“How big is her property again?”
Ridge Boudreau sighed, rubbing a hand across his nape. He hated dealing with pencil pushers, especially ones who couldn’t seem to remember information they’d been told a dozen times. Surely he had the information somewhere in all the files stacked on the table in front of him.
“Roughly twenty thousand acres. That’s approximately thirty-one square miles,” he added, before Roland Abernathy could ask. His boss, Daniel Kingston, shot him a sympathetic look and shrugged, as if to say “what’re you gonna do?” Ridge and Daniel had worked together for several years, from the time Ridge was a rookie agent, learning the ropes of working with the Drug Enforcement Agency, taking down the nickel and dime dealers. He considered the man a good boss, easy to work with most of the time. Unless you screwed up. Then he’d hand you your head on a platter.
“And you’re sure this Mary Margaret White knows about her property being used to run contraband, even condones it?” Roland pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, blinking owlishly through the magnified lenses. “We can’t afford to make a mistake. She’s got the kind of money that she can hire the best lawyers in the country.”
“That’s why I’m going in undercover. Nobody’s gonna swarm her property in a massive strike without proof. Besides, if she’s a willing participant in drug running, we’ll toss her backside into jail, same as the rest. I don’t care how much money she’s got; she’s not above the law.”
“Boudreau,” Daniel sounded weary, which he probably was, considering he’d flown in on the redeye. “Are you positive we’re looking in the right place? Her background doesn’t suggest she’d put up with drug shipments running through her property.”
“I’ve had geological surveys done of her place and the surrounding area. Most of it’s still undeveloped wilderness. She’s carved out about ten acres for her house and surrounding lawn, pool, stuff like that. The rest of it is unincorporated. We’ve done flyovers with high-tech drones and haven’t seen anything unusual. But there are places where the trees are thick and obscure portions of the property. Without being able to go onto the land itself and search, we’re working blind.”
“Her file has some pretty big holes in it; otherwise, I’d say we could simply question her and her neighbors. But those holes make me think Ms. White might have something to hide. Boudreau, you know what to do. Survey the place, get chummy with the owner, and bring me proof. I’d like to exonerate her, if we can.”
Ridge leaned back in his chair, studying his boss through hooded eyes. He’d swear the man looked like he’d aged ten years since the last time he’d seen him a few months previous. The lines around his mouth were deeper. The crow’s feet around his eyes had nearly doubled, and there was a sallowness to his skin that worried him. Could Daniel be sick?
“If she’s got nothing to hide, I’ll be in and out, and we’ll move on. Figure out where the trucks are disappearing to, because they are vanishing without a trace. I’m gonna figure it out.”
“I know you will.” Daniel stood and motioned for Roland, who made a mad scramble to gather all the papers and files he’d spread out on the tabletop. “We’ve rented rooms at a bed and breakfast. Got the last two rooms. We’ll meet up there once you’ve got some intel. You sure you don’t want me to bring the team in?”
Ridge stood and shoved his hands in his pockets, to keep from grabbing all Roland’s papers and shoving them into his briefcase. Something about the guy got on his last nerve. This was only the second job he’d worked with him, and he hoped he’d manage to keep his cool, instead of mussing up the dude’s perfectly styled hair or his shiny shoes. In a small town like Shiloh Springs, Roland stood out as a tourist with a capital T.
“Not yet. We’ll keep this low key for now. If we need ’em, I’ll let you know. If too many people show up on Ms. White’s land unannounced, she could slam a lid on her operation so tight it might take months, maybe even years, before we got another chance to bring it down.”
“True. You sure your family doesn’t know you’re undercover on a job this close to home?”
“I haven’t told them anything. But most of my brothers are in law enforcement in one form or another, and they’re smart. They won’t blow my cover.”
“I expect you to report in every twenty-four hours, got it?” Daniel’s eyes narrowed and Ridge read the older man’s determined expression. “No exceptions. I don’t hear from you, the op is off and we’re coming in.”
“Twenty-four hours.”
Ridge watched the two men, so different yet with the same end goal, walk out the front door of the coffee shop, pile into a nondescript sedan, and head back toward Shiloh Springs. Reaching into his wallet, he pulled out several bills, then added a couple more for a bigger tip. His fingers skimmed across the newspaper clipping he carried in his wallet, and he pulled it out, unfolded it, and studied the photo.
Mary Margaret White. The grainy black-and-white photo didn’t do justice to the intelligence burning in her gaze as she stared out from the picture, or the quirk of her smile, lifting one corner of her mouth the tiniest bit higher than the other. She fascinated him. From the moment he’d heard mention of the possibility of trafficking so close to his home, he’d promised himself to find out who allowed drug shipments to cross their property, and put them away. And he would—even if it meant putting away Mary Margaret White. He knew his job, and he’d do it.
Look out, Ms. White. I’m coming for you.
Maggie moved the mouse with her right hand, staring at the display on her computer. Well, sugar-foot. The blips on her screen lit up like twinkle lights on a Christmas tree. Somebody was flying drones over her property. Again. Wasn’t the first time. Her eyes narrowed as she studied the monitor, noting the almost grid-like pattern of the drones.
“That’s it. You suckers are going down.”
