In a Fix (Torus Intercession 2)

“So that makes it all right?”

“All this pearl-clutching is a bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you were a cop, you know the score, so don’t sit there and tell me you were a Boy Scout when you were on the force.”

“No, I can’t.” Getting up, I walked to the corner of the room and then turned back around to face him as I leaned against the cool concrete wall. “But again, that’s why I quit. I didn’t want to have divided loyalties anymore.”

“Divided?”

“You know, knowing what was right and doing the exact opposite.”

He shook his head and smirked at me. “Must be nice to stand on the moral high ground.”

“It certainly is.”

His huff of breath told me he was disgusted, but I didn’t care. Because yes, the man was carved, sinewy perfection, and his mouth was driving me to distraction, but he was a tangled-up mess inside, as most men who made their living in law enforcement were. It was hard to know what was right and have to do the opposite on a continual basis. Eventually the choices took their toll on the psyche. I’d seen a lot of guys I knew, good ones, seduced by the easy way; others made their peace with the job they could do versus the job they had hoped to do; and still others either left, like I had, or found another, more permanent, way out.

Dallas stood and walked to the opposite end of the room from Brig. “Listen. Your sister killed Eston Travers,” he told him. “She confessed to it on camera, in front of our undercover agent and a room full of people.”

Brig started shivering.

“She said she put a bomb in his car, but that it didn’t go off the way it was supposed to, so he burned to death trapped inside his Mercedes.”

Brig bowed his head and rested his face in his hands.

“Must you?” I growled at Dallas.

His eyes flicked to mine. “What?”

“He didn’t need the specifics,” I chided, glaring at him.

“The hell he didn’t,” he countered, tipping his head at Brig. “He needs to realize that his sister’s a fuckin’ monster.”

“No.”

“Yes,” he insisted, nodding for emphasis before turning to Brig. “Hey.”

Brig lifted his head and looked over at Dallas.

“Listen, I don’t think Lane meant to hurt you in all of this. I think she saw a way to help her friends by pretending to build bogus shelters, and took it. But she knew they were cookin’ meth, and she overlooked that, so by the time she figured the rest of it out, she was in real trouble; she was good and stuck.”

“You know, just because she confessed to killing Eston Travers doesn’t mean she actually did the deed,” I cautioned Dallas. “She might be covering for someone, or she might have been bragging about something she had nothing to do with to make herself seem scary.”

He shook his head slowly.

“You’re telling me that you’ve completely ruled out the possibility that Suárez, or one of his people, is leveraging her in some way?”

He nodded.

“How? Someone could be being very careful. The FBI’s not exactly known for their discretion, or for being terribly stealthy. You guys tend to stick out in a crowd.”

“The hell you say,” he grumbled, brows furrowed, shoulders squared, arms crossed, the epitome of bristling, grouchy alpha male. “We know what we’re doing.”

I said nothing. I’d seen the FBI in action in Chicago, and it had never been clean, and those under surveillance always knew.

“That’s it?” he baited me. “No more argument?”

“I just doubt that you’ve checked every corner and looked under every bed,” I assured him. “Nothing is ever as cut and dried as you’re making it out to be.”

“That’s no––”

“You’re missing something,” I said, feeling very sure of myself. I’d been on the other end of too many DEA, FBI, and even at one point, ATF shitshows to know that everything wasn’t always as it seemed. “You said yourself she’s made many trips back and forth to Mexico. She had the money that Brig was giving her, which we know she was giving to her friends. Suárez sees her there at the compound, or whatever, figures out who she is, and grabs her. That all makes sense.”

“Oh, thank God. I’m so glad you’re here to confirm it all makes sense,” he gritted out, glaring at me.

“But then suddenly she’s bragging, on camera no less, about killing Eston Travers?” I goaded him. “Really, Special Agent? Where the hell does that come from?”

“She still hated him,” he replied defensively.

“After almost ten years?” I made a face. “Come on.”

“Why not?” he demanded, the anger curling in his voice like rising smoke.

“When did she allegedly kill Travers?”

“Around the same time Suárez kidnapped her.”

“And you don’t find that odd? That timing makes perfect sense to you?”

“I––”

“Are you guys giving her immunity for his death as well?”