Page 13 of Witness Security Breach

“He took point on the traitor’s house,” Tommy continued, “to scope out the situation and had the others hang back. Well, those housepainters may have failed, but they set our home team up for success. According to D, the marshals assigned are some tactical special operators. Anyway, one of them is dead as a doornail.”

“Really?” Bill picked up his glass and took a long pull on his beer. A small hum of appreciation slipped out at the creamy mouthfeel, decadent notes of coffee and chocolate, and the roasted malt finish. Delicious.

“That’s not all.” A wicked grin spread across Tommy’s mouth, sort of diabolical, like that of a child tearing wings off flies. Without a doubt, Tommy had torn off wings and done far crueler things as a youngster. “You wanna hear the best part?”

Rather than respond, Bill shot him a scathing scowl. Rhetorical questions irritated him worse than sand in his sensitive parts. His patience was already threadbare, and this situation wasn’t helping his volatile temper. He heaved a calming breath.

Tommy leaned forward, bringing closer a face only a mother could love—God rest Irene’s soul. “The Cajuns caused such a ruckus that the marshals left their vehicle unattended long enough.”

Okay, Bill would bite. “Long enough for what?”

“For D to do what he does best. Set the trap.”

Bill’s appetite flared up something fierce. He draped the napkin across his lap, grabbed the utensils and cut into his steak.

Good old Devlin. One of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse...and Bill’s personal favorite.

War.

Chapter Four

What was so awful about a clean break when the alternative was to turn someone’s life upside down?

Charlie wished Eugene hadn’t felt compelled to talk to Sharon face-to-face and simply decided to leave. It would have been faster, easier and, yes, cleaner for everyone.

Sharon oversaw administration and personnel for the logistics services company her first husband started and ran until he died. The business managed the flow of goods and materials between points of origin and end-use destination, handling shipping, inventory and warehousing.

It also meant the company needed a lot of space at a reasonable price, which explained why it was located in the hills sandwiched between Tierra Santa and Mission Trails Regional Park.

In the middle of nowhere.

The good news was the traffic was sparse, making their travel time less than twenty minutes from the Palisades.

They passed the San Diego River and a few minutes later turned right off Mission Gorge Road into a parking lot. Torres brought the vehicle to a stop horizontally across a handicapped parking spot in front of the double doors that had the name Sullivan Logistics written on them.

“I’ve got this. Keep it running,” Charlie said and hopped out.

She pulled open the front door and marched into the stark air-conditioned lobby up to the receptionist’s desk. “Hello. I’m from the US Marshals Service. I need to speak with Mrs. Sharon Potter. It’s extremely urgent.”

After Charlie held up the badge that was prominently displayed from a chain around her neck, the twentysomething woman said, “FYI, she never changed her name from Sullivan to Potter.”

One more anchor for Sharon.

Charlie’s temperature rose. This trip was only going to eat up precious time.

In the end, Sharon wouldn’t choose Eugene...Edgar Plinski over everything and everyone else in her life.

The receptionist picked up the phone and dialed. “Mrs. Sullivan, you’re needed up front. A US marshal is here to speak with you. There’s some kind of emergency.” The young woman paused as she listened. “Okay.” Then she hung up and looked at Charlie. “She’s on her way.”

Charlie nodded, stepping away from the desk, and put her hands behind her back. The at-ease position was an old Marine Corps habit that came naturally to her.

After serving eight years as a military police officer, living in the culture of extreme violence of the corps, doing merry-go-round deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan, she’d needed a change. Something different but still inside her wheelhouse. She considered working as a contractor or local law enforcement.

A chance encounter in a nightclub that’d turned into a two-night stand steered her in a new direction.

The guy was interesting, intelligent, noticed things most civilian guys missed, had a killer bod and carried a gun. He was a US marshal. In those earlier days, Charlie wasn’t good with filler small talk after sex. Truth be told, she still wasn’t. Fortunately, the marshal was. He didn’t mind chatting about his job and had given her an inside perspective. She was hooked.

Once he discovered Charlie’s hard-charging attitude and affinity for the grind of the Marines and military police, he’d suggested not only applying to the USMS, but also setting her sights on the Special Operations Group.