Page 43 of Hushed Guardian
My thoughts shift from the past to the present when a ding on my computer demands my attention. It’s a ping announcing that one of the many names I logged into Ravenshoe Domestic Airport’s servers months ago found a match. Although the visitor isn’t one of the big hitters the Bureau has been chasing the past ten plus years, he’s definitely of interest.
While grabbing my coat off the coat rack, I dial Alex’s cell phone, cursing when I hear it vibrating on his desk. I could leave him a message stating Albert Sokolov, right-hand man to Russian mafia cartel leader, Vladimir Popov, has decided to pop into Ravenshoe for a visit, but I’d rather produce evidence along with my findings, so I head for the door before his voicemail greeting is halfway done.
“Michelle, if Alex returns before me, tell him to check his emails.” I set it up so any alerts are automatically forwarded to Alex’s email.
Michelle gives me the same gaga face she always does Alex before nodding. “Shall I tell him where you’re going?”
I consider a reply for all of two seconds before shaking my head. “No. I don’t want him chewing me up and spitting me out for having an early lunch.” I could tell her where I’m going, she’s technically the same rank as me, but since Albert’s visit skims along the line that separates my personal life from my work, I’m not so eager. If Albert is here for Isabelle, more than legalities could be at play.
“I’ll keep it our little secret.” Michelle’s tone indicates she’s hoping I’ll pay my restitution with more than an iced mocha from Harlow’s. She’s shit out of luck. It’s been a while since I’ve played sheet-twister, but I’m not that desperate. Even if she wasn’t pushing forty, and agents aren’t technically informants, it’s still a no-go for me.
I take the stairs to the first level, mindful of Grayson’s disclosure on Alex rigging common areas with hidden surveillance cameras, jog to my car parked on the corner, then slip into the driver’s seat. When the engine fires to life, my mind drifts to fonder times. The Hellcat Mr. Gregg and I were rebuilding was a rust bucket when we started, but her engine always purred like a pussy cat. Although its purr was nothing on the one Melody made when my head was between her legs.
A lot of people assume deaf people can’t moan or laugh. They’re dead wrong. Our time between the sheets was when Melody was the most vocal. The only indication she had on how loud she was being was when her moans rumbled in her chest, so I did everything in my power to ensure she didn’t have a moment to register the heartiness of her moans.
I shake my head when I catch sight of my arrogant grin in the rearview mirror. Anyone would swear she’s under me now with how hard I’m smiling. It’s the first time I’ve recalled us sleeping together without wondering who else has experienced her seductive moans, so I guess a little cockiness is okay.
After throwing the gearshift into first gear, I ask Siri to dial Grayson’s private number. He answers a few seconds later, breathless and sounding sweaty. The fact he doesn’t greet me by name reveals he’s in a place he can’t talk freely, much less his comment about me finally returning his call. We only spoke an hour ago when he once again tried to convince me I had no legal reason to disclose my one-night hook-up with Olivia to Alex. He went quiet when I asked about her resurrection from the dead. Even he’s at a loss on what to do about that tidbit of information.
Recalling the reason for my call, I get back to the task at hand. “Albert Sokolov just landed in Ravenshoe.”
“I’m aware. Your quote just came through,” Grayson responds, still gasping. “I heard you’re not local. How’s Hopeton this time of the year? ”
Hearing the words he can’t speak, my tires lock up when I slam on the brakes. When I complete an illegal U-turn, horns honk, and the smell of burning rubber lingers in the air. “What’s at Hopeton for him?”
“That’s what I’m hoping you’ll work out. It’s a new fitting, so there’s no reason for the sudden leak.”
“Do you think it has anything to do with your placement?” He’s undercover at the Bobrov camp. Kirill arrived stateside approximately four weeks ago. He can’t enter US soil legally, so his method of transport was more modest than the private jets his competitors use, although I doubt he lived in shambles the past few weeks. “It seems suspicious the Popovs commenced sniffing around old Bobrov stomping grounds within weeks of Kirill’s return to the States. Are they aware of his return?”
A door slides open before birds chirping in the distance overtakes a group of men talking in Russian. “I doubt that’s the case. I tightened the connections. It didn’t fix the leak. There’s something more occurring here than a loose valve. If you can find out what that is, I might have a chance to stop wading through shitty waters every time I use the bathroom.”
