Читать книгу Warning Shot - Jenna Kernan, Jenna Kernan - Страница 12

Rylee Hockings stood beside the surly sheriff with hands on hips as she regarded the gooey paint oozing from the metallic door panel of her official vehicle and onto the road. She struggled to keep her chin up. Her first field assignment had headed south the minute she headed north. When her boss, Lieutenant Catherine Ohr, saw this car, she would be livid.

Her vehicle had been towed and left just outside the reservation land and abandoned beneath the sign welcoming visitors to the Kowa Nation.

“Maybe the paint will fill in the bullet holes,” offered Sheriff Trace.

His chuckle vibrated through her like a call issued into an empty cave. Something about the tenor and pitch made her stomach do a funny little tremble. She rested a hand flat against her abdomen to discourage her body from getting ideas.

“I could use those prints as evidence,” she said to Sheriff Trace.

“Or you could accept the life lesson that you might be the big cheese where you come from but to the Kowa, you are an outsider. Up here, your position will get you more trouble than respect. Which is why I offered you an escort.”

And she had turned him down flat. Despite his mirthful blue eyes, extremely handsome face, brown hair bleached blond from what she presumed was the summer sun, and a body that was in exceptionally good shape, something about this man rubbed her the wrong way. The sheriff seemed to think the entire county belonged to him personally.

“I need to call Border Patrol.” She left him to gloat and made her call. Border Patrol had lost their suspects after they entered Mohawk territory yesterday, Sunday, at three in the afternoon and had had no further sightings. Now she understood why they ceased pursuit at their border of the reservation and called her field office. They had set up a perimeter, so the suspect was either still on Mohawk land or had slipped off and into the general population. The chances that this man was her man were slim, but until she had word that the package and courier had been apprehended elsewhere, she would treat each illegal border crossing as if the carrier came from Siming’s Army.

Her conversation and update yielded nothing further. The perimeter remained in place. All vehicles entering or leaving the American side of the Kowa lands were being checked. They had not found their man.

She stowed her phone and returned the few steps to find her escort watching the clouds as if he had not a thing to do.

“They tell you they wouldn’t go on Mohawk land?” he asked.

She didn’t answer his question, for he seemed to already know their reply. “So, anyone who wants to avoid apprehension from federal authorities just has to make it onto Mohawk land as if they had reached some home-free base, like in tag.”

“No, they have to reach Mohawk’s sovereign land and the Mohawk have to be willing to allow them to stay. The Kowa people have rights granted to them under treaties signed by our government.”

They had reached another impasse. Silence stretched, and she noticed that his eyes were really a stunning blue-gray.

“You want me to hang around?” he asked, his body language signaling his wish to leave.

“Escort me to a place that can get this paint off,” she said.

He touched the paint and then rubbed it between thumb and forefinger. He wiped his finger and thumb on the hood, then tapped his finger up and down to add his fingerprints to the others.

“Stop that!”

He did, holding up his paint-stained hand in surrender. “Oil based. Can’t use the car wash. Body shop, I suppose.”

“You have one?”

“Not personally, but there is one in town.”

“I’ll follow.” She used her fob to open the door and nothing happened.

He lowered his chin and lifted his brows. The corners of his mouth lifted before he twisted his lips in a poorly veiled attempt to hide his smile.

Had the vandals disconnected her battery or helped themselves to the entire thing?

“Tow truck,” he said.

She faced the reservation sign, lifted a stone from the road and threw it. The rock made a satisfying thwack against the metal surface.

He placed the call and she checked in with her office. No messages.

“Tow truck will be here in twenty minutes. Want to wait or grab a ride with me?”

“What do I do with the keys?”

“Tow truck doesn’t need those,” he said.

She nodded. “I knew that.”

Did she sound as green as she felt? How much more experience in the field did Trace have? He’d been an army MP and now was a sheriff.

“How did you decide to run for sheriff?” she asked.

His mouth tipped downward. He didn’t seem fond of speaking about his past. She decided to find out why that was. She’d missed something in her hasty check.

“My friend and mentor, Kurt Rogers, was retiring. He held on until I got out of the service and threw his support behind me. Been reelected once since then.”

Rylee managed to retrieve her briefcase and suitcase from the trunk, half surprised to see them there and not covered with paint. They walked back to his sheriff’s unit side by side.

“Must be hard to be popular in this sort of work.”

He cocked his head. “I don’t find it so.”

He helped her place her luggage in the rear seat and then held the passenger door for her. She had her belt clipped as they pulled back on the highway.

They did not speak on the ride into town. The air in the cruiser seemed to hold an invisible charge. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and he rubbed his neck.

“Motel or the body shop?” he asked as they hit the limits of the town of Kinsley, which was the county seat.

“Motel.”

It bothered her that, of the three possible choices, he took her directly to the place where she was staying. She didn’t ask how he knew.

