“Boss, I need to talk to you.” Yeah, might be better to wait until 4:30 on a Friday, have his talk with Walter, and haul ass after his coworkers fled the building. But something had to give before Lucky lost his ever-loving mind. Three weeks’ worth of nightmares and pretending things were fine when he visited Bo left him desperate.
“Have a seat. Would you like coffee?” Someone had cleared enough room on one of Walter’s cabinets to put a fancy one-cup coffee pot. “I have decaf around here if I can find it.” Walter dug through a desk drawer and pulled out a K-cup.
“No, thanks.” The mere thought of coffee rolled Lucky’s nervous stomach.
“You’re saying no to coffee? Someone alert the media.”
The lame humor further roiled Lucky’s gut. If he didn’t get the weight off his chest, explosions were coming. “There’s details from Mexico I wasn’t sure of, so I left them off my report.”
“Oh?” Walter sat up straighter and rested his hands on his desk. Seemed he had an official stance for every occasion.
“I told you about the gun fight. It all happened so fast.” The Garcia brothers, dead. Bo dying. And a dead guard. All in a few seconds. Yet, some of those seconds stretched into hours.
“Regardless of what you see on TV, most shootouts last less than three minutes.”
“This one didn’t go two, I don’t think.” Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang rattled through Lucky’s head. He closed his eyes and blew out a breath. “I had a borrowed gun, and…” He sucked in air to buy a few moments. Once the words left his mouth, no taking them back.
“Go on.”
“I… IthinkImighthaveshotaman.” There. He’d confessed.
Walter regarded Lucky with deceptive calm, but behind an unemotional façade, the man’s mind had to be churning. “I see. Who do you think you might have shot, and where is the gun now?”
For fuck’s sake. What had he done with the gun? “One of Stephan’s men. And I’m not sure about the gun. Someone shot Bo full of hydrocodone, and the only thing on my mind was getting him back across the border. I might’ve dropped it in the office, or in the lab where we found the naloxone.” Naloxone. The only reason Bo still drew breath.
Walter steepled his fingers. His bushy gray brows gathered over a deep furrow above his eyes. “You’re aware that shooting a suspect calls for further investigations, don’t you?”
“Yeah. I can’t swear it was me. Bullets were everywhere.” But it could have been me. Was most likely me. Wishing it wasn’t didn’t change a thing. Still, no harm in trying. “If I did, it was self-defense.”
“Of that I have no doubt. Nothing appeared in the report I received from Mexico of you having shot a man. Perhaps the other witnesses saw things differently. Bo made no mention of it either.”
“Bo was busy. And I hope Cruz saw it different, ‘cause I’ve been having dreams… You told me you’d shot men before. How do you keep it from eating you alive?”
“I did what my country called on me to do. I stand by each decision and would pull the trigger again if put into the same circumstances.”
“That don’t answer the question.”
“Taking a life is never an easy thing, nor is the emotional fallout later. But if I hadn’t pulled the trigger, the enemy would have, and killed me or my brothers in arms.” Walter made killing sound so reasonable.
“Then I’m screwed, right?”
Walter abandoned his chair, rounded the desk, and sat next to Lucky, pressing the warm weight of his hand to Lucky’s shoulder. “Off the record? If you took a life without remorse, you wouldn’t be human.
“For years I wondered about the men I shot, the lives and families they’d left behind. I didn’t let it show and told no one until I entered counseling ten years later. I should have told you last summer when you first asked, but even today talking about it makes me uncomfortable.” Walter slipped his hand off Lucky and stared at the wall. “No amount of training can prepare you for something like this. Value for human life, early religious training, it all plays a role.” He gave Lucky a tremulous smile.
“I’m screwed, then.” Lucky buried his face in his hands.
“Our insurance website lists department-approved therapists and psychologists. I expect you to make an appointment with one.”
“I don’t need—” Lucky peered through his splayed fingers.
“I believe you do. Plus, it’s required of any SNB personnel who discharges a firearm in the line of duty. I’m afraid if you don’t choose someone, I’ll be forced to choose for you.” He returned his hand to Lucky’s shoulder. “Trust me, Lucky. I wish I hadn’t waited ten years.”
Walter never raised his voice, didn’t even sound stern. Lucky got the message anyway. As fatherly as he spoke, first and foremost Walter was Lucky’s boss.
