Allison Brennan - If I Should Die

Two men with guns aimed at Tim jumped out of the slowing truck. He recognized them but didn’t remember their names. The driver stopped and opened his door. Tim knew Gary Clarke from the Lock amp; Barrel.

“Tim Hendrickson, right?” Gary said.

“Hello, Gary.”

“Funny thing is, we were looking for you.”

“Funny thing that you found me here.”

“Not really. We followed you from your place. I need Sean Rogan, but he wasn’t there.”

“I’ll give you his number.”

“Naw, you’re going to tell him to meet you at your house. He’s stirred up a bunch of shit, and I need to sit on him for a while, make sure he doesn’t get himself hurt.”

Gary motioned to one of the guys to grab Tim. Tim bolted, but hadn’t gotten far when Gary shot him in the leg. He went down fast, vision blurred, hot bolts of pain shooting up his left leg. He grabbed his thigh. The bullet had gone in right above his knee.

One of the guys searched him, taking his knife, flashlight, and cell phone. He tossed the phone to Gary. “I’ll just send Mr. Sean Rogan a little message that you’ll meet him at the house in an hour.” He looked at the phone, then started to laugh. “Shit, this is even better! I’m going to get a fucking gold star. We’ve been looking for that brat everywhere.”

He grinned and said as he typed, “What time should we meet?” A minute later he hollered and jumped in the air. “We’ve just redeemed ourselves, boys. I know where Rogan will be in an hour. We’re going to get there first.”

He pocketed Tim’s phone and took his car keys. He tossed the keys to one of his partners. “Follow me.” Gary glanced at Tim. Tim flipped him off.

“With that bum leg, I figure it’ll take you a day or two to get back to your place, if you survive the night. Good luck.”

They left.

The sun was nearly gone and the temperature would plummet. He glanced at the mine entrance, then at the outbuilding. The latter was closer, so he dragged himself over there.

He’d have to pry off another board or two to get inside, but he liked his chances of survival better in the building full of explosives than in the cold, deadly mine.

The sun was a thin line on the horizon by the time Noah flew Sean’s Cessna over the greater Spruce Lake area.

Lucy had the Argus thermal imaging camera in her hands. “Is this going to work?” she asked. She was familiar with the imaging technology, but didn’t think a handheld device had the range that surveillance aircraft did.

“It’s top of the line,” Noah said.

Lucy smiled. “Sean likes his toys.”

“The weather is perfect and the plane is in good shape,” Noah said, “but this is still a risky maneuver.”

“I don’t understand. Because of the trees? Or that it’s getting dark? Do we have to fly too low?”

Noah glanced at her. “You didn’t seem like a nervous flyer this morning.”

“I’m not, usually.” She wouldn’t admit to it, at any rate. She didn’t consider herself phobic about flying. She was just having a touch of nerves when they flew low over rolling mountains with trees suddenly popping up here and there while she looked for a barn full of cannabis through a thermal imaging camera.

“The terrain is not my primary concern. I’ve flown under far worse conditions. I’m more concerned about ground security. We may draw unwanted attention.” He checked his gauges and slowly descended as they approached the town boundaries. “I don’t think Sean realizes this is like finding a needle in a haystack.”

They’d discussed strategy during the flight. Noah mapped the coordinates surrounding the greater Spruce Lake area and planned to fly in a circular pattern while Lucy monitored the thermal imaging camera. Barns or warehouses that might be growing marijuana would be easily spotted because of the extensive light needed to grow the crops indoors, which generated plenty of heat.

“Why didn’t ATF inform the local FBI? That’s protocol,” Lucy said.

“Because they do whatever they damn well please.” Noah shot her a glance. “A lot like your boyfriend.”

“Is this going to be pick-on-Sean day?”

Noah grinned. “That might be fun.”

Noah’s phone rang. He glanced down at the center console. “It’s Stockton. Answer it. I’m going to stay at this altitude so we don’t lose him.”

“Sean has a built-in cellular thingy,” Lucy said, feeling stupid that she didn’t remember the technical name.

Noah laughed, for the second time that day. “Why am I not surprised?”

Lucy answered the phone. “Lucy Kincaid.”

“Hello, Lucy. Rick Stockton.”

“Noah is flying. I’m putting you on speaker.”

“Where are you now?” Stockton asked.

Noah said, “We’re fifteen miles from the town proper. I’m beginning a circular rotation, starting wide. Lucy has the Argus. We’re at the upper range of this unit’s capabilities, but I still have visibility for the next forty minutes and can lower altitude if we see a potential hot spot.”

“Good. I spoke to the ATF operations director in Brooklyn. Took me nearly two hours to reach him-I could have flown to New York and met him in person faster. He bullshitted me for the requisite ten minutes while trying to figure out what we knew, so I pulled my ace out of the hole and informed him that his operative shot at a federal agent who was on vacation and if he didn’t give me everything he had, I’d make his life a nightmare.”

“It worked?”

“As planned. But it’s not good news. They have one deep undercover agent in Spruce Lake. Omar Lewis, going by the alias Omar Jackson. He’s been in deep cover for thirteen months.”

“That long?”

“A civilian contacted the DEA in January of last year regarding what he believed was an extensive marijuana farm. DEA was going to go in but ATF caught wind of the report and asked for leadership on it because one of the names in the file, Gary Clarke, was a known gunrunner with ties to the notorious Sampson Lowell. DEA stepped aside and ATF went in.”

“Thirteen months is a long time.”

“Yes, and there is no backup. Lewis reports weekly, and last asked that a team be ready within one hour on his call. Brooklyn has a team in Syracuse, which is two hours away. They informed Lewis, but he hasn’t responded that he got the message. They’re moving the team to Canton, but Lewis has yet to call them in.”

“Anything else?”

“He’s sending the files via courier, refuses to fax them. I swear, he’s the most paranoid agent I’ve spoken with.”

“Sir,” Lucy said, “do you have a description of Agent Lewis?”

“Of course.” The sound of flipping papers. “Thirty-nine, fourteen-year veteran of ATF. African-American-wait, I should say Jamaican-American. He was born there, came to the U.S. when he was three. Wears his hair very short or shaved, five foot ten, one hundred seventy pounds.”

“The cook.”

“You know him?” Stockton said.

“Omar is the cook at the Lock amp; Barrel. Sean and I saw him Thursday night. He stood out because he was the only black man we’d seen in town. No one paid him any attention, though. Reverse psychology-stand out so they don’t think you’re a cop.”

“It worked. According to his boss, he’s in with the number-two bad guy. But these past couple weeks, information has dried up. Lewis thinks there’s a new player, but everyone’s tight-lipped, so he didn’t call in the cavalry yet.”

“Did he report shooting at two civilians?” Noah asked.

“He didn’t know, but isn’t going to let his man get hung out to dry so refused to comment.”

“Understood,” Noah said. “Can he get word to Lewis about our presence?”