Page 97 of Burning Justice

He rested his hand on the gear shift, about to crank it into drive, but stopped, shaking his head. “What the hell am I doing?” Blaze gave a gruff snort. “Yeah, exactly.”

When he told his RAIC what he was up to, she’d blow a gasket. As long as he kept her in the loop, maybe he could still salvage his career. To shore up his theory, he called Trooper Sanchez. Working midnights, the guy might be sleeping, but this was too critical to wait.

“Sanchez,” a sleepy voice said.

“It’s Brett Tanner with the ATF. Sorry to wake you. Any word on David Hawkin?”

“No. Neighbors say they haven’t seen him in days, and he hasn’t shown up for work, either. His crew is looking to jump ship and find work somewhere else.”

“Thanks, man.” Now David Hawkin was officially MIA, too. Not that Brett was surprised.

Before calling Lori, he pulled up the report he’d downloaded on Michael Hawkin. He scrolled to the section on registered vehicles, memorizing the Cessna’s tail number. N98986.

No matter what his boss said, he was going to the airport.

“Lori,” he said when she answered.

“Brett, I know why you’re calling. Before you ask, I reassigned your case to Tom Willard. We’re still waiting on those subpoenas and the lab results for the shell casings and the mud, but with the attorney’s admissions, Tom is working with an AUSA to get arrest warrants for Charles Pilcher and the Hawkin brothers. We should have them in a few hours, then we’ll send a team down to New Mexico to grab David Hawkin, one to Denver to arrest Pilcher, and another to Michael Hawkin’s office to grab him there.”

“Hawkin isn’t there.”

A beat of silence, then, “And how do you know that?”

“Because I just came from the Hawkin Construction office, and it’s locked down tight. I’m sitting outside Michael Hawkin’s house.” He braced for impact.

“You’re where?” Lori shouted, forcing Brett to pull the phone from his ear. “You’re on suspension! You’re supposed to be home with your feet up, eating bon-bons, goddammit.”

Brett grimaced. Lori never cursed. That told him he was in even deeper shit than he’d anticipated, which was already pretty deep. “Lori, just listen. I think Michael and David Hawkin may be trying to leave the country, and I don’t think they’re coming back. Once they hit the border, they’re gone.”

Muffled cursing came through the phone, followed by a loud exhalation. “This better be good, Tanner.”

Brett fisted his hand on the wheel. At least she was listening.

“I think Pilcher squealed. The second Gemma and I walked out of his office, I think he called Michael and David Hawkin to warn them.”

“In that case,” Lori said, “we’ll add Pilcher’s phone records to the subpoena and obstruction to the charges. What else?”

“A state trooper in New Mexico’s been looking for David Hawkin. No one down there’s seen him, not his neighbors or his employees. Now Michael is MIA, too. His wife said he left town an hour ago on a business trip. I don’t buy it. To cover all the bases, we should alert Denver PD at Denver International to see if he’s booked on any international flights, but I don’t think that’s how he’ll leave the country.”

“Why’s that?” Lori asked.

“He keeps a small Cessna at Front Range Airport.” Brett gave Lori the tail number. “He and his wife are on the verge of divorcing. There’s nothing keeping him here. If he stays, he’ll go to prison, and he knows it. I’m guessing he’ll make a pit stop in New Mexico for his brother, then they’ll fly to Mexico.”

Another call lit Brett’s cell phone. Evan. Brett sent the call to voicemail, along with a quick text message that, if he and Deck were able, to meet him at Front Range Airport.

“Is there a tower at that airport?” Lori asked.

Evan kicked back with a brief response. Ten-four. Call me.

“Yes.” Brett pulled onto the road. He knew that airport. Not well, but he’d been there once before. It was about twenty minutes east of Denver International and off the beaten path. From where he was now, it was at least a forty-minute drive, and Hawkin had an hour’s head start. “There’s also a small CSP station on airport grounds.”

“Good,” Lori said. “Assuming that’s where Hawkin is, I’ll notify the tower to not let him take off, and I’ll see if the troopers there can find him and hold him for us until the teams arrive. And Brett, if I know you, and I do, you’re en route to the airport. Wait for Tom Willard and his team. They’re at the U.S. Attorney’s Office getting the warrants. I’m ordering you, do not take this guy down alone. Wait for backup. You got it?”

Brett hit the on-ramp for I-70. Yep, his boss did know him well. “Copy that.”

…

Forty minutes later, Brett parked out of sight at the end of East 51st Avenue, one of the narrow roads running between the hangars. From his vantage point, he had a clear view of Hangar 8, where Michael Hawkin kept his Cessna.