The sheriff pulled to a stop and she retrieved her bags.

He stood on his side of the vehicle, staring across the roof at her. “You feel like telling me where you’ll be next, or should I just follow the sound of gunfire?”

She refused to take the bait and only thanked him for the lift.

“Don’t mention it,” he said and then added, as he slipped back into his unit, “I surely wouldn’t.”

She stooped to glare at him through the open passenger door. “Why not?”

“You won’t need to. Soon everyone in the county will know you are here and what happened on Mohawk land, because a good story spreads faster than wildfire and because you used exactly the sort of strong-arm tactics I’d expect from a rookie agent. What I can’t figure is why your supervisor sent you up here without a babysitter. You that unpopular he couldn’t even find you a partner? Or is he just that stupid?”

“She is not stupid and it’s an honor to be given a solo assignment,” she said, feeling her face heat. “A show of respect.”

“Is that what she told you?”

She slammed the door and he laughed. Rylee stood, fuming, as he cruised out of the lot.

What did she care what he thought? She had work to do. Important work. And she didn’t need the approval of the sheriff of one of the most sparsely populated counties in the state.

Kowa Mohawk people were on her watch list along with a motorcycle gang calling themselves the North Country Riders. This gang was known to smuggle marijuana across the Canadian border. Additionally, she needed to investigate a family of moonshiners. The Mondellos had for years avoided federal tax on their product by making and distributing liquor. Finally, and most troubling of all, was a survivalist compound headed by Stanley Coopersmith. Their doomsday predictions and arsenal of unknown weapons made them dangerous.

This was Rylee’s first real field assignment and they had sent her solo, which was an honor, no matter what the sheriff said. She was unhappy to be given such an out-of-the-way placement because all the analysis indicated this as the least likely spot for Siming’s Army to use for smuggling. Most of department had moved to the Buffalo and Niagara Falls regions where the analysis believed Siming’s Army would attempt infiltration.

She let herself into her room and went to work on her laptop. She took a break at midafternoon to head out to the mini-mart across the street to buy some drinks and snacks.

Her car arrived from the body shop just after six o’clock, the telltale outline of the red paint still visible along with the outline of three handprints.

“Couldn’t get those out without buffing. Best we could do,” said the gaunt tow truck driver in navy blue coveralls. “Also replaced the battery.”

“Dead?” she asked.

“Gone,” he said.

He clutched a smoldering half-finished cigarette at his side and her invoice in the other. The edges of the brown clipboard upon which her paperwork sat were worn, rounded with age.

She offered her credit card. He copied the numbers and she signed the slip.

The tow truck operator cocked his head to study the vehicle’s new look with watery eyes gone yellow with jaundice. “Almost looks intentional. Like those cave paintings in France. You know?”

Rylee flicked her gaze to the handprints and then back to the driver.

“Like a warrior car. I might try something like it with an airbrush.”

Rylee her held out her hand for the receipt.

“If I were you, I’d stay off Mohawk land. Maybe stick to the casino from now on.”

She accepted the paperwork without comment. The driver folded the pages and handed them to her. Rylee returned to her room and her laptop. It was too late to head out to the next group on her watch list. That would have to wait until tomorrow.

Her phone chimed, alerting her to an incoming call. The screen display read Catherine Ohr, and she groaned. She couldn’t know about the car already.

“Did you not understand the Mohawk are a sovereign nation?” said her boss.

“On federal land.”

“On Kowa Mohawk Nation land. When I asked you to speak to them, I meant you should make an appointment.”

“At eight a.m., Border Patrol notified me of a runner. A single male who crossed the border on foot carrying a large navy blue duffel bag. He was believed to have been dropped off by his courier on the Canadian side. That same courier then picked him up on the US side. They were sighted on River Road. Border Patrol detained the pickup driver thirty minutes later just outside Mohawk lands. The passenger fled on foot onto the reservation, carrying the large duffel on his back.”

“They questioned the driver?”

“Yes. He denies picking anyone up.”

“Name?”

“Quinton Mondello. Oldest son of Hal Mondello.”

“How many sons does he have?”

“Four. Quinton runs things with his father. He’s the heir apparent, in my opinion.”

“So, the moonshiners were carrying moonshine. Made a drop in Canada and were heading home with an empty truck.”

“Then why run?”

“You believe the passenger was an illegal immigrant?”

“At the very least,” said Rylee.

“You believe the Mondello family is engaged in human trafficking?”

“Or they are assisting the Siming terrorist.”

“That’s a stretch. Border Patrol saw the passenger flee?”

Rylee’s stomach knotted. “No. They were acting on an anonymous tip who reported seeing the passenger flee prior to Border Patrol’s arrival. Border Patrol stopped a truck of similar description just outside Mohawk lands.”