Lucky ought to give Art a call, find out who he’d used when he’d shot a man determined to carve out his liver with a switchblade about three years ago. But Art winged the guy, who’d lived to get shot by someone else in a drug deal gone wrong.
“Is that all you have to tell me?” Walter sat, unblinking.
“I think so.” Lucky dropped his hands to his lap. The chloral hydrate should be out of his system by now, thanks to the gag-inducing brew he choked down every night, courtesy of Loretta Johnson.
“A drug test is mandatory when there’s been a shooting.”
“I’ll go.” And pray they did a piss test and not hair analysis—and that it came out negative.
The rigid set of Walter’s shoulders relaxed. “I’m sorry, Lucky. After all you’ve been through these last few months. You should have mentioned this earlier and included as much as you remembered in your report.”
“I wasn’t sure. I keep having nightmares. They mess with my brain until I can’t figure out how much is real or a dream.”
Walter nodded. “Make an appointment soon. Until we’ve finished our investigation, I’ll reinstate your leave, if you’d like.”
“No. Don’t.” Lucky didn’t want more time to think. He stood and slogged to the door, body heavy, like swimming through molasses. Maybe he should take a break. “I’ll let you know.”
“Lucky?”
“Yes?”
“Two agents behaved admirably under pressure and performed above and beyond expectations. You returned both to me through your actions. If you pulled the trigger to save the lives of two good men, you did the right thing.”
Confessing meant dragging in Internal Affairs or whatever—and Bo. Last thing the poor guy needed.
Lucky spent the next few hours finishing his report, filling in what he could weed out as fact, and what he recalled of the fuzzy parts. Had Cruz stood on his left or right? Where was Bo? Alejandro? Fuck. Alejandro, who’d taken on his own brother to save Lucky. And bled out in a parking lot.
Lucky’s phone chimed around 3:00 p.m. Bo texted, Gotta talk to you. Now.
Shit, meet fan. Four stretched yellow lights and three middle finger salutes later, Lucky pulled in to Magnolia Center.
***
Bo met Lucky at the door. “Oh, God, Lucky. Why didn’t you tell me?” All the breath whooshed out of Lucky from Bo’s savage bear hug.
Tell you what? “Um… you were a bit busy?” Lucky gasped in enough air to say.
Bo loosened his grip but didn’t let go. “Yeah, and I’ve been kicking myself ever since Walter left.”
Fuck. “Walter was here?” So much for breaking the news gently.
Bo darted a glance toward the attendant, who chatted with a couple at the desk. “C’mon. Let’s go outside.” He marched Lucky out to the patio. The day was pleasant for October, not too cool, not too hot. And it wasn’t raining.
“What did Walter tell you?” And did Lucky need to have words with the man once he got back to the office? Bo had enough to deal with right now.
“He came in with a guy I’d never met. Wanted to discuss the night I got… injured.”
Injured? A vial of narcotics injected into Bo’s system counted as one hell of a lot more than injured. If not for a shot of naloxone to stave off an overdose he’d be dead.
Bo narrowed his gaze and brought his nose within inches of Lucky’s. “They asked if I’d seen you shoot a gun.”
Fuck.
“I told ‘em the truth. That all hell broke loose and I lost track of who did what. And the lights were out part of the time.”
Thank God. “So, you didn’t see me shoot anybody?”
“No, Lucky, I didn’t.” Bo rested his head against Lucky’s. Green tea aroma drifted to Lucky’s nose on Bo’s breath. “Is it true? Did you kill one of Stephan’s guards?”
Lucky spun and stalked away, wrapping his arms around himself. Why was it so cold all of a sudden? “Sometimes I think I did, other times I close my eyes and can almost see Cruz pulling the trigger. Then at night when I dream…”
Warm arms wrapped around him from behind. “Sh… It’s okay. Same thing happened to me the first time.”
The first time? No, Lucky wouldn’t ask the next obvious question. Nope. No way, no how. Bo didn’t talk much about his time with the Marines. Lucky now understood why.
“What happens now?” Bo asked.
“Nothing. They investigate, talk to whoever Cruz works for. In the meantime, I can warm a desk or take time off.”
“What’re you gonna do?”
“I don’t know yet.” About anything.
Bo nodded against Lucky’s back. “I’m getting out of here soon.”
“That’s good. What’re your plans?” Lucky turned his head enough to see Bo shrug.
