Rochelle Alers - Secret Vows

She knew her mother, a retired FBI forensic technician, was uneasy each time Greer was selected for an undercover assignment, but she’d sworn an oath to uphold the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and those dealing in the sale and transportation of illegal explosives and firearms were enemies. She barely glanced at Sheila Kelly sitting in an alcove outside the field director’s office as she pushed open the door and walked in, realizing Roland wasn’t alone.

“You wanted to see me, Roland?”

Roland Peña’s head popped up. “Yes.” Rays of sunlight coming through windows bathed him in a halo of gold. Smiling, he rose to his feet, indicating the chair facing a sofa. “Please sit down.”

Pushing off a worn leather sofa was a tall pale man in an ill-fitting black suit. Her gaze shifted from the stranger to the man whom she’d grown to respect—unlike her former supervisor who wasn’t above using his power to intimidate his subordinates. Roland was soft-spoken, approachable and well liked by everyone in the regional office.

Her supervisor walked over to the sofa and sat down. “I’d like you to meet special agent Bradley Plimpton. He’s the assistant director of the Seattle Field Division.”

Greer nodded. “Special Agent Plimpton,” she said in acknowledgment. Once she was seated, he sat back down on the couch, one ankle propped on the opposing knee.

Bradley’s coal-black eyes narrowed. Greer didn’t know why, but there was something about the man’s emaciated appearance, black suit and straight raven hair brushed off his forehead that reminded her of caricatures of undertakers.

“I’m sorry to spring this on you without warning, Evans. Your supervisor just approved your transfer to my division.”

She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath as she mentally repeated his last statement. What was Bradley talking about? She hadn’t spoken to Roland about a transfer. Not once since she’d come to Arizona had Greer mentioned to anyone that she didn’t want to live in the desert, that she preferred to see an actual change of seasons. Yet, if she was going to be transferred to the Seattle Field Division, then that meant she would become part of the ATF’s largest geographic division in the country. This transfer could have her living and working anywhere in Washington, Idaho, Alaska, Hawaii, Guam or Oregon.

“Why?”

“We need you to go undercover in Mission Grove.”

Greer leaned forward, the motion seemingly robotic. “Mission Grove?” she repeated.

“Yes, Agent Evans. Mission Grove,” Bradley said, placing both feet on the floor. Clasping his hands together, he sandwiched them between his knees. “We know you spent your childhood summers there with your aunt and uncle. We also know that you still keep in contact with your uncle even though your mother’s sister passed away three years ago.”

“What does that have to do with me going undercover in Mission Grove, Agent Plimpton?” she asked when he paused and stared at the floor.

A beat passed before Plimpton raised his head. “One of our agents was shot near the Mexico-Arizona border during a confrontation with drug smugglers. He managed to kill one of them, and when we recovered their weapons, we were able to trace them back to a man living in the Hood River Valley.”

“Did you interrogate him?” Greer asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“We couldn’t.”

“And why not?” She’d asked yet another question.

“We couldn’t because he died four years ago. What we did find out was that he’d had a break-in at his home the year before he passed away, yet reported nothing missing. We figured whoever broke into his house wasn’t looking to steal money or valuables but his identity. When I ran his name through the federal firearms database, I discovered hundreds of semiautomatic pistols and assault rifles purchased from gun shops in Vancouver, L.A., and as far east as Texas and Tennessee. We also traced at least a half dozen pistols used by several Seattle gangs back to a gun shop burglary in the Hood River Valley. There have also been a string of similar break-ins ranging from Portland to Mission Grove. Whoever is spearheading this operation has probably amassed an enormous arsenal, selling these illegal firearms to drug dealers. The DEA is dealing with the drug problem, but the sale of illegal firearms falls under our jurisdiction. We’ve selected you to identify the person or persons behind this because you’re familiar with the region.”

“What I don’t understand,” Greer said, “is why break into someone’s home to steal their personal information? Why not do it electronically? Cybercriminals do it every day.”

Plimpton shifted slightly when his right hand twitched noticeably. “The man wasn’t online. Whoever stole his identity must have known the victim personally.”

She knew the states that didn’t require a permit to purchase firearms, although many required licenses needed to carry a concealed firearm. Oregon was one of those states. But if someone was buying guns legally, afterward reselling them to those who couldn’t pass background checks, then that had raised a red flag with the ATF.

Greer listened intently when briefed about her new assignment. She would become a waitress at Stella’s. Her uncle, former Special Forces Robert “Bobby” Henry knew she and her brother were federal officers. “Have you told my uncle that I’ll be working at his restaurant?”

Bradley gave her a subtle nod. “Yes. We had to give him clearance because we’re going to use his place for your base of operation.”

Greer exhaled an audible breath. It made her feel better knowing that she didn’t have to lie to her uncle as to why she’d come back to Mission Grove for an extended stay. “When do I leave?”

Roland crossed his arms over his chest. “You’ll have tonight to pack and clean out your apartment. A team of agents from the bureau are flying up to Portland tomorrow morning to join in the search for the three missing kids from a nearby campground. They’ll pick you up at four in the morning for a six o’clock liftoff. Don’t worry about your vehicle. I’ll have one of the agents retrieve it from your apartment building’s parking lot.”

Pushing to her feet, she nodded like a bobble head doll. “I guess I’d better start packing.”

Roland stood and extended his hand, smiling. “You take care of yourself out there.”

She took his hand. “I will.” Walking out of the director’s office, Greer returned to her cubicle. It took fewer than two minutes to fill a cardboard box with her meager accumulation of personal items: a coffee cup, several paperback novels, a crystal heart-shaped paperweight and a miniature cactus plant.

“Going somewhere, Evans?”

Greer nodded. The auditor peering over her partition had a problem processing the word no when she’d told him she didn’t believing in dating her coworkers. But that hadn’t stopped him from seeking her out whenever she ate in the employee lunchroom. “I’m being transferred.”

Harold Browning approached her, his hazel eyes widening in surprise. “When did you find out?”

“Just a few minutes ago.”

Harold’s sandy-brown eyebrows lifted. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

She shifted the box to a more comfortable position as she picked up her handbag. “No, I’m not.”

“Where are you going?”

Greer wanted to tell Harold that she was going far enough away so she wouldn’t have to be annoyed by his persistence. “Portland,” she said instead of Mission Grove. “I have to go.”

Harold looked as if he was going to burst into tears. He ran both hands over his thinning blond hair. “I’m going to miss you, Evans.”