Page 17 of The Wrangler and the Tenderfoot

Back in my room, I double-checked my sidearm, made sure the round was chambered, then locked the door behind me. I grabbed a bottle of water out of the stash I’d brought with me, looked up, and played the dinner conversation in my head until the subtext peeled off and the whole picture came into focus.

They wanted me gone. I’d known it before, but now I could taste it in the air. I set my alarm for five-thirty, then fell asleep with my boots on, ready for anything.

Chapter 6: Jennie

I'd spent the last ten minutes pacing the rug of my tiny beige bedroom, trying to decide how the hell I was going to find out anything more about these people, when the phone lit up on the nightstand.

The call came in as “Unknown,” but the second I saw the area code, my stomach went cold. There was only one person left in my contacts from the old office with that DC prefix, and he’d never called me. If it was him, it meant trouble. Damn it.

I didn't answer, not at first. I let it ring out, five full cycles, then another. I set it down and tried to go back to pacing, but I couldn't focus on anything except what he might have wanted. I stared at the phone until the missed call notification popped up, bright red and smug.

I wanted to let it die there, I really did. But I couldn’t. Curiosity has always been my poison. I tapped redial, held the phone to my ear, and tried to bleach my mind of every memory of Marcus Vega, Special Agent in Charge, Bureau legend and patron saint of plausible deniability.

He picked up on the first half-ring. “Jennie,” he said, and that was the whole opener, my name, all warmth and fatherly pride, though we both knew the pleasantries were cover for a blade.

I could picture him exactly, right down to the light blue shirt starched tight under the suit, the hair pepper-and-salt at the temples, the way he always wore an expensive tie but shoes from Payless. He was a tall, lean man, ex-track star, who moved with a runner’s barely-restrained bounce even while standing still. The only tell he ever had was a facial tic, left eyelid, barely noticeable, more pronounced when he was hiding nerves, and the pauses, those micro-stutters in his speech that came just before he tried a new tactic.

“Director Vega,” I said. I put the slightest bit of emphasis on the word Director, a knife-edge of sarcasm in the word.

“Just Marcus. You know that.” He delivered it with a smile in his voice, the one that said we were both in on the joke, if only I were bright enough to get it.

“I don’t know anything these days, Marcus. I’m unemployed, remember?”

A soft, performative sigh. “You always were modest. How’s the fieldwork?”

“Pays by the hour. How’s the Beltway?”

He laughed. “Soul-killing, as ever. Listen, I don’t want to keep you from your, what is it you do now, exactly? I lost track after the disciplinary review.”

The review. He said it casually. I let the silence stretch, because I knew he hated that. The tic, I imagined, would be starting now, a faint pulse above the left cheek. Good. Let it tic. “Let’s not pretend you don’t have someone on this call logging every word,” I said. “What do you want, Marcus?”

A pause, then in a softer voice, closer, more confidential, he said, “I called you because I thought you’d want a head start. I know what you’re up to. Call this a professional courtesy.”

“On what?” I asked.

He shifted tactics. “The case you’re chasing out there—”

I cut him off. “I’m not chasing anything. I’m running baseline hydrology surveys for the landowners. If you want to subpoena my GPS tracks, go nuts.”

He ignored me and plowed ahead. “It’s not about you, Jennie. There’s a man, goes by Lance, who’s gone off-grid out your way. I thought you’d want to be careful.”

He dropped the name like a live wire, waiting for me to flinch. I didn’t recognize it. “You called to warn me about a missing person?”

“Not missing,” he said. “Missing is passive. This is a man who’s very actively not being found. We’re worried he might be dangerous. To you.”

“Why would he be a danger to me?” I said. I didn’t raise my voice, but every nerve in my body buzzed.

“Because of who you’re with, Jennie. Because of where you are.” Another pause. “The Bureau would prefer you not get caught up in something that could, frankly, be very ugly. You’re not with us anymore, but you’re still, how do I say this? A person of interest, in some circles.”

I didn’t bite. “Is that a threat?”

He gave a low chuckle. “If it were, you’d know. I’m trying to help. I remember what you did for us, Jennie.”

There was so much packed into that sentence, I nearly gagged. What I did for them? What I did for them? The long months, the double shifts, the rat-eating hours, the tripwires and dead drops and dumpster dives for evidence, all so the director could stand at a podium and say "we" brought another villain to heel. Until it wasn't a villain, it was a victim. Until the wires got crossed and I was holding the bag. And then it was "her," not "we."

Funny how that worked out.

“I don’t need your help,” I said firmly.