Page 1 of Snowbirds
ONE
Hatch
“Two hundred and forty damned hours of vacation time. You are officially off the clock as of five minutes ago. This isn’t a suggestion, Chris, this is a direct order.”
Crap.
Chris Hatch quietly released a breath of air and pinched the bridge of his nose. His boss never called him by his first name unless he was really worried about him. Normally it was Hatch this, Hatch that, Hatch, pull a damn miracle out of your ass. Hatch, save the world. Hatch, rescue the girl tied up on the train tracks before the sun sets.
Chris sniggered and nearly dropped the handset. The conversation wasn’t remotely funny, so he must have been more tired than he’d realized.
He’d been with the DEA for almost twenty years, climbing up through the ranks until he’d reached his current position. He had direct authority over a large team of agents—with one recent opening, left by Dante Castone and yet to be filled—as well as responsibilities involving a variety of investigations and agency overlap.
The job was exhausting and a lot like a jigsaw puzzle, except the human pieces didn’t stay in place. They moved all over and had to be watched constantly; the face of one specific human came to mind.
“You’re flirting with a bad case of burnout.”
Fuck. Chris blinked—McBride wasstilltalking.
“It’s past time for you to take a vacation. If I see—or hear—even a muted whisper about you back at work before those excess hours are used up, we’ll be having another discussion.”
Chris wanted to point out that theywere, in fact,nothaving a discussion. A discussion was the back-and-forth exchange of ideas, not a litany of tyrannical orders from on high. But he kept his mouth shut and instead stared around at the walls of his office while McBride droned on about HR and mental health.
Fucking mental health. His jobwashis mental health.
Helikedhis office. It was comfortable. And, because of its location outside North Portland, he had a partial view of the Mighty Columbia along with the most southern edge of Washington State. He’d often joked that if the uppers knew the strip mall, and thus his office, had a view, they wouldn’t have let him keep it. Heaven forbid middle management types like him enjoyed being in their workspace—couldn’t have that.
His office was a perfectly fine place to spend his days. And some nights.
Okay, a lot of nights. And a lot of hours. Chris did what was needed to get the job done. His job was his life, and that was how he liked it.
The ugly paneled walls from the 1980s were mostly covered by bookshelves that held Chris’s various diplomas and certificates, his law and reference books, a stash of John D. McDonald mysteries hidden in one corner, and several outdated textbooks. There were a few photographs—mostly work-related group shots from mind-numbing conferences. One was asnapshot of Chris with Ivan Morrison after Morrison’s team had won trivia night a couple of years ago. Chris was sort of smiling, and Morrison’s mouth was open in mid-laugh. Dante Castone had taken the picture because it was, he said, “Evidence that Chris Hatch actually leaves his cave once in a while.”
So maybe McBride had a point. Dante’d had the photo printed and framed, then gave it to Chris for his birthday as a joke. Chris scowled at the image.
Castone was a sore spot for him at the moment. He’d get over it. Mostly, he felt like a fool for pining after a man who was clearly in love with someone else and had been for some time.
“Three weeks,” McBride continued. God, he was a human steamroller Chris could do nothing to stop. “I’ve cleared your schedule. Paulter is covering in your absence.”
Chris slammed his eyes shut. The trouble an unsupervised Ivan Morrison could get into in three weeks was… unfathomable. And now Agent Paulter was going to be the agent in charge? Chris wondered if the DEA’s northwest regional offices would survive.
“Paulter? Did I hear you correctly?” Chris repeated. What the fuck was he going to do for three weeks away from his work—besides try and figure out how to surreptitiously keep Morrison and Paulter from ever being in the same room.
Fuck that, they couldn’t be in the same building.
“Dennis Paulter will do a fine job. Go visit your family, Chris. I know you have one. Or climb a mountain or something.”
“Paulter is a fool.”
The man had been involved in more than one fucked-up op and yet somehow was still employed by the DEA. Chris had counted himself lucky never to have to deal with him directly. Until now. He wasn’t sure whether the idea of Paulterin chargeof Ivan Morrison made him want to laugh or cry.
“He is perfectly qualified to step in for you,” McBride continued ruthlessly.
Chris loathed Dennis Paulter. Aside from being a shitty teammate, he was an ass-kissing know-it-all. The younger agent had been after his job for years. Chris was locking his desk drawers and taking the keys with him. He briefly wondered if there was a way to booby-trap his drawers.
“For fuck’s sake,” he said to his empty office. “What the hell am I going to do for three weeks?”
Fifteen days, not including the weekends. Chris had no life outside of his job. So-called work-life balance was a foreign concept to him. He was boring and he accepted it. But he was one hundred percent dedicated to his job, so if breaking up drug and sex trafficking rings meant he was boring? So be it.
