Cliff Ryder - Aim And Fire

“You, uh, want to get something to eat?” Nate shifted on the bed, never comfortable with this part of the dance.

His one-night stand looked older in the afternoon light, he mused—with crow’s feet and laugh lines that had been artfully disguised the previous evening. Maybe five years younger than his own forty-four years, she was thicker in the hips and legs than he’d remembered, too. But she wasn’t embarrassed, just gave him a weary smile.

“Shoot, honey, I got just enough time to get back home and cleaned up before I go back to work.”

Jesus, did I pick up a waitress? Nate wasn’t sure to whether to laugh or blush. “Well, it was quite an evening, Sharon.”

“Oh, you remember? I’m flattered, Nate. Make that impressed, after everything you put away last night.”

“Um, yeah, well, yesterday wasn’t the best of days for me, at least till I met you.”

“That’s what got me here, you silver-tongued devil. I gotta run.” She walked over and patted him on the cheek.

“If you ever get shot, have them bring you to Providence Memorial—I work the night shift there.”

Ah, a nurse, he realized. “I’ll keep that in mind, but why do you think I’ll be shot?”

“You’re Border Patrol—at least, that was what you said last night—so it’ll probably only be a matter of time. I’ll let myself out. See you around, Nate.”

When she was gone, he locked up and took a shower, then got dressed again and grabbed some water bottles and a bag of beef jerky and headed out to his Bronco. Getting in, he headed south out of town, keeping an ear on his scanner for border chatter.

He stopped about two miles from his destination. Pulling a pair of binoculars from the backseat, he walked out into the scrub and found a good vantage point on a small rise. Making sure the setting sun wasn’t reflecting off his field glasses, he raised them and scanned the area to the south, looking over the cordoned-off crime scene where the Mexicans and the border agents had been killed. He watched Billy Travis strutting around as if he owned the place, barking out orders.

After watching the scene for a few minutes, he panned right and left, searching the horizon for anything out of the ordinary, but he was too far away. I can either cool my heels in the desert, or I can go piss Travis off some more, he thought. That was no choice at all. He walked back to his Bronco and drove over to the crime site, pulling up near the crime-lab van. Grabbing a cold bottle of water from his cooler, he walked up behind the van, keeping out of sight of Travis for the moment. “You look thirsty, Kottke,” he said.

The balding, bespectacled tech mixing up a batch of plaster of paris glanced up to see the sweating bottle hovering above him. “Hey, Nate, thanks.” He drained half the water in long swallows. “Aren’t you on leave pending that drug-bust investigation?”

“What can I say, I happened to be in the neighborhood.”

Kottke handed the bottle back and kept stirring the plaster. “Better check your zip code, then. You’re aimin’ to bust Travis’s balls again, aren’t you?”

“Won’t be a need to as long as he don’t come around and try stickin’ them in my face. What you got so far?”

“Right now, just the three B s—bullets, blood and bodies. Looks like one of the agents spooked someone they shouldn’t have, and got perforated for his trouble. Second one came around to assist, got the same thing, then the per-petrators—anywhere from two to four—went to town on the illegals. Looks like machine pistols of some kind, all 9 mm. Different kinds of weapons, Ingram M-11s, maybe a couple of Uzi pistols. No survivors—these guys were thorough.”

“What about the truck?”

“Wheelbase and axle width indicate it was a 1.5-ton panel truck, probably a Chevy G30, maybe a small IH model. We’ll know more once we run the tread pattern. The two agents were dumped in the SUV, which was driven out five miles to the middle of nowhere and torched. Second team’s working that now—at least they were dead before they burned.”

“Amen to that.” Nate repressed a shudder at the thought of how the Colombian and Mexican cartels killed undercover agents or screwups. One of the most common methods was to hang a tire soaked in gasoline around the victim’s neck and light it, guaranteeing a hideous, drawn-out death.

“That’s about all we’ve got right now, until we can get everything back to the lab—”

“Kottke, where the hell are you, that tread was supposed to be cast—”

Travis barreled around the corner of the van pulling up short when he saw Nate. “Goddammit, get that plaster over there and take those tire casts now.”

“Yes, sir.” Kottke shot Nate an apologetic glance, then scurried away.

“Now, what in the hell is an agent who’s supposed to be on leave doing sniffin’ around a crime scene he’s got no business being at?”

“Aw, Billy, don’t get your tighty-whities in a bunch. I just thought I’d drop by to see if you guys could use an extra hand, us being so short staffed and all.”

Travis got right in Nate’s face, his words spraying out only inches away. “Jesus Christ, Spencer, what part of on leave from active duty do you not understand? I am not going to have this investigation fucked up because of an off-duty agent who doesn’t know when to quit! Now go home and crawl into your bottle, or whatever the hell it is that you do when you’re not making everyone’s job harder.”

“By God, Travis, you best step back before you find yourself flat on your ass. And if anyone asks, you can say you tripped and fell against the van door,” Nate growled.

The other border agent glared at him for a moment longer, then stepped back. “Get out of here right now, Spencer, or my next call is to Roy, to tell him to put a leash on his dawg.”

“Piss on you, Travis.” Nate spun on his heel and stalked back to his Bronco, hoping the other agent would push it and give him a chance to knock him on his can. But the expected hand on his shoulder never came, and Nate opened the door of his little truck and stopped to look through the window at the busy agents and technicians working the scene.

Goddammit, that should be me in there, not that sanctimonious prick, he knew. He got into the Bronco, slammed the door and drove away in a cloud of dust.

The sun had long disappeared by the time Tracy walked out of DHS headquarters. The old Navy complex had been given to the new department when the deal for their new quarters in Chantilly, Virginia, had fallen through just before they were to go live in 2003. At first there had been talk of moving to newer quarters later, but as time passed, those intimations had slowed, then stopped altogether.

Now the behemoth department was stuck in the decrepit collection of buildings that were supposed to be refur-bished when time and budget allowed, which, in government parlance, meant never.

After clearing security, which had been rigorously improved since someone had walked out with four pistols from the secure vault the previous year, she walked out to her six-year-old Nissan Altima, keeping an eye on her surroundings all the while. Just because she worked at DHS didn’t mean something bad couldn’t happen there. Driving off the lot, she headed north on the always busy highway toward Chevy Chase and her fiancé’s condominium.

During the week, she stayed with him, since his place was closer than her apartment on the south side. Although Tracy always tried to let the stress of the day drain away on her drive, her shoulders were still tense as she pulled into the driveway, got out of her car and headed up the walk.

As she reached for the door, it opened and there stood Paul, who greeted her with a kiss. “Hey, there. Another long day, huh?”