I’m not surprised about his underhanded comment that he’s the shit-kicker of Bobrov’s crew. He’s blond-haired, blue-eyed, and has the worst Russian accent I’ve ever heard in my life. It’s just his size, arrogant face, and cocky attitude that convinces criminals he’s one of them. He also has no trouble pushing the boundaries undercover agents must use to prove they’re far from law-abiding. Drugs, prostitution, dismemberment of body parts, you name it, Grayson has dabbled in it at one stage during his career. He took any steps necessary to get him closer to the man he’s been chasing for almost a decade, and those steps walked him right into Kirill’s crew.
“I’ll pass on any information I find out.”
He murmurs out an agreement before our lines go dead. It was a mere second after a female voice sang out a string of text more lyrical than the bluebirds in the distance. They hint more to Grayson’s location than the cryptic messages he’s sent me the past two weeks.
22
BRANDON
W ith traffic light and my foot heavy, I make it to Hopeton with ten minutes shaved off the usual commute time. I realize I’m not the only one with a lead foot when I spot Alex’s old sedan parked a few spots down from Westminster Family Planning Clinic. Even if I didn’t know his history with the location, the fact he took his car instead of the Navigator the Bureau assigned to him when he became supervisor of my division reveals he isn’t on the job.
I slot my BMW into a parking spot three spaces back from Alex’s car when he suddenly shoots out of the glass door of the clinic. My intuition could be leading me astray, but considering the bank of buildings across from the clinic are the first you stumble on when you enter Hopeton, I’m willing to give my intuition a little bit of leeway. Furthermore, Hopeton only has one entry and exit point, so this is the ideal place for me to commence my stakeout.
A wish to have an ability to plead to Melody over the phone smacks into me when Alex yanks his cell phone out of his pocket. I’ve spilled my guts electronically many times the past almost seven years. All but two were deleted before I hit send. The first one was the email Melody never acknowledged. The second was a text message I sent after reading the transcript from Agent Russell’s interview with her. Even believing I’m no longer the boy she once knew, she defended me. That deserved some type of acknowledgment. Did she reply to that text? Yeah, she did. It was a simple ‘you’re welcome,’ but it was better than the response I was anticipating.
I can’t hear much of the message Alex leaves on Regan’s voicemail, but his facial expression exposes how awkward he feels. For the first time since I’ve known him, his features aren’t hardened with aggression. He almost seems remorseful, but before I can work out why he’d ever feel regret, a group of men entering a restaurant on my left captures my attention. The fact they enter the restaurant from the servers’ entrance while wearing suits that cost more than I make per month exposes they’re not Hopeton locals, much less the fact mobsters never travel anywhere without their favorite whores. The brunette in the skintight fluorescent pink dress being ushered in by a man with biceps bigger than my head is the equivalent of a neon sign. Her outfit screams, ‘The mob is in town. Come get ‘em if you dare.’
Never one to back down when dared, I slip out of my driver’s seat. It occurs at the same time Alex glances up from his phone. Since his eyes are directed to the front of the restaurant, I make it across the double highway without him spotting me. My speed is so quick, my arm darts into the minute gap between the rapidly closing door left behind from the gang’s entrance.
With my gun high, and my steps soundless, I quickly make my way down a corridor lined with tins of soups and other condiments I can’t read since the labels are in Chinese. When I reach the end of the corridor, I’m confronted with a dead end. Since the sound of cutlery projects from my left, I head right. The scent of liquor and cigars grows the further I silently tiptoe down the isolated corridor. My cover is almost blown when a swinging door suddenly shoots open, but thankfully, not being the biggest guy in the room works to my advantage again today. By plastering my back to the wall, the waiter carrying a stack of dirty dishes on a black tray fails to notice me hiding behind the door.
I dash past the door, taking advantage of the gap of its swing. This restaurant won’t be rated as a top server any time soon. The roof is stained with soot from the number of cigars its patrons smoke while waiting for below-par food. Think of an old western movie with dirt for floors and unbathed patrons. Now jump that image into the 21 st century, and you’ll have an idea of what I’m seeing.
I scan the area when a deep voice says, “Serve it to him raw. That will shut him up on it being overcooked.”
Just before the owner of the voice bursts into the corridor, I pop out the lock of the manager’s office at the end. There’s nothing fancy about this office. A desk coated in papers that appear legitimate and a cracked leather chair take up most of the space, but it is the flooring I’m paying the most attention to. The desk was recently moved. The heavy indents in the carpet reveal this fact.