“I’m not sure yet. If they release me to return to work I might climb back on the horse that threw me, at least until I come up with a better idea.”
Oh hell no. Not this soon after almost losing him, even if Walter did let him back undercover.
“Are you okay?” Here Bo was, sitting in a rehab center, piecing his life back together, and he worried about Lucky.
Now came Lucky’s turn to shrug. “Good as I ever been, I suppose. I got my .38 a few years back and was proud. Getting to haul a gun around meant I wasn’t a second class agent no more. I never thought much about putting the damned thing to use.” Hell, some agents only fired at range targets. Trust trouble to find Lucky.
“Are you in therapy?”
“Not yet, but Walter’s told me to pick someone from the department approved list or he’ll do it for me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
Bo clutched him tighter. “That I’m so wrapped up in what I did and what happened to me that I blocked out the hell you went through. I’ve been selfish.”
Selfish? Bo? Confused perhaps. “If you were, you got a right to be selfish. You gotta look after yourself.” Bo’s arms around Lucky made life better, no matter what happened.
“But like you said, we’re in this together. I can’t think of just me anymore. There’re two of us to consider.”
Dear God let him still feel that way after the center released him. “I want you home. Do what it takes to get there, okay? That is, if you still want to be there.” Please, God, let him say yes!
Bo grunted instead. “Where else would I go? Until I figure out what’s what, I guess you’re stuck with me.”
A camera panned over the patio area. Lucky couldn’t care less. Let Little Miss Painted Nails get an eyeful. He turned, grabbed his man by the back of the head, pulled him down to kissing height, and laid a big wet one on him.
“Lucky?” Bo mumbled.
“Yeah?”
“Air?”
“What? Oh, sure.” Lucky eased his hold without letting go.
Bo panted. “You can be darned forceful when you want to be.”
Shit. Bo didn’t like to be held down or restrained. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Bo grabbed Lucky and gave as good as he’d gotten.
***
“Good evening, Lucky.” Mrs. Griggs waved from her perch on the porch swing. More than cats occupied the space beside her. Loretta Johnson was all Lucky needed after the day from hell. Her familiar black Jeep filled the landlady’s driveway.
He bobbed his head and breathed in too-thick air. A tickle started in the back of his throat. If he stomped into the house without making eye contact Johnson might get the message to leave him the alone.
No such luck. She met him at his front steps. “Wanna talk about it?”
“No.” Gritting his teeth didn’t ease the growl in his voice. Go away. Go the fuck away.
The newbie with more guts than self-preservation eyed him up and down. Let that kid come to Atlanta soon and give her someone else to spend her maternal instincts on. Lucky hadn’t been mothered in a long time and didn’t intend to start now.
“I’ve got a better idea,” she said. “Grab your stuff. We’re going to the gym.”
“Johnson, I…”
She bared her teeth. “Get your stuff. Trust me. You’ll thank me later. We’re about to work out whatever the hell’s eating you.”
There wasn’t enough exercise in the world to fix Lucky’s problems. “And if I say no?”
“Then I’ll drag you.” She took her hostility down a notch. “Believe me, Lucky, I’m trying to help.”
Well, her witch’s brew hadn’t hurt him yet, and except for nightmares that weren’t her fault, he slept better. “Okay, but you owe me one.”
Johnson sat on the top step. “You’ve got five minutes before I come in and get you. And don’t think there’s a house made that I can’t get into.”
Lucky grabbed his things and waited out the full five minutes before stepping back on the porch. No need going easy on her.
She stood and pulled a set of keys out of her jeans pocket. “I’ll follow you so you don’t get any ideas.”
Losing her in traffic would be easy, but she knew where he lived. Damn it.
***
“We need a ring.” Loretta spoke up before Lucky’d even gotten in the door. Trust her to get the upper hand and try to intimidate him with her dominance. Fat chance.
The Lord of the Cell Phone sitting on a stool at the front desk paused his texting. “Sure, Ret, how ya been? Two’s open.” In all the time Lucky had been coming to this gym he’d never seen the fuckwad attendant smile. Had never before seen the guy’s teeth, truth be told. But now he grinned big. “Ret” grinned back.
“Enough socializing. Can we get on with it?” Lucky could be home sulking and munching down on something fried and artery-clogging.
