Jo Robertson - The Avenger

He pushed himself out of the soft leather chair, rolling the cigar around on his tongue. Opening the top drawer of his filing cabinet, he pulled out a key taped to the metal bottom. He opened the door to the only closet in the room and reached on the top shelf for a heavy duty, steel enforced metal container about the size of a boot box. He fitted the key in the lock and carefully removed the contents – several inch-wide portfolios.

Placing the stack on his desk, he pressed the call button on his phone. "Heard from Davis?"

"He's on his way from Washington, sir. He should be here within the hour."

"Good," he grunted and opened the first file.

The top page listed vital statistics: Jackson Samuel Holt. DOB: 10-12-74, El Paso, Texas. Parents: Samuel J. Holt and Roxanne Rivers. Juvenile Record: Sealed.

He'd decided to let Jack keep his birth name and date. Social altered, of course. The boy had no family, foster parents wouldn't look for him, and as for friends – well, there hadn't been many. Who could've imagined at the time that the Morse girl would have any future part to play in his new life? The Judge was beginning to suspect he'd underestimated her.

He paused to stare across the room at a blank wall. His wife nagged him to put a picture there, something with flowers, but he'd resisted. He liked the blank canvas to write his thoughts on.

Right now those thoughts whipped him back to a day when hair still fringed his head and he could see the toes of his shoes over his gut. When he was a vital man and Jackson Holt was a frightened boy. He painted the boy's shaking frame on the wall, quivering under the glare of the lights while a medic stitched up his arm. An arm that'd miraculously already begun to heal. Jack shook, but by God, the boy never made a sound while the fellow made tiny, perfect stitches along his bicep.

Afterward, Warren had helped him off the stretcher in the back of the van. "You can get a few things from your house," he'd told the boy, "but don't talk about any of this." He stared up into the dark, questioning eyes and admired the healthy breadth of the boy's shoulders, the latent strength in his arms and knew he'd found someone special.

"We took care of Roger." He'd squeezed the boy's arm in warning and promise. "And we'll take care of you, too."

For the next two hours, Warren poured over the documents surrounding the life and ostensible death of Jackson Holt. He knew them by heart, but he searched anyway. The clinical trials from Dr. Davis' research were included in the dossier, along with the adverse reactions. Jack had always been an anomaly. He didn't really need the meds for enhancement as much as for control of his abilities.

Walking to the window again, the Judge looked out at the trees, the scurrying people who shoved their way around the edges of Roosevelt Park. If people were privy to half the secrets he knew, they'd do a lot more than quicken their pace. Evil walked among them. No need to conjure up some kind of biblical devil to plague mankind. Men were malevolent enough on their own account. The new breed of soldier trained by Invictus was a pre-emptive solution to combat the evil running rampant among them. But Jack was different from all the other agents. And now he was in trouble. Warren knew that as surely as he sucked on this cancer-causing stick.

Their golden boy had gotten himself into some kind of mess. He should've reported in again. Yep, this favorite son was ass deep in some kind of serious trouble.

Olivia’s patience was running thin. Since eleven this morning the newly-formed Dead Language Killer Task Force had been assembled around the conference table in an incident room in the county courthouse. She thought uneasily of the stack of papers she’d left ungraded on her desk and the lesson prep left undone.

In addition to Jack and Slater, a pretty young Latina woman, whom Ben introduced as Assistant District Attorney Isabella Torres, joined them. She glanced at her watch every few minutes as though she’d rather be somewhere else. After they finished their initial assessments, Jack outlined the basics of the case and the roles each of them would take. "I’d like to keep the task force small for the time being, just the four of us."

Olivia watched Jack gesture with those long fingers. He’d been a handsome boy, but he’d become a compelling man with hair like heavy black silk, burnished complexion, and dark eyes that glistened like obsidian. She couldn’t tell if the hitch around her ribs was from memory or from gazing at him now. He’d grown into assurance and command, she realized, the mantle of leadership resting comfortably on his wide shoulders.

"We’ll add team members later on for the grunt work," Jack continued.

Slater nodded and ADA Torres lifted her shoulders negligently. When introduced to Olivia, the woman had seemed friendly enough, but preoccupied. She was a small woman, like Olivia, but in a graceful, long-limbed way.

Finally Torres cleared her throat and spoke up. "I want it known for the record that I'm opposed to discontinuing the Vargas assignment. I’m close to getting him on the assault charges." She threw a defiant look at Jack. "I don't want to lose the momentum."

Uneasy silence followed while Olivia wondered how they were supposed to work together with all the land mines lying around.

"Maybe you can do both," Jack suggested in friendly compromise that surprised Olivia. "We’ll start with the notes and Olivia’s expertise while you continue on the Vargas case."

Isabella looked relieved as she gathered up her materials and stuffed them in her briefcase."Okay, then, that’s settled."

After the ADA left, Slater took a deep breath and said grudgingly, "Thanks for letting Isabella work the other case. Barrington won't make it easy for her."

"What’s the deal there?"

"Diego Vargas?"

"I've heard of him," Olivia said as she rose and swung her purse over her shoulder. "He's a city councilman in Sacramento."

Slater nodded. "They're looking at him for campaign fraud at the loud insistence of the Latino community, interestingly enough."

"Why's that Bigler County's problem?" Jack asked.

"Several months ago, Vargas’ wife Magdalena walked into my office and asked for confidential police protection."

Olivia felt a sliver of apprehension as she remembered her ex-husband's late-night visit. "Why didn’t she go to the local police?"

Slater shook his head. "Said her husband's influence was too deep and she couldn't be sure which officers were in his pocket. Claimed her husband’s been mentally and physically abusing her for years. Came to me off the record because she went to school with an old law school friend of mine."

Jack spread his palms. "Still, it’s domestic abuse."

"Magdalena contends that Vargas is heavily involved with local gangs and is a major player in drug running, prostitution, and gambling from Stockton to the Nevada and Oregon borders."

Jack understood. "Ah."

"I convinced her to talk to Isabella Torres. Magdalena issued a large number of allegations against her husband, but few provable facts."

"But Torres believes her," Jack prompted.

"Isabella wrangled a voluntary meet with Vargas, thinks she can rattle his cage."

"Voluntary? That doesn’t sound like a guilty man."

Slater shrugged. "Internal affairs is running a parallel investigation on the money sources, so he probably thinks he’s safe on the assault."

"Still, isn't that a waste of your resources?"

"Magdalena insists Vargas is a violent psychopath, so Isabella's following that lead." Slater paused. "She has a particular hatred for men like Diego Vargas."

Jack had liked the efficient young ADA and figured she owed him a favor now. "I’d like to watch her work," he mused. "Maybe I’ll sit in on her interview with the Councilman."