Alistair McIntyre - Shallow Creek

Brendan caught a glimpse of his mother breaking down in hysterics in the doorway to her bedroom. When his dad moved to comfort her, one of the SWAT guys made to motion him back, but good ol’ dad slapped the man’s hands away and pushed past to get to his wife, who’d crumpled in a heap on the floor. Brendan twitched involuntarily as the anger consumed him. In response, one of the men holding him drove the butt of his rifle into his side. His lungs emptied in an instant, leaving him on his knees, bent double and gasping for air.

“Stay down!”

“That all you got?” Brendan said, trying to suppress the convulsions in his chest.

“Bring him,” the leader snapped before turning quickly and power walking his way out of the house.

The goons in black forced Brendan up and prodded him onward as he continued to cough uncontrollably, still reeling from the strike. Shame stung him deeper than the butt of the rifle as he shuffled past his wailing mother, who lay inconsolable in her husband’s arms. Darryl Rhodes’ eyes narrowed when he shifted his gaze from his wife to his son. Brendan refused to break the demoralizing stare until his escorts shoved him on.

Outside stood the SWAT truck and a couple of cruisers, lights flashing. They’d been so kind as to leave their sirens off, but Brendan could see his parents’ neighbors watching from their lawns up and down the street. Just once he would’ve liked to not cause his parents so much grief. An unknown agent popped open the back door to one car and the SWAT guys guided Brendan into the backseat.

The car in front pulled away from the curb and Brendan’s vehicle followed suit. He shifted in his seat to see the SWAT truck sticking close behind. This was a hell of an escort, so obviously something huge had happened, but Brendan was damned if he knew the secret that everyone else seemed in on.

“What happened to Agent Spee?” he asked the two strangers transporting him to what he assumed was the sheriff’s office.

Neither man acknowledged him.

“Do I file the claim for my broken ribs with the DEA’s insurance, or the sheriff’s?”

And still nothing. These were pros, federal agents with explicit instructions not to talk to their quarry, not sheriff’s deputies like the punks who’d transported him from the hospital to the police station yesterday. How the hell had he ended up in the back of a police car for the third time in twenty-four hours?

As the journey wore on, Brendan’s meager two hours of sleep started to catch up to him. Despite the awkward position of sitting with his hands behind his back, his head still drooped forward of its own accord. Suddenly hands were on him and dragging him from the backseat. He processed all of this just in time to force his feet out in front of him, otherwise he’d have face-planted into the sidewalk outside the sheriff’s office.

His entourage cleared a couple of gawking deputies from the entryway and led Brendan to the same damn interview room that Spee had interrogated him in the previous morning. Once they had him situated in the familiar uncomfortable chair, everyone left except for the lead agent.

“I’m Special Agent Norman, and—”

“Nice vest. Worried I’ll shoot you?”

“I’ll ask the questions here.” The guy slammed his palms onto the same table Casey had used before.

“Do you guys take acting lessons for this, or does it come naturally?”

The man leaned closer, his heavy breathing the only noise in the otherwise silent room. Rancid breath from overdosing on dense coffee filled Brendan’s nostrils. The agent balled his hands into white-knuckled fists on top of the table. When Brendan refused to break eye contact, the guy stood straight up.

“What happened after Spee and Tyson picked you up last night?” he asked.

“Spee chewed me out for getting in her way and then sent me home.”

“What happened after that?”

“I walked to my truck and drove home,” Brendan said, his fatigue setting in again after all the excitement. “Why? What happened?”

The man cracked his knuckles impressively and folded his arms while he stood before Brendan. “You are the last known individual to see my agents alive, so I’d like to know what the hell happened.”

Brendan ground his teeth before responding. “When I was walking away, a black Dodge pickup flew by me, heading back up to where Spee was parked,” he said. “You know, behind that old grocery store.”

Norman stared at him for a moment, and then nodded to the invisible observers hiding behind the one-way mirror on the wall. “I think we both know who’s probably involved here.”

“Yup, and it ain’t me.”

“Do you have any idea where my agents would be taken?”

Norman was now calmly composed on the outside, but his voice cracked slightly. Brendan understood. If Grant had captured the agents three hours ago, every minute counted now.

“Check all the property listings under my name, since that’s the trick they used with the farm.”

“We’re already looking into your holdings, and any property owned by any of your family.” He briefly ground his palms against his temples. “Can you tell me anything useful?”

Brendan rolled his shoulders and popped his neck with a quick tilt of his head. “No, I can’t,” he said. “Can you get these damn cuffs off me now?”

Chapter 41

Brendan’s butt ached from sitting in the small wooden chair. Hailing from time when comfort wasn’t a primary consideration, this particular model featured a paper-thin cushion and sharp edges all round. He shifted his cuffed hands in his lap. At least they’d moved his hands to his front, and they’d definitely loosened the cuffs by a couple of clicks this time. Brendan sighed, leaned his weary head back against the wall, and closed his eyes.

But sleep never came, no matter how much he provoked it. His head drooped heavily, and it was tough to focus enough to hold it in one spot. He quickly approached that boundary beyond which drunkenness and abject fatigue merged into one and the same. Finally his eyelids accepted gravity’s gentle tug and closed firmly as his chin sought a resting place against his chest.

He jerked awake at the sound of Norman’s voice yelling at him from across the open space that served as both the sheriff’s office foyer and the DEA task force’s headquarters. The man’s words jumbled together and Brendan couldn’t make any sense of them. His eyes settled on the desk next to him where Agent Norman had earlier left a printout of a spreadsheet showing all the property owned by the Rhodes family. His mom and dad’s house was the only thing listed in their name, and only Grant’s mobile home showed up under his. Brendan’s name on the other hand came up with three hits. One he guessed was the farm he’d discovered a couple of nights ago. The other two were a mystery, but also looked like farm addresses.

“Answer me, damn it.” Norman grabbed Brendan by the shirt and pulled him close. The agent’s awful breath assaulted Brendan’s senses one more time, dragging him fully out of his sleepy stupor.

“Okay, okay,” Brendan insisted. “What is it?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you own a black Dodge truck?”

“I don’t. My Ford is green.”

Norman growled something unintelligible before shoving Brendan back into the wooden chair. Brendan watched as the lead agent snatched a piece of paper out of a nearby assistant’s hands.

“On this list of ten vehicles that you own, you’ll see right here an entry for a black Dodge pickup.” Norman thrust the crinkled paper into Brendan’s face. “Why do I keep finding your name everywhere I look in this investigation?”

“Because my brother’s an asshole.”