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Seeing what he drove and getting his plate number would be a bonus.

“Listen lady. I’m married,” the guy demurred, taking a step back. “So thanks for the offer, but I’m good.”

Schlock. Leave it to Joe to find the one drug runner who had scruples regarding his marriage. But Joe didn’t want to make the rejection look like it was too a big deal. If she pushed, he might get suspicious, so instead, she shrugged. “Just asking,” she snickered. “Ya’ll make sure to tell your little woman that another female found you cute, tonight. You hear?” Joe winked.

The guy’s chest puffed up. “I’m not sure she’ll believe me, but thanks. It feels good, a pretty thing like you making my night like this. Thanks. Have a good evening.” Without giving his exit another thought, the guy executed a quick wave, flicked his mostly unsmoked cigarette to the dirt, and walked to his vehicle which luckily was only a few cars away.

Bingo.

Crushing the mostly unsmoked cigarette under her heel, Joe did an internal fist pump, pretending to walk away, but…

She had the make, model and license plate number filed away in her mental rolodex before the guy left the lot, then went back to pick up the butt for DNA.

The rest of Joe’s shift had gone without incident. If she could say that Wendel grabbing her breast was no big deal. But…she hadn’t let the impropriety go. In response to his blatant move, Joelle had managed to squeal and “accidentally” toss her night’s-end waitress tray—holding the dregs of an impressive number of beers—into good old Wendel’s face, splashing him not only in the eyes, but making sure the liquid cascaded down into the neckline of his crappy polyester shirt.

She’d apologized up and down, mopping at him ineffectually with her dirty bar-rag, until he’d yelled at her to “get the hell away from me and clock the fuck out”.

Her repentant response as she’d walked down the back hall had quickly turned into a snorting snicker once she was out of earshot.

Yup. It had been a good night all the way around.

But now…

Dramzit. It was very late as she sat at her small kitchen table…or very early depending on how you looked at it. Still, Joe couldn’t pull herself away from her computer. She not only had a name and address for her gallant cigarette-lighting perp tonight, but had gone on to catalogue everything she remembered about his companion in detail so it would be fresh in her mind for morning.

That intel had her pumped, for sure, but even better? From a purely personal standpoint? Her trackers on the drug runner and the wannabe-killing-conspirators’ vehicles were both up and running, and…

…Mike hadn’t disabled his.

CHAPTER SIX

“So what do you think?” Mike asked Welker. The man had the two cameras he’d removed, plus a hot spot in hand.

“I won’t know until I run the serial numbers where they came from, but these babies are pretty pro. If I were a guessing man, which I am, I’d say they almost look like government issue.”

“Seriously? You mean like…the IRS is stalking me?” Mike joked, even though anybody watching him was no laughing matter.

“Not the IRS, but maybe the FBI, CIA, NSA, DEA, DOD…”

“Damn. Seriously? That’s a list I don’t want to be on,” Mike grimaced. “Will you be able to tell which agency it is once you’ve run them?”

Welker looked apologetic. “Most likely, no. A lot of times, after equipment is designated for a specific location, access to the serial numbers is redacted in case it’s found. So we may not be able to tell who set these up. But,” he cautioned, “it’s also not necessarily the government who’s using them. Someone with connections could have stolen the equipment, or could be using it without authorization.”

“Well, shit,” Mike swore. “Then I’m guessing we won’t know much more even after you run the numbers.”

“Probably not,” Welk said again, then shook his head before sending Mike a shrewd look. “Now, not to change the subject, but… What did you want to tell me over the phone that you couldn’t, because your kids were listening?”

Which they weren’t right now.

Mike tapped his fingers nervously on his thigh. “You caught that, huh?”

Welker snorted. “It was pretty obvious. So spill.”

“It might be nothing, but…well, it could be related to those.” He gestured to the cameras. “Over the past few days, I’ve felt like someone’s been watching me.”

“Uh, no shit.” Welker raised the hand holding the spy-cams, and waved them around.

“No. I mean, not just here. Everywhere. At the gym. At the grocery store. Just…all over the place. Earlier, I think my truck was followed.” He pulled out his phone and quickly saw that the video he’d taken was beyond useless. He stabbed Welker with a worried stare. “Do you think I’m crazy?”

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