1
FALLYN
The fishy odor from Boston Harbor wafted on the cold November wind as I lay on top of a shipping container, my focus resolute as I looked through the scope of my rifle. My heart was punching my ribs left and right. I swore that anyone within a five-mile radius could hear it.
As many times as I’d been part of a raid with the ATF, my adrenaline was always off the charts. I never had any expectations that I would like this type of job, but it was in my blood.
My dad was a retired FBI director, and my brother, Jason, had been an FBI agent—a good one until he’d gone undercover to bring down Brian McCauley, a front man running drugs for the Colombian cartel, and been killed. At least I believed he was. There wasn’t enough evidence to convict McCauley or any of his associates. According to Jason’s autopsy, he died from a drug overdose, and though he might’ve succumbed to drugs while inside, he would have never taken his own life.
I’d made it my mission to uncover the truth behind his death, but I took a different route and joined the ATF instead of the FBI. I believed it would be the quicker path to finding answers. Unfortunately, by the time I was out in the field, McCauley had already shifted his focus solely to the drug trade and left the work of illegal arms dealing to his longtime friend and associate, Duke Hart.
Sadly, the truth about my brother’s death may never come to light. But I refused to give up. Over the last four years, I’d spent countless hours examining the evidence we had, but there was nothing to indicate he was murdered. The only way I would ever have closure would be if the person responsible for Jason's death confessed or was caught, and that felt like an impossible task. McCauley’s world was not one where people sought redemption or admitted their guilt easily.
“Fallyn, report,” Special Agent Howard said through my comm.
“All quiet for about twelve hundred meters.”
Special Agent in Charge Kyle Howard was leading the raid based on information from his informant, who worked around a few of the Colombian cartel soldiers in Boston.
I wished Brian McCauley were the target for tonight’s operation, but the tip we received pointed at Duke Hart, front man for Rosario Mendoza, head of the Colombian cartel.
Apparently, Duke was meeting with Rosario’s lieutenant, Gustavo Gutierrez, to transfer the weapons—the first step in the chain of custody—before Duke sold them to multiple buyers.
“Stay alert,” Howard said through his comm to the rest of our team, scattered throughout the container yard.
In the dead of night, with only the crescent moon providing a smidge of light, we were essentially ghosts, hidden by shipping containers.
I inhaled and exhaled, regulating my breathing and trying to steady my hand around the rifle. I was the newbie on the team but not new to long-range rifles. I’d recently transferred from LA to Boston’s ATF field office. So I had something to prove.
Agent Bruce Griffin, one of my colleagues, had issues with me. I believed he felt threatened because I was the daughter of a retired FBI director, and he thought I got special compensation and privileges because of my dad. Bruce was off his rocker if he thought my dad’s status would open doors for me. I had to bust my freaking ass through ATF training and do everything by the book.
Lights bounced in the distance, catching my eye.
I swiveled the rifle in that direction. “We got company.”
“We don’t move unless we see the guns. Fallyn will give us the signal,” Special Agent Howard said.
We were assuming the parties would meet inside the warehouse, where I had a bird’s-eye view from my scope into a large window carved into the building.
A moving-style truck rolled to a stop sign about a thousand yards away. Behind it, a cargo van pulled up. In seconds, two masked men jumped out of the passenger side of the cargo van, guns in hand, ran up to the moving truck, and pumped bullets into both of the men inside.
No loud boom, indicating the perps were using suppressors to silence the sound.
“We have a problem,” I said into my comm as the masked perps yanked out the limp bodies and threw them to the ground. “I think it’s an ambush.”
Both masked perps hopped in the moving truck and sped off, with the cargo van on the tail.
I turned the dial one click to my right. “Two bodies are on the ground, not moving. Truck with possible gun shipment is gone.”
“Son of a bitch,” Agent Howard growled out. “Any other activity, as in Duke Hart, his men? The cartel?”
“Negative,” I said as headlights bounced on the cross street. “Wait. Another vehicle is approaching.”
The SUV pulled up to the four-way stop.
The passenger—a beefy guy with a gut—jumped out, jogged over to the bodies, felt for a pulse on both of them, then shook his head at the driver.
I swung my scope to the man behind the wheel.
