The ATF agent was pushing himself up to sitting. His left eye was swollen nearly shut, already purpling. Blood ran from a split lip. But he was moving okay. Nothing broken.
Joe offered a hand. Simmons took it and Joe pulled him to his feet.
"What happened?"
Simmons spat blood. "Came out of nowhere. I was checking the truck, making sure nobody'd messed with it overnight. They just appeared. Like they'd been waiting."
"They say anything?"
"Not a word." Simmons touched his eye gingerly, winced. "You’d think I slept with their wives or something."
“I didn’t see you last night,” Joe said, with a small smile.
Simmons tried to laugh but put a hand up to his face. “Ah, don’t make me laugh.”
Joe looked toward the pickup. It was pulling out of the lot now, tires squealing.
"Thanks, by the way,” Simmons said.
Joe nodded. He'd learned to fight on Army bases all over the world. Him and Jack, the new kids every year or two. Always getting tested. Always having to prove themselves.
You learned fast or you got hurt.
You learned to use elbows because they were harder than fists. Learned to go for the spots that dropped a man quick.
"Can you walk?" Joe asked.
"Yeah." Simmons tested his weight, nodded. "I'm good."
"Let's get you cleaned up. Then we need to talk to the local sheriff."
"About what? Three guys jumped me in a parking lot?"
"About the fact that somebody knew we were here," Joe said. "Knew which motel. Knew which truck. And decided to send a message."
Simmons looked at him. Even with one eye swollen shut, Joe could see him putting it together.
"Kinsman's people," Simmons said.
"Maybe,” Joe replied.
14
Ivy Harper sat at her desk in the Treasury building, staring at a stack of requisition forms that had grown throughout the morning.
The Miami project was stalled.
She'd requested transaction records from three banks, two in Miami and one in the Caymans, and now she was waiting for them to be pulled, copied, and sent over through official channels.
The banks would drag their feet. Their lawyers would review every page. It could take a long time if they decided to be difficult about it.
Her desk was organized chaos. Files stacked in precise piles. A coffee mug with the Treasury seal, half-empty and cold. Spreadsheets she'd been working on before the Miami requests went out.
She had time.
She pulled out the notepad where she'd written the single word Joe had given her over the phone the night before.
Volkov.
