Having made a pass around the single-story structure made of weathered, unpainted planks and not seeing signs of life inside, Devlin put a boot to the south-facing door. The rickety panel flew inward. She entered and shined her Pelican 1970 flashlight in all directions.
The wide-open interior space gave off an odor akin to rotted wood. Three windows, each facing a compass point—north, west and east—provided scant lighting. Dust particles floated in the air. Several wooden chairs encircled a dilapidated, rectangular table located in the middle of the house. A nook in the southwest corner, near a black potbelly stove, served as a kitchen area. Pans hung from hooks on the adjoining western and southern walls. Two sets of bunk beds, a window separating each, were against the north wall.
Patton ogled the accommodations. “I guess it’s like they say...any port in a storm.”
After giving the outside a long look, Devlin closed the door, tested a chair’s integrity, and sat.
He took a lap around the room and claimed the seat across the table from her.
She eyed her cell phone. One bar. The signal disappeared. She stood and spun in a circle, holding the device upward. A single bar reappeared. She pivoted back. The signal went away again. Like tuning in a radio station, she toured the house, twisting and turning until she found a location where the single bar remained constant.
Slumping in the chair, Patton observed her, as she placed a call and put the mobile to her ear. His eyes taking in her body, he scrutinized her arms, her legs, her fingers, her mannerisms, her facial expressions, the way she carried herself. He squinted. His mind went over every detail he had gleaned from watching her, beginning with their first meeting in Villa Mainero.
“Ma’am, it’s Devlin. I need your help.”
As she spoke, he listened to the highs and lows in her pitch, as well as her nonverbal signals during the pauses in her speech pattern. Like an artist using colors to create a tapestry, he was combining scraps of information to paint a picture of the woman with whom he was sharing his life at this moment.
*******
4:07 p.m. (local time)
Alexandria, virginia
In her office, reclining in her chair, Marshal Thorn rubbed her temple. “So let me get this straight. The prisoner exchange didn’t happen at the airport. You had to travel to...to...”
Devlin: “Villa Mainero.”
“Right...Villa Mainero...where you were ambushed?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And the agents assigned to pick you up at the airport are dead...along with,” in her mind, she pictured one of her own, “Deputy Marshal Hawkins.” Thorn heard a long moment of silence.
“That’s right, ma’am. He died saving...”
More silence.
“...he died saving me, so I—” Devlin’s voice cracked, “so I could get the prisoner to safety.”
Thorn removed her spectacles and shut her eyes. Pinching an arm of the eyeglasses, she rubbed the bridge of her nose with the middle finger of the same hand. “Are you all right, Jessica?”
“I’m fine.”
“Good. Where are you now?”
“We’re holed up in a cabin of sorts, in a clearing...maybe a mile south of San Fernando.”
“Okay.” Thorn donned her eyewear and scowled at a distant wall. “We have assets in the area. I’ll have the techies ping your cell. Once we have your exact location, I’ll scramble an S.O.G. team. Hang in there, Jessica. We’re coming for you.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Thorn disconnected the call and retrieved a different phone from a desk drawer. Her fingers flew over the screen and she pressed the device to a cheek.
Five seconds passed.
“It’s Thorn. There’s been an incident in Mexico...with the prisoner exchange. My people were attacked.” She waited before shaking her head. “You never told me about that.” More waiting. “This wasn’t what we discussed. You—” she gripped the mobile tighter. “No sir. I sent my two best agents, and now one of them is dead. I need—” Thorn stood, circled behind her chair, and rested her free forearm on the chair’s back. She hung her head. “I understand, sir. I’ll handle the matter discreetly.” Standing tall, “Yes sir,” she ended the call, tossed the phone onto the desk, and cursed.
After shoving her chair out of the way, Thorn tapped a button on the desk phone and planted hands on her hips.
A man’s voice came from the speaker.
She glanced at the dial pad. “This is Marshal Thorn. I need a location on a cell phone. And I need it yesterday.”
*******
3:59 p.m. (local time)
san fernando, mexico
Devlin sauntered toward a window. After ending the call with her boss a half hour ago, she had not spoken a word to Patton. Her thoughts were jumbled. Images of the attack mixed with those of Hawkins’ fate. Cassandra’s face popped into her head. Damn it. She checked her watch. I have to pick... Devlin shut her eyes and touched a flat hand to her forehead. What am I doing? Curt’s picking her up from school.
From his chair, Patton scrutinized Devlin’s physique. Sexy. Sleek. Fit. He studied her stomach. Tiny paunch...hardly noticeable. He bobbed his eyebrows one time. They say it’s tough to lose those last few pounds of baby weight.
Devlin intertwined her forearms and gazed through the dirty glass, staring at the farmland near the house.
He recalled grabbing her and throwing her back behind the oak tree to protect her from a hail of gunfire. She would have given her life to save her fellow marshal. He slowly nodded. Deeply loyal to her friends.
For the next ten minutes, while feeling Patton’s eyes all over her, Devlin gawked out the window. Unlike a horny teenager’s unwanted attention, his interest in her seemed more like an inspection. Spinning on her heels, “All right,” she strode toward the table. “Just who the hell are you?” She claimed the chair across from him. “Those men were after,” she flung a finger in his direction, “you.”
He raised an eyebrow.
She shook her head. “Don’t give me that look. You’re more than some banker who stole a million dollars...and got caught in another country. You handled that Glock like you’d been shooting since you were a kid.”
His clasped hands in his lap, he lifted a shoulder. “What can I say? I watch a lot of movies. They always say it’s easy...flick off the safety, point, and squeeze the trigger.”
“I call ‘BS’ on that. You’ve got military training. I saw you breaking twigs when we made turns on the way here. You were leaving a trail. And I’m guessing they don’t teach that on Wall Street.”
“I think your trust issues have morphed into paranoia, Marshal Devlin.”
“That’s another thing. You have this whole...” with an open hand, she made circles in the air between the two of them, “wise-guy persona you’re portraying, but it’s a little too much. It’s not natural. You’re overcompensating for something.”
Inwardly, Patton grinned. Add intelligence to her list of attributes.
“So my original question still stands...who the hell are you, Mr. Simon Patton?”
He looked away, his lips pursed, his chest swelling. Deep horizontal lines formed on his forehead. He exhaled and stared at the gouges in the table’s splintered surface. Everything’s gone down the crapper.
“Your mouth hasn’t stopped moving since we met. What’s stopping you now from...sharing?”
Chewing on his lower lip, Patton shifted his gaze from Devlin, to her phone on the table, to the handcuffs around his wrists, to the door. In his mind, he saw a replay of the shootout. It wasn’t supposed to go down like this. After making another cycle—Devlin, her phone, his restraints, the door—he sat straight, slid his butt closer to the chair’s back and looked intently at the deputy marshal. A few beats later, he sighed. I guess it’s time to read her in.
Sitting erect and squinting at him, Devlin noted the change in his demeanor. A second ago, he was smug. He was sarcastic. He was flippant. Now the face gaping back at her showed the opposite of all those things. She frowned. Either he has a split personality, or—
“Marshal Devlin,” Patton leaned forward and fixed her with a deadpan stare. “I’m DEA.”
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
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