“You’re taking him on?” The creepy little jerk cut his eyes in Lucky’s direction. “Shoulda told me sooner. Lots of folks around here willing to pay good money to watch this cocky little bantam rooster get taken down a notch or two.”
Fucker. “Hey! I’m standing right here!”
Johnson tossed a glance over her shoulder, complete with batted lashes. “Won’t be for long.” She exaggerated a sigh. “Let’s get this over with.” With a wink at the texting wonder she slung her gym bag over her shoulder and traipsed to the women’s locker room.
“You’re about to get your ass kicked.” The guy went back to texting.
Lucky dressed and warmed up before his opponent arrived at the ring, padded and helmeted. She wore a tiny pair of blue nylon shorts and a white wife-beater tank top, showing off her muscles. Another move designed to intimidate. “Built like a Mack truck” didn’t even begin to describe her solid form. If the truck hit her, he’d lay his money on Johnson.
“Where’s your gear?” she asked, adjusting the chin strap on her helmet.
“Protection is for wussies.” Not having trained to use padding and such put him at a disadvantage. Better for his opponent to think him hard-headed. Gloves were all he needed.
“Do you screw without a rubber?” She held out a gloved hand and scrunched up her face. “Don’t answer that. I remember what I found in the nightstand. But it’s your funeral.”
And the answer to her question was: not anymore. Damn it. Lucky climbed into the ring, bounced in place, and sized up his opponent while Johnson went through a series of warmups the likes of which he’d never seen before. With Johnson’s height and longer arms, he’d soon be working hard to get close enough to land blows. But what he lacked in size and reach, he made up for in speed, agility, and attitude.
Johnson ended her routine by closing her eyes and taking several deep breaths. Chances were she’d already visualized the entire fight in her mind. She’d be in for a few surprises. “Ready, T-Rex?”
Oh hell, she didn’t go there. Nobody called Lucky T-Rex and got away with it. Nobody but Bo. Lucky forced an evil smile and tapped his glove against hers, short-assed arms and all.
He’d go down fighting, cocky to the end, but he’d go down. Whereas he never made solid plans and took advantage of any opening, from what he’d learned of his student so far, she had cold calculation down to an art form.
“I asked around work about you. Seems you like to bring agents here and show off a little.” Johnson circled, keeping Lucky in her sights.
“Picking up pointers? Good, you’re gonna need ‘em.” Lucky feinted left and danced back. Johnson didn’t take the bait. While he’d never fought a female agent, his sister had taught him to take it easy on a woman at his own risk. Charlotte had kicked his ass a time or fourteen.
He turned to match Johnson’s movements. Her steps were heavier, her movements clumsy. “Yeah, go on, try to lull a man into a false sense of security.” He’d seen her take steps three at a time on raids, and had also watched her on the dance floor at a local club, trying to make a drug deal. She had more grace than Lucky ever hoped to match—when she wanted to.
“I heard you got a mean right hook, once you shut up and fight.” She settled, braced for impact.
Who’d said that?
The shift was so subtle that if he hadn’t prepared, she might have pulled a fast one. Muscles bulging in her legs gave her intentions away. All her weight on one leg, she kicked. Lucky ducked. A shoe roughly the size of his Camaro whooshed over his head.
“You gave yourself away. Too much time between planning and doing.” He dove for her leg.
Johnson stumbled but regained balance.
Lucky rolled and came up with his fists ready. “Nice.”
Her right hook went wild. No way had she studied boxing or any formal fighting. This woman had gained her moves on the street. Lucky’d learned early in battles with his brothers and added to redneck fighting tactics in prison.
The powerhouse spun, elbow aimed at Lucky’s face.
He bent back. The blow grazed his cheek. Johnson hit and hit hard, but she threw too much of herself into the punch and needed time to recover.
Lucky laughed. He was her trainer. Time to train. “You’re counting too much on the blow connecting to buy yourself time to regroup.”
They danced. Her arms gleamed with sweat, the black Celtic tats around her biceps bulging. She swung wide, exposing her back.
Lucky dodged beneath her arm and landed a solid punch to her right deltoid. He jumped out of her reach. “You left your kidney wide open. In a real fight you’d be in pain right now.”
He dropped to the mat and kicked hard.
Johnson hit the mat, rolled, popped back up, and so did he—though her size made her slow. Something about her changed. The glint in her eyes took on more serious menace.