Shutting off the program, she marched to the closet by her front door and yanked it open, grabbing the shotgun and her hunting vest, the pockets already loaded with extra shells. Slamming her arms into the holes, she shrugged it on, and slapped her old straw hat on her head before storming out the front door.
After a quick sprint to the garage, she swung onto the seat of her Jeep, placing the shotgun on the passenger seat. She’d grown up with the Remington 870. Her daddy gave it to her when she was twelve. And like any good Southern girl, she took very good care of her guns. Speeding out of the garage, she headed down the gravel path leading away from her house and further into the densely wooded area beyond.
She had a pretty good idea what the drones were looking for, and she wasn’t about to have her secret uncovered. Not now, and maybe not ever. It had taken a lot of hard work and money getting things exactly the way she wanted, and nobody with a fancy flying camera was undoing all her hard work.
She drove a couple of miles deep into her property before she pulled over and killed the engine. Closing her eyes and leaning her head back, she listened. The air was still and hot, without a breeze. Dead quiet, with no sound. Even the birds were silent. It seemed the entire forest held its breath, waiting. Long moments passed and still she heard nothing. Was she wrong? Could her computer program have a glitch and there really wasn’t anything to see here?
Ah, wait. There it was. The sound she’d been listening for. The low hum increased, and she swung her legs out of the Jeep and jumped to the ground, reaching back inside for her Remington. Her baby, who never let her down, never missed. Tilting her head, she listened, focusing on the sound as it grew closer. She held her breath, remained perfectly still and for a long moment, all she heard was the pounding of her own heartbeat in her ears.
Lifting the shotgun to her shoulder, she positioned it at just the right angle, where it simply became an extension of her. Sighting her target, she slid her finger onto the trigger, gentle as a baby’s caress and waited. Patience was the name of this game, and she had all the time in the world. Just a little bit closer and—
BAM!
The explosion of sound reverberated through the trees. Overhead, the frantic flapping of wings broke the stillness at the sharp echo of the gunshot, the leaves whipping around at the birds’ flight. She couldn’t contain her smirk as she watched the pieces of the drone scatter to the earth’s floor, decimated and destroyed. There’d be no resurrecting that sucker. Standing over it, she plucked up a piece, and studied the ravaged hunk of metal and plastic.
“Hmm, that’s interesting.” Gathering the pieces scattered on the ground, she carefully piled them on the back seat of the Jeep. She’d take them home, study them. See if maybe they’d yield a clue as to who kept flying drones over her property. Then she would figure out a plan on stopping them.
On the way home, she took a circuitous route. There were rutted roads and pathways all over her property, many of them she’d intentionally widened enough for the Jeep to drive along. Others were little more than footpaths she could follow on horseback or with one of the motorcycles she kept for traversing her property.
She loved this land. It’d been in her family for decades, passed down through the generations, and now it belonged to her. It was ripe and fertile, the earth undisturbed for the most part, nurturing the natural flora and fauna, and she meant to keep it that way. More than one powerful city slicker had approached her family, wanting to buy up the land and build everything from strip malls to housing developments to a fancy resort. None of their offers had been received with anything but a resounding no thanks. She wasn’t about to change that trend now.
Pulling into the garage, Maggie killed the engine and reached for the button to lower the door, but movement from the corner of her eye stopped her dead in her tracks. Somebody was sneaking around her property. Couldn’t be Henry. She’d talked to him earlier that morning, and he’d asked for the day off. Felicia, her housekeeper, had already come and gone.
Reaching across the seat, she wrapped her hand around the shotgun and stepped out of the garage. Scowling at the thought of another trespasser, she skirted the perimeter of the house, eyes peeled for any sign of movement.
Nothing.
Was her imagination playing tricks on her? She got antsy ever since she’d caught a couple of up-to-no-good squatters on the back forty of her property, and chased them off. Why couldn’t people mind their own business, and keep their noses out of hers?
There it was again. Somebody crept around the edge of her patio, although creeping might not be the best word. He really didn’t slink or even try to hide. The way he walked reminded her of one of the bigger jungle cats. A lion or maybe a panther, all smooth, controlled muscle, coiled and ready to pounce.
With a moue of disgust, she flattened her back against the Texas limestone of her home and watched. Waited. And wondered what game the stranger was up to. He was far enough away she couldn’t get a good look at his face, but the rest of him was a feast of sensuality. From his predatory walk to his dark hair, he exuded an almost feral nature. A wildness she’d never imagined being attracted to—until now.
His gaze seemed to miss nothing, studying not only the house, but the grounds. The flowering rose bushes she’d lovingly planted so long ago, when she’d first gotten married and life had been simpler. In hindsight, she could recognize the irony of planting roses. Her life had been nothing but prickly thorns for so long, she’d all but forgotten there was beauty to go along with the pain.
Some instinct must have alerted him, though she hadn’t moved a muscle, because he stopped, frozen in place. He spread his hands out to his sides, palms forward, showing them to be empty. She knew he hadn’t spotted her yet, but something made him realize he wasn’t alone.
Lifting the shotgun, she stepped out into the open, and pointed it straight at him.
Never wincing.
Never flinching.
“I don’t know who you are, and I really don’t care. I’ve only got one thing to say.” She hefted the gun higher, pointing it directly at his head. “Get off my property.”