“Fallyn, what’s going on?” Agent Howard asked, sounding perturbed and antsy.
I dialed in the focus even more. My long-range scope had the means to see close to a mile.
The driver climbed out and lingered close to the SUV, searching the industrial neighborhood.
“I got eyes on Duke Hart and Vince Russo,” I said in a low voice.
I’d read through both of their files until I had just about everything memorized. Vince Russo, second-in-command for Duke, had been joined at Duke’s hip since they were teenagers. No family to speak of, except a brother in prison. The same age as Duke—thirty-three. And, like Duke, had yet to do any jail time.
“Everyone, hold your positions,” Agent Howard ordered. “They might come into the warehouse.”
If they did, we had no evidence to arrest them unless Duke had guns in his SUV. Even then, he wouldn’t have the mother lode we’d been hoping for.
Duke focused in my direction, lifting his cell to his ear.
My freaking heart was pumping blood at warp speed as I held steady. Surely, he couldn’t see me. I was far enough away, and it was dark.
I steadied my breathing, sizing up the imposing criminal I’d seen in a slew of pictures in his file. He was hot as fuck—angular jaw, patrician nose, cold reddish-brown eyes that were more mahogany-colored, close-shaven beard, and thick sandy-brown hair, shorn over the ears.
Duke straightened the beanie on his head as he continued to scan the area, like an expert soldier looking for the enemy in a war-torn city in Iraq. The only thing he didn’t have was a weapon.
“Are you sure it’s Duke Hart?” Agent Howard asked.
The streetlight at the corner provided ample light, and I had no doubt I was looking at Duke Hart.
“Affirmative,” I responded.
Duke lowered his cell, shaking his head furiously as he banged on the hood of his SUV.
“They’re getting in their vehicle. Hold tight,” I said.
From my vantage point, Vince and Duke appeared to be arguing. A beat passed, then Duke made a U-turn and drove back in the direction he’d come.
I blew out the breath I’d been holding. “They’re gone.”
“Everyone, hold your positions in case the cartel shows up,” Agent Howard ordered harshly.
After five minutes, I gave the all clear, muttering several expletives. I thought this was our shot. My teammate and friend, Agent Gwen Holiday, had been attached to the Boston field office for five years, and in that time, she’d said that anything involving Duke Hart was like playing a cat and mouse game. But the cat never won.
A dirty agent came to mind. How could Duke or even McCauley skirt the Feds on every turn? But no one within the federal government—DEA, FBI, or ATF had been investigated. According to my dad, if anyone within the government agencies was corrupt, they were covering their tracks really well.
I doubted a dirty agent was involved tonight. I speculated someone who wanted to fuck Duke or the cartel was responsible for this ambush.
By the time I packed up my gear, most of my team had been deployed to scour the area for anyone suspicious, as in Duke Hart or members of the cartel, who might be idling nearby.
I threw my gear in the van not far from the dead bodies and joined Gwen, Agent Howard, and Bruce by a stop sign.
Gwen, a striking blue-eyed brunette and a badass agent, said to our boss, “Sir, an ambulance is on its way.”
Agent Howard lifted his ATF hat, swiped a hand over his flat brown hair, and shoved his blue ball cap back on. “My informant got it right, but something went wrong.”
Bruce, who was in his late thirties with blond hair and a muscled body, handed our boss the driver’s licenses of the dead. “I believe they’re cartel.”
“Fallyn, did you get a good look at the ones who killed them?” Howard asked.
I shook my head. “They had masks on, but both were lean. I didn’t see the driver of the cargo van either.”
“It seems either Duke or the cartel have an enemy in play here.” Bruce latched on to the collar of his bulletproof vest.
