that can be arranged.”

Now for a sneak preview of Monroe’s book…

CHEATING JUSTICE

by Misty Evans & Adrienne Giordano

Runner’s Paradise
. That’s what locals called Rock Creek Park.

As the sun sank lower on the orange horizon, Mitch Monroe was nothing but one of a dozen runners—just what he wanted—out on a cold, late October afternoon, enjoying a piece of wilderness in the midst of Washington D.C.

His breath came in white puffs, fogging and disappearing in the crystal-clear air as he climbed another hill. The sun’s weak light barely penetrated the heavy wall of trees on either side of the trail. No traffic sounds came from the nearby road—Beach Drive was closed on weekends so hikers, bikers, runners and walkers could use the road for workouts and sightseeing.

Thud, thud, thud
…his feet pounded a similar beat as his heart, light flurries falling intermittently and making the trail wet. Running, running, running…that’s what his entire life had become. Running from the FBI. Running from a mistake that he’d do all over again. Running away from a past that haunted his every move.

What he wanted was to be home, but there was no “home” for him anymore. Running was all he had left.

Behind him, another runner entered the trail and Monroe quieted his breathing to listen to the rhythm. Was the runner speeding up or slowing down? Following him or simply following the trail?

There was only one person who knew he was on this specific trail at this time of day. He constantly varied his comings and goings, varied his runs and the places he went. Tonight was different. Tonight he was meeting a friend.

The footsteps grew louder, closer. One step, two…Monroe eased over to the side of the trail, ready to duck into the woods. As usual, he was unarmed. Fugitive or not, he’d never shoot a fellow agent or police officer. If they came after him, they were only doing their job and it would be his own damn fault if he let them catch him. Anyone else—say a bounty hunter or random criminal looking for a sucker—was fair game.

But even though he’d once been a Bureau man with commendations in his personnel folder to spare, he wasn’t a man of violence. He’d protect himself and those he cared about. Period. The level of violence depended on the threat.

The squeaking of sneakers caught up to him, a shorter, thinner man falling into step beside him. Kemp Rodgers. The man who knew Monroe was here. The man Monroe hadn’t seen in months.

The man who had requested this secret meeting.

Hearing Rodgers heavy breathing, Monroe kept his pace slow and methodical. Jogging, not running. He pinned his gaze on the road ahead, putting one foot in front of the other and resisting the urge to grab his friend in a bear hug.

So wrong
. He wasn’t a hugger. Months of little contact with friends and none with his family had made him crave human contact. “That cushy White House job is making you soft.”

Rodgers snorted an out-of-breath chuckle. “Not like our days in the Bureau, huh?”

A wave of homesickness devoured him. Not for home necessarily, but for what
had been
. His job, his friends, his life…all gone.

Rodgers’ text had been brief:
Beach. 5:45 pm. OGR.
The
message had come from an unknown number, probably a burn phone. But Monroe understood. Rodgers had news about Operation Gun Run. About Tommy’s death three weeks ago in an FBI sting operation.

Monroe cut his eyes to his left, noting Rodgers was dressed in all black. Not a reflective stripe or bright color anywhere.
Definitely does not want to be seen
. “The cat burglar costume is really working for you.”

“Like you’re some runway model.”

“Not me. You’ve got the cheekbones for it.”

“Too short. But I got brains. That’s why I’m in the White House.”

And I’m not.
“I assume I’m freezing my ass off out here for more than idle chitchat about your doomed modeling career.”

Rodgers snugged down his knit hat, his voice full of the classic sarcasm Monroe had missed. “You never minded freezing your ass off. You love survivalist conditions. Probably why you’re such a damn good fugitive.”

It was rare Rodgers threw it in his face.
Nervous
. But whatever information Rodgers had, it was important enough to risk his job meeting Monroe in the park. As an aide to the president, Rodgers couldn’t be seen with a fugitive, even if he and Monroe had been friends since fifth grade. “Hey, meeting out here was your idea, not mine.”

They jogged in silence for a few feet. Rodgers checked over his shoulder. “Any news on Gun Run from your end?”

Like always, thoughts of their mutual friend’s involvement in the gunrunning operation, and Tommy’s subsequent death, brought on a flood of questions. Questions Monroe couldn’t expose himself to ask and he knew no one would answer. Tommy had been undercover working a gun-smuggling ring, but how was it he’d ended up dead in the Arizona desert surrounded by weapons the ATF had confiscated months earlier? Guns Tommy shouldn’t have had and that the ATF insisted he’d stolen from them somewhere along the way.

“Nada.” Monroe said. “The few contacts still willing to talk to me claim ignorance. You?”

A tight sigh. “The president is invoking Executive Privilege on the operation tomorrow.”

What the hell?
It took Monroe a few seconds to process the information, the damning implications. “Why is the operation on
his
desk?”

“All my sources inside the House are close-lipped. No one knows.”

“Something definitely went wrong with that operation.”

“Tommy was selling the weapons on the black market. The deal went bad. The government can’t let it leak that one of their own was as dirty as the criminals he was supposed to bring down.”

What the hell did you get yourself into, Nusco?
Monroe slowed his pace, listening to the quiet
squeak-squeak-squeak
of Rodgers’ sneakers on the wet ground.