She came at him. Right, left, right. She plowed a glove into his jaw.
Fuck! That hurt! Lucky stumbled backward and countered with a few punches of his own.
Johnson hit, she meant business, but landed one out of every four punches.
Lucky punched twice, and connected both times, though with his short arms he didn’t command the power she did. As far as upper body strength, they were pretty evenly matched. She must bench press Mazdas.
Lucky ducked a swing and slammed his fist into her solar plexus.
Johnson reeled backward.
Punch, punch, punch.
Flat on his back on the mat. Texting boy needed to dust the ceiling fans. Solid weight landed on top of Lucky. He wriggled, fighting to break free from an octopus. No matter how hard he struggled, or where he went, Johnson matched him.
Oh hell. In trouble now!
She pinned him and grinned, her knees on his shoulders holding him to the floor.
“Wrestlers pin, not boxers,” Lucky managed enough breath to grunt. He jerked his knee up into her back.
Johnson straightened.
Lucky took the microsecond of distraction to buck up and throw her off. That was close. He didn’t get away. His opponent jumped up and grabbed him from behind. Lucky went limp. His dead weight toppled them both.
How long had they been fighting? He crawled away. Johnson grabbed his ankle. He fought for purchase on sweaty skin.
They rolled, tumbled, and wound up panting, side by side on the mat.
“Do you yield?” Johnson forced out between gasps.
“Fuck no!” The fight was on again.
Johnson pinned him. “Whoot! I kicked your ass!” She wobbled to her feet and held her arms up, bowing to nonexistent spectators. Thank God the gym was almost empty or they’d have attracted a crowd.
Lucky crawled to the ropes and hoisted himself up. Johnson turned her back. He locked his gloves together and brought them crashing down.
She never knew what hit her.
Lucky threw all his weight into pinning her for a three count. Hey, she’d started it! He rolled off and lay panting beside her.
“Feel better now?” came out on gasped breaths.
Did he? Not really. At least he no longer wanted to punch someone. Been there, done that. “Define better?”
After a few minutes of catching her breath, she asked, “Want to talk about it now?”
No. “Nothing to talk about.”
“Coulda fooled me, you storming around the office ready to kill someone.”
Out tumbled “Too late.” Lucky’d never learned when to shut the fuck up.
“Oh.”
If the woman pushed him, asked questions, he’d shut her down. Her lack of asking gnawed at him. She’d been with Southwestern for five years before her transfer. No telling what she’d seen.
“You ever shoot a man?” he asked.
With their breathing now calmer, the rest of the gym came back into focus, the shriek of tennis shoes on the floor, the booming voice of a trainer in another ring, instructing a fighter.
Minutes ticked away before Johnson answered, “Yeah.”
Interesting. “Kill him?”
“He might’ve wished he died, but no.”
“What happened?” While Loretta Johnson’s picture probably appeared in the dictionary under “bad ass”, shooting didn’t seem her style. She’d more likely beat someone to death.
“Former cop went bad and had a baby up on a bridge, threatened to throw the kid over if Mama wouldn’t give him drug money.”
If Charlotte’s no account ex threatened one of her boys, she’d blow his ass away in a heartbeat. “You shot the man to save the kid.”
“Would do it again in a flat minute. What happened with you if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Shootout with a wannabe drug lord.” Images formed in his mind: Lucky taking aim, the guard falling. Were those memories or dreams? “I don’t regret pulling the trigger, I mean, it was him or me, or even my partner. It’s just”—fuck!—“I wanted him dead. I wanted him stopped. It all happened so fast I didn’t look for any other options. I see his blood in my dreams, but I can’t for the life of me work out for sure if I was the one to kill him or not. You think I’d remember.”
Johnson rolled on her side to face Lucky. “They train the hell out of us. When a threat happens, there’s no thinking to it—we react, like we’re drilled to do. If I hadn’t pulled the trigger, that asshole might have killed an innocent child and the mama too. If you hadn’t acted, your partner might be dead, or a few other people. If you shot, you put your training to good use. Trust yourself. You did the right thing.”
Not one of the textbook answers Bo spewed, and might make sense to a more rational man. “No regrets at all?”
“Just one.”
“What’s that?” Lucky stood and offered Johnson help to stand.
“I’m not looking forward to the day when I have to tell my boy why I shot his daddy.”