Walter heaved out a sigh. “While Jameson is here on loan from the DEA, his area is undercover operations training. I seriously doubt he’d have those kinds of connections.”
Lucky didn’t like the man, hadn’t since the dumbass started consulting here and scowled at Lucky’s less-than-stellar past. He’d also trained Bo, which resulted in Bo nearly being killed.
The world would get along fine with one less moron. Lucky certainly could.
For long moments Walter studied him. “Are you really concerned about a pharmaceutical company being wrongly accused, or of your own opinion being questioned?”
Ouch. Direct hit. But Lucky wasn’t wrong, damn it! He’d even gone by the book for once in his life. “You know for years some folks at the DEA have been calling the SNB wannabes and come waltzing in after we’ve done the dirty work to claim credit during takedowns.” A few examples came to mind, sneering faces—several he’d nearly punched. “And it’s not just me I’m worried about. Hell, everyone knows my reputation, but Bo and Johnson were with me on this one.” He slammed a hand down on the desk. “They did everything right. No way in hell did DEA find big enough problems to yank their registration two hours after we concluded our audit. Just the fact they voluntarily asked us for a compliance evaluation says a lot about them.”
Walter leaned back in his chair, staring off at the far wall. “While I wouldn’t dare naysay another agency, or show disrespect, I’ll request a copy of the report.” He gave Lucky his best barracuda smile. “After all, cooperation between agencies is key to winning the war on drugs.”
Lucky couldn’t hide a smirk. Walter often repeated those words in front of the cameras when being interviewed, or when trying to worm his way into another agency’s good graces, which he usually managed with startling ease.
What would Lucky do without him?
He paused at the door on his way out and almost asked if Walter put a tail on him.
No. He wouldn’t ask. He knew the answer.
***
A shadow fell over Lucky’s desk. Lucky growled at the person who wasn’t Bo, Johnson, Walter, or Lisa, the only people allowed in his sanctuary.
Owen Landry tossed a printed out copy of the Chastain article on Lucky’s desk. “Does it hurt much? Being wrong?” The asshole sneered. “I wouldn’t know, personally.”
Lucky rose from his chair, but Landry retreated before Lucky could grab his fool neck and choke the life out of him.
He collapsed into the chair behind his desk, barely catching himself when the Hell Bitch tried to throw him. Damned chair.
He rose immediately, running a hand through his hair and pacing to Bo’s desk and back in their shared cubicle. Where was Bo? He needed Bo.
Or Johnson. Where the hell was everybody? He called the receptionist. Lisa answered on the first ring. “Hello, Mr. Harrison. How can I help you?” Mr. Harrison. Not Lucky.
“Have you seen Agent Schollenberger or Agent Johnson?” Two could play the “let’s be formal at work” game.
“No, sir, I haven’t. Could I help you with something?”
Lucky started to hang up, but imagined Bo swatting the back of his head and hissing,“Manners!”
“No. But thanks.” He ended the call and resumed his brooding. After all these years, the first few spent in a dizzying round of alternately hating and admiring Walter, now that the verdict came in for admiring, the man planned to leave.
Well, not really planned. Asshole higherups pissed all over the man’s untarnished record and intended to throw him out like so much trash.
To top things off, Landry had grown a set of balls or had lost his fool mind. In Lucky’s experience, flunkies only started mouthing off if they thought they were safe from retribution.
O’Donoghue replacing Walter meant Landry moved up the food chain.
Lucky lobbed an empty Starbucks cup at the far wall. It sailed out of his cube, smacked the wall, and hit the floor, barely missing a passing newbie’s head.
The guy gave Lucky wide eyes.
“What the fuck you lookin’ at?” Lucky growled.
The rookie took off down the hall, hissing to an unseen someone, “You don’t want to go that way. He’s throwing things.” Since no one else passed the cube, whoever he’d spoken to must’ve taken the advice.
Damn, but Lucky’s skin crawled. Walter should be here. Always. How old was he, anyway? Not too old to keep a bunch of misfit agents in line. Drug traffickers feared Walter Smith. He’d worked hard to earn his reputation.
All for what?