Tommy had joined them their sophomore year in high school. Long hair, ratty jeans, and enough anger inside him to fuel a freight train. The crazy teen had copped an attitude that pissed off Monroe from day one.

But he’d seen a part of himself he’d buried reflected in Tommy’s cruel lips and flippant comebacks. Seen a reflection of the soul he’d shied away from all his life in Tommy’s bring-it-on demeanor and me-against-the-world insolence.

Contrary to Kemp Rodgers’ advice, Monroe had immediately taken Tommy under his wing. Of course, Tommy being Tommy, he’d rejected all attempts at friendship, clinging to his outcast status with zeal. But Monroe was persistent. He watched and waited, and when the time came and Tommy finally dug himself into a hole he couldn’t get out of, Monroe showed up in the nick of time to save Tommy’s ass.

Along with Rodgers, the two of them had taken the Academy by storm. The Three Musketeers, their instructors had dubbed them. Monroe figured it was better than the Three Stooges.

This thing with Tommy didn’t add up. “He was undercover, working an angle. Something went wrong and now the government is covering it up.”

Rodgers shook his head. “You sure about that?”

It had been a long time since Monroe had been sure about anything, but this…
this
was different. “If the men who killed Tommy were there to buy guns, they would have taken the cache after they shot him down. But they didn’t. They left the guns, right?” When Rodgers didn’t answer, Monroe nodded.
Cover up
. “The whole thing stinks, and it isn’t because Tommy was dirty.”

“If the president is invoking Executive Privilege, someone high up wants to keep the details secret. My guess? The guns or the parties involved are part of a bigger operation.”

Tommy had always been a risk-taker, always reaching for the biggest fish in the pond. “Christ.”

“I know you were looking into what happened, but now you have to back off. You poke the wrong bear, and the claws of the Justice Department will come down on you hard and swift. The FBI won’t be the only entity hunting you.”

Back off?
No way
. If anything, this latest development fueled Monroe’s desire to uncover the truth even more. But Rodgers was a good guy—a good friend—and when the shit hit the fan, as it invariably would once Monroe started stirring the pot, he needed plausible deniability. Rodgers had left the FBI to pursue politics and landed a sweet seat in the White House because he didn’t break the rules. Ever. Monroe, on the other hand, had more Tommy than Kemp in him.

Most rules were made to be broken. Executive Privilege or not, Tommy’s killers weren’t getting away with murder, and the government wasn’t getting away with pinning crimes on an innocent man. Tommy deserved justice.

“Mitch?” Rodgers’s voice held a warning. “Promise me you’ll leave this alone.”

Monroe stopped, his ears ringing. The Three Musketeers never called each other by their first names or made promises they couldn’t keep. “Tell me you did not just go there.”

Rodgers stopped a few feet away, turned and came back to face Monroe. “I did, and I expect that promise.”

“Easier to open a vein and bleed to death.”

“Tommy wouldn’t have wanted that.”

“He wouldn’t have wanted to be branded a traitor by his country either.”

The two glared at each other in the shadowy light. Ahead, Monroe spotted a group of hikers crossing the road, dressed in expensive clothes and laughing about something. Their flashlight beams bounced off nearby trees and he automatically stepped closer to the woods.

Rodgers didn’t follow. “I get it, man. You always had a soft spot for Tommy, and without you, he wouldn’t have made it through high school, much less college and the Academy. But he was a wild one, and once you left the Bureau, there was no one keeping him in line. I don’t know what happened in that desert, but what I do know is, Tommy might have crossed a line.”

…once you left the Bureau, there was no one keeping him in line
. Monroe’s back teeth locked.
My fault.
He could hardly get ground out the words. “He was not dirty.”

Rodgers set his hands on his hips and looked off into the distance. “I’ll look into it
discreetly
from my end. You stay out of it.
Capisce?
”

Capisce, my ass
. “Whatever gets you through the night,
Kemp
.”

“Mitch—”

He held up a hand. He was already stretched thin with emotion. He didn’t want his friend worrying about him, and adding a new layer of guilt to his growing pile. “Alright, fine. I’ll stay out of it, but do me a favor.”

“What?”

“
Don’t
look into it, even discreetly. Whatever’s going on could put you in hot water. You need to keep your nose clean, forget this conversation. I’ve got a buddy who can investigate what happened. He’s discreet and he has an in with the FBI.”

“Justice Greystone?”

“Better you don’t know.”

“Right.” Rodgers blew out a breath, looked back the way he’d come. “Guess that’s it, then. You need money or anything?”

Ouch
. Monroe stepped forward, offered a handshake. “I’m living the high life. ‘Go home. Find a wench, raise fat babies, live a good long life.’”

Rodgers laughed at the movie quote, took Monroe’s hand, and dragged him into a manly embrace. “All for one?”

Monroe hugged him back. “And one for all.”

As Rodgers jogged off, Monroe watched the deepening shadows gobble him up. What had happened to the three of them? Tommy was dead, Monroe on the run, and Rodgers had sold his soul to God and country. Not the way he’d thought their story would turn out.

“All for one, and one for all,” he whispered to himself as he took off the other way. “Don’t worry, Tommy. I won’t let you down.”

At six o’clock the next morning, Monroe stared at the screen of his TV in disbelief. Kemp Rodgers was dead.