“Could have been a Mohawk carrying cigarettes from Canada. Could have been a moonshiner. Pot grower. Poacher. And their tip could have been a rival poacher, moonshiner or pot grower. Any of those individuals would have reason to flee. Hell, they have ginseng hunters up here trespassing all the time.”

“Not in the fall.”

Ohr made a sound like a growl that did not bode well for Rylee’s career advancement plans.

“It could also be a suspect,” added Rylee, pushing her luck.

“Therefore, we don’t really know if there even was a passenger.”

“Quinton Mondello denies carrying a passenger.”

“Of course, he does. And he may be telling the truth.”

Rylee didn’t believe that for a minute.

“So, you decided to follow, alone, without backup and without notifying the tribal police,” said Ohr.

Rylee dropped her gaze to the neatly made bed and swallowed, knowing that speaking now would reveal an unwanted tremor in her voice.

“Hockings?”

“Border Patrol didn’t pursue.” There was that darn tremor.

“Because they understand the law. That is also why they had to release Quinton Mondello. No evidence of wrongdoing.”

Silence stretched.

“Do I need to pull you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I do not have time to clean up your messes, Hockings.”

Rylee thought of the handprints on her federal vehicle and her head hung in shame.

“Do not go on Mohawk land again for any reason.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ohr hung up on her.

Rylee needed some air. She gathered her personal weapon, wallet, shield and keys before heading out. The September night had turned cooler than she realized, and she ducked inside to grab a lined jacket. She stepped outside again and glanced about. The night had fallen like a curtain, so much blacker than her suburban neighborhood with the streetlights lining every road. Here, only the parking lot and the mini-mart across the road glowed against the consuming dark. She’d seen an ice-cream place, the kind that had a grill, on their arrival. A burger and fries with a shake would hit the spot. It wasn’t until she was driving toward her destination that she realized she had snatched the blue windbreaker that had bold white letters across the back, announcing that she was Homeland Security.

The dash clock told her it was nearly 8:00 p.m. and she wondered how long the ice-cream joint might stay open. The answer turned out to be eight o’clock. She arrived to see the lot empty except for one familiar sheriff’s vehicle and a clear view of the solitary worker inside, cleaning the grill. Out front, sitting on the picnic table surface with his feet on the bench, was Sheriff Trace and a very young man.

She ignored them, which wasn’t easy, as she had to walk from her vehicle to the order window.

“Ms. Hockings,” said the sheriff.

She nodded and glanced at the pair.

“Who’s that?” asked the young man. The sheriff’s companion had peach fuzz on his jaw and hair shaved so short that it was impossible to know if his hair was blond or light brown and a stunned expression. There was an old crescent scar on his scalp where the hair did not grow.

The sheriff mumbled something as she reached the order window and was greeted by a red-faced woman who said, “Just cleaned the grill. You want something to eat, have to be the fryer.”

“All right. So...what are my choices?”

“Fried shrimp, mozzarella sticks or French fries.”

“Ice cream?”

“Yup.” She motioned a damp rag at the menu board behind her. “Ain’t cleaned that yet.”

Rylee ordered the shrimp and fries with a vanilla shake. The woman had the order up in less than four minutes and the counter light flicked off as Rylee retreated with her dinner in a box lined with a red-and-white-checked paper already turning transparent in the grease.

The sheriff called to her before she could reach her car.

“Agent Hockings. Join us?” he asked.

She let her shoulders deflate. Rylee wanted only to eat and have a shower. But she forced a smile. Establishing working relationships with local law enforcement was part of the job. Unfortunately, this local made her skin tingle when she got too close. She hated knowing from the heat of her face that she was blushing. He returned her smile and her mind wandered to questions that were none of her business, like what Axel Trace’s chest looked like beneath that uniform.

Two months ago, Rylee had had a steady boyfriend but that ended when she got promoted and he didn’t. The help she’d given him on course work might have worked against him in the written testing when he didn’t know the information required. In any case, he blamed her, and she’d broken things off. Showing his true colors made getting over him easy. Except at night. She missed the feel of him in her bed; that had been the only place they had gotten along just fine. Now she knew that attraction was not enough of a foundation for a relationship. So why was she staring at the sheriff’s jawline and admiring the gap between his throat and the white undershirt that edged his uniform?

Because, Rylee, you haven’t been with a man in a long time. She swept him with a gaze and dismissed this attraction as the second worst idea of the day. The first being pursuit onto Mohawk land.

Rylee sat across from the pair, who slipped from the surface of the picnic table and onto the opposite bench, staring at her in silence as she ate the curling brown breading that must have had a shrimp in there somewhere. The second bite told her the shellfish was still frozen in the center. She pushed it aside.

“Want my second burger?” asked Axel.

“You have a spare?”

“Bought it for Morris, here. But two ought to do him.”

Morris gave the burger in the sheriff’s hands a look of regret before dipping the last of his fries into his ice-cream sundae.

