He’d go to bat for Lucky, Bo, and Johnson, get to the bottom of whatever else turned up they hadn’t been aware of.
Save the bureau’s reputation.
Save Lucky’s.
They’d done a thorough job at Chastain. Textbook, as far as Bo and Johnson were concerned.
Lucky dove a bit farther, with the mind of a criminal looking for security breaches.
Nothing.
Agencies shared information. DEA knew the SNB inspected the place.
Rookie Rogers also seemed to be tailing him. If that was Rogers he’d seen last night. For all he knew Victor’s outfit kept an eye on him.
Victor. The way-too-handsome, way-too-powerful drug lord who’d taken Lucky under his wing, taught him the business, and tried to save him in the end. Made the deal with Walter to get Lucky out of prison early, to work off his sentence in service to the good guys.
Lucky closed his eyes, heart clenching as a vision swam before his eyes—a vision of Victor hanging in a jail cell. How he’d hated himself, blamed himself for the testimony that had helped put him there.
He should’ve known a prison sentence wouldn’t stop the man. Like Lucky, the former drug trafficker changed his ways, and now headed what could possibly be the international version of the Southeastern Narcotics Bureau, without the good-old-boy vibe and Southern accent.
Who’d wanted Lucky to work for him again.
No, Victor’s group hired the best of the best. If Victor had him followed, they wouldn’t be seen.
Rereading his report provided zero answers.
Perusing trainee files didn’t give him stress relief. Where was Bo? He knew better than to ask Walter. Being put in charge of training meant it wasn’t Lucky’s business what a non-trainee agent did. He’d know about Bo’s cases if and when he needed to, per bureau policy.
The bureau.
He’d given years of his life to the bureau. Done a damned fine job.
For what? One swift kick toppled the trash can. If he didn’t get out of here, he’d throw more than a coffee cup.
He eyed the Christmas cactus perched on the filing cabinet, tendrils nearly grazing the floor.
Nope, he couldn’t throw the plant. Bo might never forgive him for destroying the reminder of what should have been their first Christmas together.
Reaching under his desk, he fumbled around for his gym bag. Ah, there. He unzipped the compartment and took a whiff. Clean. Must be ‘cause of Bo. Lucky didn’t remember washing his workout gear lately.
Striding past the reception desk, bag slung over one shoulder, he told Lisa, “If anybody asks where I am…” He corrected, “If Walter, Bo or Johnson want to know where I am, tell ‘em I’m at the gym down the street. If anyone else asks, tell ‘em it’s none of their business.” He didn’t say,“Tell ‘em to fuck off.”Bo would be so proud.
***
The usual guy sat on a stool in the gym lobby, playing with his cell phone. He jumped up and backed away when Lucky flung open the door and marched inside. “You!”
“What about me?” Lucky fixed the guy with a glare sure to send newbies running. Yeah, yeah. Teach a few guys a lesson and nobody forgot. The smart ones, at least.
The guy’s Adam’s apple bobbed and he stared wide-eyed. “Um, how can I help you?”
Yeah, ‘bout time this asshat learned some respect. “I need a ring.”
“N… number seven’s open.”
“I’ll take it.” Lucky marched toward the locker rooms, glancing back over his shoulder. “Oh, and one more thing.”
“Yeah?” The attendant blanched. “I mean, yessir?”
