He had proof. Harper Worthington was dead. The one respectable person who had actually listened to him was dead.
Gary hadn’t believed Harper when he first came to Gary two months ago. He thought Adeline had sent her husband to trick Gary into violating the restraining order so they could put him in prison where he would be killed. But Harper agreed to all of Gary’s rules: no Internet or cell phone communication (it was all monitored by the government); no meeting at Gary’s apartment (he had rented it under a false name); correspondence only through a mail drop. When they finally did meet, it was at a dive bar in a neighborhood without surveillance cameras.
Harper didn’t call him paranoid or weird like most people did. He listened to everything Gary had to say. Some of it, Gary could tell Harper didn’t believe, but he never once made Gary feel foolish. And when Gary told him about the history of suspicious land deals that his wife had been part of, Harper was very interested.
Except Gary had no proof. His strength was seeing patterns, and there was a pattern of land that had been bought and sold at above and below market prices. He didn’t know what it all meant. He’d written out a sheet of numbers and Harper had understood.
Finally, someone believed him. Harper said he would get to the bottom of what was going on.
And now Harper Worthington was dead.
Which meant he would be next.
For about two seconds he considered calling the FBI and telling them what he knew. Except the FBI was part of the government, and the government was all corrupt. How would he know if he got one of the good agents and not one of the bad agents? He’d read about the DEA agent who was working with the drug cartels. There were more. He didn’t know who they were. He didn’t want to die.
He had a safe place, out in the middle of nowhere. A one-room cabin completely off the grid with a year’s supply of water, food, and ammunition. That’s the only place he would be safe. He’d forget about Harper Worthington, forget about Adeline, and just survive.
Gary grabbed his bag and opened his door.
Almost before he could register that there was a man standing in the doorway, three bullets hit him in the chest.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DEA Agent Brad Donnelly hated desk duty, but his doctor hadn’t cleared him for the field. He was lucky to have been allowed to work at all considering he’d been tortured and nearly killed by a high-ranking member of a small but violent drug cartel. Most of the crew was dead and Brad had survived, so he’d take the pain and move on with his life.
He was ready to go back full-time, but his body wasn’t cooperating. His knee had been shattered. Surgery had replaced the knee, but running was still difficult, and after a full day working, he limped. His physical therapist told him he was making great progress, but it didn’t feel like it to him. It had been nine weeks.
But he came in early every day because he met with his trainer at 5:00 A.M., five days a week, in the hopes that diligence and hard work would bring his body back to top form. By seven Monday morning he was showered, dressed, and sitting at his desk reviewing the work of his field agents, itching to join them. Today, his direct line was ringing before he even sat down.
“Donnelly,” he answered.
“Kane Rogan.”
He’d kept in touch with Kane Rogan after he’d helped take down Vasco Trejo’s cartel in Mexico. In addition to using young boys as drug mules, the gang had been part of a larger conspiracy to steal guns from the US military. Or, rather, Kane had kept in touch with him when he had information. Kane had been following Trejo’s remaining gang in the hopes of shutting them down before anyone took over Trejo’s enterprise. What he’d learned was that someone was still pulling strings and Trejo’s people were still unified under an unknown leader.
Donnelly had learned early on that Kane didn’t do small talk, so he said, “You have something?”
“The last members of Trejo’s core group were taken out last night in San Antonio.”
“I haven’t heard of a major op. Are you sure it was us?”
“They’re dead. Possibly a rival gang; I don’t know who yet. Word is retaliation, but there’s nothing on my radar that would warrant such a splash. It’s got to be a rival gang cleaning house when Trejo’s people didn’t join up. You?”
“I got nothing. I’ve been digging into known associates and they’re in prison or dead. Except—” He hesitated.
“Spill.”
“Tobias.”
“Shit.”