“This is Morris Coopersmith,” said Trace. “Morris, this is Rylee Hockings. She’s with Homeland Security.”

Stanley Coopersmith was one of the persons of interest.

Morris’s brows lifted, and his hand stilled. When he spoke, his voice broke. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Rylee accepted the wrapped burger Sheriff Trace extended. “Any relationship to Stanley Coopersmith?”

Morris grinned and nodded. “That’s my dad.” Then the smile waned. “He doesn’t like comics.”

Morris’s dad was on her watch list. He led a colony of like-minded doomsday survivalists, who had their camp right on the New York side of the border. It would be simple for such a group to transport anything or anyone they liked through the woods and over the border in either direction.

“Want some pickles?” asked Morris, offering the ones he had plucked from his burgers.

“No, thank you,” she said to Morris. Her phone chimed and she checked to see the incoming text was unimportant.

Morris pointed. “Do you have a camera on that?”

Rylee nodded.

“Take our picture,” he insisted and moved closer to the sheriff.

Rylee gave the sheriff a questioning look and received a shrug in response, so she opened the camera app and took a photo.

Morris reached for her phone and she allowed him to take it and watched closely as he admired the shot. At last, he handed her back her phone.

She asked the sheriff, “Are you two related?”

It was a blind guess. Morris was pink and lanky; his body type more like a basketball player. Axel’s blond hair, sun-kissed skin and muscular physique seemed nearly opposite to the boy’s.

She wasn’t sure why she didn’t delete the photo, but she left it and tucked her phone away. Then she turned her attention to her meal. She had a mouthful of burger when the sheriff dispelled her first guess.

“I’m transporting Morris from his home to the jail in Kinsley due to failure to report to his last hearing. He’s got to be in court in the morning.”

“Oh,” she said, forcing the word past the mouthful of food. She knew the shock was clear on her face. Did he usually stop to buy suspects dinner? She had so many questions but turned to Morris. “I’m sorry for your trouble. I hope the hearing goes well.”

“Doubtful. Not the first time I got picked up.”

“Oh, I see.” The investigator portion of her was dying to ask what exactly he had repeatedly been picked up for.

“I steal things,” said Morris and grinned.

“Morris,” said the sheriff, his tone an admonition. “What did I say?”

“Let my lawyer do the talking?” said the boy.

“And?”

“Don’t discuss the case.”

Axel Trace nodded solemnly.

Morris turned to Rylee. “But I wasn’t stealing for me this time. So that will be all right.” He glanced to the sheriff for reassurance and received none.

Axel Trace looked as if he were taking his dog to the vet to be put down. His mouth tugged tight and his eyes... Were they glistening? His repeat blinking and the large swallow of soda he took seemed answer enough. Sheriff Trace cared for this boy.

Rylee choked down the rest of the burger in haste. Morris finished his sundae and grinned, smacking his lips in satisfaction. On closer inspection, he did not seem quite a boy but a man acting like a boy. He certainly didn’t have a grip on the seriousness of his position. Why hadn’t the information on Stanley Coopersmith included that he had a boy with special needs?

“How old are you, Morris?” she asked.

“Twenty.” He showed a gap-toothed smile.

That was bad news. “I see.”

She glanced to Trace, whose mouth went tight. Then she looked back to Morris. Her gaze slid to the sheriff.

He motioned to Morris with two fingers. “Come on, sport. Time to go.”

Morris stood, towering over the sheriff by six inches. He was painfully thin. He wore neither handcuffs nor zip ties on his wrists. Trace pointed at his unit. Morris wadded up his paper wrappers and shot them basketball-style, as if hitting a foul shot. Then he cheered for his success and finally slipped into the passenger side of the sheriff’s car.

“Is that wise? Having him up front with you?” she asked.

“Morris and I have an agreement.”

Morris called from inside the cruiser. “Coke and comic for good behavior.”

She stared at the young man and staunched the urge to open the door and release him.

“You have a good evening, Rylee.”

“Thank you for the burger, Axel.” The intentional use of his first name seemed all right. He’d used her given name first. But he just stood there, staring at her. And her breath was coming in short staccato bursts; she regretted dropping the distance of formality.

He gave her the kind of smile that twisted her heart and then returned to his duty, delivering a boy who should be entering a group home to the court systems.

Rylee headed back to her motel but then veered instead into the Walmart parking lot. It wasn’t until she found herself in the books section that she realized she was looking at comics. The boy was spending the night in jail; he could at least have another superhero to keep him company.

Rylee made her purchase and used the GPS to find the jail in Kinsley. There, she was buzzed in and escorted back by a patrolman who allowed her to give Morris the graphic novel.

“You are a nice lady.” Morris beamed. Then his voice held a note of chastisement. “Did you pay for this?”

She would have laughed if not faced with a boy who should not have been there in the first place.