Alistair McIntyre - Shallow Creek

A couple of times Brendan had thought he’d been made, but quickly realized that his paranoia was ramping up after some downtime. A guy strolling by with the gait of a police officer had stared him down, getting Brendan’s hackles up, but had only pulled in close to comment on his hat. The fellow Rangers fan wanted to shoot the shit about the recent failed playoff run and offered speculation on offseason trades. Not seeking any negative attention, Brendan had agreed with everything the guy said and sent him on his merry way.

About ten minutes after that encounter, a few rough-looking individuals had sauntered into Gruff’s and occupied a table on the opposite side of the patio from Brendan. One man in particular had kept tabs on Brendan, but they’d left without incident after chugging a couple of beers each. Nothing had happened, but Brendan was damn sure going to be on the lookout for those gentlemen when he made his next move.

Still tapping away intensely on his phone, Brendan caught sight of Grant closing out his bill. Now Michelle was standing and putting on a long coat. A few seconds later Grant was on his feet and leading Michelle to the door.

The bartender returned with Brendan’s water. Figuring he had a few seconds to burn before his brother hit the front door of the restaurant, he thanked the young woman, gave her fifteen dollars for the beers, and told her to keep the change. She smiled briefly and turned away quickly in the way that terrible waitresses often do moments after receiving payment. Customer service sucked these days.

Grant and Michelle headed down the street in the general direction of Trish’s Place, which was around the corner and down the block. Brendan waited until they took the turn, and then casually let himself out through a small gate in the patio’s fence. He jogged across the street before the light turned green that would allow the light traffic to cut him off.

As he rounded the corner slowly, Brendan wondered why he hadn’t noticed any DEA surveillance units around. If they cared so much about his brother, surely they were keeping close tabs on him, even on date night.

It took all of Brendan’s self-control not to stop, or even hesitate, when he noticed the unmarked cruiser parked on the other side of the street. Even if the make and model had not been so obvious, there was nothing discrete about the shadowy figure inside pointing a telephoto lens towards the only other people on the street: Grant and Michelle.

Brendan’s heart skipped a beat when a second figure in the car tapped the first on the shoulder and pointed at Brendan. The windows featured dark tint, so the movement was just barely discernible. The camera swinging in his direction illustrated that he’d been burned. Grant and Michelle turned up ahead, still aiming for Trish’s, so Brendan continued undeterred, marching past the police car on the other side of the street, wondering what his new friends would do.

He didn’t have long to wait. With a slight squeal of the tires, the black car darted from the curb and lurched to a halt next to Brendan. The driver side window slid down, revealing a guy Brendan recognized but couldn’t put a name to.

“Get in.”

“My mom taught me not to get into stranger’s cars unless they’ve got candy.”

Special Agent Casey Spee’s face leaned across the unknown driver from the passenger seat.

“Get in the fucking car, Mr. Rhodes.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Brendan muttered as he honored the request.

As soon as he closed the rear door, the driver edged the big car into the street. Spee grabbed the radio once they were underway.

“All units, Tumbleweed is moving to the rendezvous early,” she said into the handset. “Maintain positions and report new movements. Tumbleweed, out.”

“Cute codename, Casey,” Brendan remarked from the backseat, but Spee didn’t bite.

The rendezvous point turned out to be the rear lot of an abandoned grocery store. One giant floodlight provided the only illumination for the deteriorating building and the aging dumpsters. The unknown agent driving the car steered in close behind a crooked fence, blocking the view from the street, and put the vehicle in park, leaving the engine running.

Brendan decided to break the ice.

“Agent Spee—”

“What did I tell you?” She twisted furiously in the front seat to confront him. “What the hell did I tell you this morning?”

“You said I was free to go.”

“Don’t be a smartass. I told you to leave this to us. Do you want an obstruction of justice charge leveled against you?”

“No, ma’am,” Brendan said sullenly. Getting chewed out by an angry DEA agent hadn’t been in his plan for the night.

Spee closed her eyes and consciously inhaled a few deep breaths. When she opened her eyes, the seething fury had subsided, but only slightly.

“You seem to be on our team, Mr. Rhodes, but you’re really pissing me off here. We’ve got a target under surveillance, and I can’t have you screwing any of this up by hanging around your brother.” Brendan simply nodded, not wanting to commit to anything, especially not without a direct request. Spee sighed before continuing. “We’ve got inside information—”

“Casey, what are you doing?” the suit next to her demanded.

“What does it look like?”

“That you’re showing our hand to a person of interest. The SAC won’t like this.”

Spee pointed at Brendan. “You think he’s going to back down if I don’t explain we’ve got this under control? If he wanted to help the other team, we wouldn’t have found him trapped in their basement.”

“We don’t know that,” the other guy snapped out in a harsh whisper.

“I can hear you, buddy,” Brendan said. “I’m right here.”

“Shut up, kid.” The agent turned back to Spee. “This is not a good idea.”

Spee dismissed him. “Despite Special Agent Tyson’s disapproval, I know I can trust you, Mr. Rhodes. And in return for not locking you up, I want you to go home and stay there for a few days. Now might even be a good time to take a trip to the hill country or something. I don’t know, and I don’t care. I just don’t want to see your face again close to this investigation.”

“Okay.”

Spee shook her head. “Please promise me I don’t have to worry about you anymore.”

“I’ve got some personal reasons for wanting to take this guy down.”

“Your sister?” Spee asked. Brendan nodded, more than a little surprised. “Okay, let me tell you about my sister.”

Before she could say another word, Tyson huffed gruffly and stormed out of the car. The man took a few steps and then leaned against the fence while fumbling with a cigarette and lighter.

“Just ignore him. He’s had a bad day,” Spee said, watching him go.

“I thought you said the story about your sister was just part of your cover?”

“It was part of my cover with you, but not with everyone else,” she explained. “It’s a long story.”

“A true story?”

“Yes, a true story. Natalie, my sister, was in fact shot dead during a mugging at the big Exxon on the edge of town.” Her eyes adopted that faraway look that Brendan often saw in Marines recounting tragic tales from combat. “She was only passing through. Wrong place at the wrong time, and all that crap. One witness said the shooter had extensive burn scars on their neck, chest, and arms, poking out from under a ski-mask and wife-beater.”

Silence stuffed the inside of the car, which still vibrated softly to the beat of the idling engine. After a few moments of obvious introspection, Spee addressed Brendan again, her eyes on fire.

“That was six months ago. A month ago, I realized the cops weren’t getting anywhere, so I used some vacation time to go see my parents in Indianapolis.”