Closing the door, he gets right to it. “What’s the skinny?”
I read out to him the details from the report, and he frowns. “You’re thinking of calling your friend, aren’t you?”
I wince. Greg was the commanding officer of an associated black ops team in the sandbox and wanted more than the illicit encounters that kept the two of us sane. But I don’t want to get into that today.
“Yep. Greg.”
Having risen through the ranks, Greg is now some sort of mucky-muck in the Department of Homeland Security: Information Sharing Division. Given what we do, and the fact that he works with all of the major intelligence agencies, I’ve had Jake keep an eye on him while maintaining my distance.
Jake is quiet, his face thoughtful.
“I know it’s a risk, Jake. But now we’ve got Marshals dying out there, and I’m not willing to let that go. And there’s no one I trust in the Marshals organization. I think we can stick our necks out a little to give him a warning. He has the power to get balls rolling in the right direction.”
Jake inhales deeply, almost meditatively. “I don’t like it, but I think you’re right.”
I nod, and we disconnect. I pause for a moment, gazing down at my phone as if it’ll somehow give me the insight on how to walk this tightrope. Disappointed in its lack of clairvoyance, I hit Greg’s number and let out a breath.
“DeShaun?” I wince at the sound of my name, but at least he seems pleased to hear from me. I also take it as a good sign that he’s kept my number all these years.
“Greg, good buddy!”
“Oh wow, itisyou.”
“Yes, sir, though these days I go by DB.” I laugh roughly, feeling like a shit-heel for not reaching out sooner. “How’s it going?”
He chuckles, his voice warm when he responds. “Oh, you know how it is. We sometimes accidentally do something useful. Can’t complain about too much. How’re you?”
“I’m fine, but this isn’t a social call. I’ve got a heads-up for you.”
He hesitates. “Okay…hit me.”
This next part will show a few cards I’d rather keep to my vest, but it has to be done. “Before I do, I need you to run an untraceable, unrecorded call. Is that possible?”
More hesitation.
“Sure…um, gimme a sec.”
The line goes dead, and I trust that my ex-lover, friend—I don’t know what to call him, actually—is about to call me back.
Thirty seconds later, my phone rings. “DB here.”
“Greg here. All right, DeShaun. Fess up, what have you done?”
I roll my eyes, deciding against correcting him again, even though something about my full name feels too personal. Well, too personal for anyone but Odd. “I’ve always been on the side of good. But you’ve got a data problem.”
“In what way?”
“The two Marshals agents this afternoon.”
More silence.
“Clarify.” It’s impossible to miss the edge in his voice. We shared years of covert service, but I have no idea how much he knows about my post-military life.
“I don’t have the information in front of me, nor do I have any data regarding their mission. But if I had to guess…I’d say that the intel seemed perfectly fine, save for one or two seemingly innocuous yet entirely inaccurate details.”
Tension ratchets up in the quiet pause. “I do have access to that information, and there were dogs that weren’t listed in the file. Policy would dictate a different approach if they anticipated anything other than a quick and bloodless takedown.” All I can hear is his breath, but the sharp inhales and exhales remind me of how perilous this conversation really is. “Do I want to know how you have any of this intel?”
“It’s better for you not to know the answer to that. But I don’t want people in the service dying or getting hurt like they did today. And if I’m right about this being a widespread problem, you should be able to launch a discreet investigation. I’ve got a feeling you’ll find evidence of this in several of your files. Maybe start with Joshua Tremaine.”
