Page 12 of Retribution
“When do I leave?”
“You start in five days. That should be enough time to pack up, get out there, and get yourself situated. Oh, and one more thing.”
I raise an eyebrow inquiringly.
“I’ll be sending someone out with you to give you a hand. She has extensive experience in trafficking and should prove to be an asset. She’ll arrive a few days to a week after you.” Standing up, he walks over towards me, pulling me up into a hug.
“Be safe, kiddo.”
“I will, Uncle Harris.”
***
Pulling my matte black Indian Scout to a stop along the sidewalk bordering the cul-de-sac on W. Kitty Hawk Lane, I reach up to pull my helmet off, letting my long brown hair shake free.
This had to be some kind of fucking sick joke, right? Surely, this isn’t what my life has been reduced to. The squat, brown one-story building sitting before me, surrounded by trees in the middle of the goddamn forest is a world away from the bustling streets of Manhattan.
I don’t do nature and animals and shit.
Growing up in a large brownstone in Lower Manhattan, I’m used to a different kind of animal. The human kind. Cougars and coyotes can suck my dick.
This though, this sucks ass. If this was a real punishment, I’d be flipping my uncle two birds and driving off into the sunset, intent on getting some of my own vigilante justice. To be fair to Uncle Harris, I probably did deserve a bit of a punishment.
I did, after all, let a serial killer go.
Oops. Can you blame me, though? Guy was not only hot as fuck, but he had watched one too many episodes of Dexter, and was taking out the bad guys. You know the ones. The ones that are so connected that the law is powerless against them? Yeah, those ones.
Working in the Criminal Investigative Division, his file had landed on my desk. Cruz Sandoval. Losing his daughter to gang violence had loosened one too many bolts in his head, I guess. But I kind of admired how he went after them with the righteous vengeance reserved to those that are truly wronged.
We might have spent one glorious, fan-fucking-tastic night together. And I might have let him disappear. Might have even aided him in it. There was suspicion and speculation from the higher-ups, but no proof. Or so I thought.
My uncle obviously knows me well enough to be suspicious, guess there’s no pulling the wool over his eyes. I’m sure it went against the grain, letting me off without so much as a slap on the wrist, but I am his favorite niece. Okay, okay. Only niece. Whatever.
This place looks boring as fuck. There’s nothing to do around here. Where do the other agents get their lunches from? There’s not exactly any cafés or hotdog carts nearby. Probably not much going on except for people leaving food out for Yogi Bear. And Yogi then eating them. Only you can prevent forest fires, amiright? Yeah, yeah. Different bears. I know.
Well, except for this rumored trafficking ring. Seems like a really odd place for it—but I suppose it’s only about a three-hour drive to Phoenix with its international airport.
Leading my bike into the parking lot, I find one lone shady spot to park her. Clipping my helmet onto the handlebars and patting the seat in farewell, I turn, letting out a large sigh as I glance around the lot. Spaces are full, looks like a full house. Goody.
***
No one stops me as I stalk through the empty hallways, searching for room fifteen. The door is cracked and I come to a stop as I hear my name.
“Listen up. New agent is joining us today, a Dutch Buchanan. Coming to us from the New York office. Make ‘em feel welcome. Kev, have you got any news about that city boy that got himself lost in the hills?”
“No, sir,” comes a strong male voice.
“Okay then, on to the next item—”
Taking this as my cue, I let out a deep breath and square my shoulders, pulling open the door and stepping into the room.
Room fifteen is the typical meeting room you’ll find anywhere—except this one is much less formal. A sixty-something, rotund man with white hair and a mustache stands at the front, a stack of papers in his hands. Mismatched sofas dot the room in front of him, and all eight pairs of male eyes home in on me with interest when I make my entrance. I do my best to hold back my sarcastic sigh. Just about manage it, too.
The man standing at the front goes red in the face as he takes me in. My long brown hair is windswept and messy. Black ripped jeans, knee-high Doc Martens, and burgundy tank top complete my ensemble, the tank top only highlighting the full sleeve tattoos running down one arm.
I don’t resemble a respectable FBI agent in the least. We covered that already. Still don’t care.
“Young lady! This is an FBI facility! Who let you in here?” the man in charge asks. Must be Special Agent Donald Cooper.
