By the time afternoon rolled around, Bryce was famished. He wondered if Angie was available to grab an early bite to eat. He would call only when he knew he could make it happen. He didn’t want to make plans with her he’d have to cancel. Bryce played no games. He wasn’t after a conquest, didn’t simply want to get Angie into the sack. That kind of dating was for the younger set. He knew what he wanted and would go after her patiently and persistently, but always gentlemanly.
Afternoon turned into evening and Markovich had turned into a ghost. All leads were drying up like desert rain. It was going to be a late night, and Bryce’s hopes for a dinner date with Angie were all but dashed. Not everyone at the U.S. Marshals Service working overtime was disappointed by the lack of progress.
Cormack Donovan had returned to the cramped office while Bryce and Graves were packing up their belongings to move into the war room. “Hey, guys, I just wanted to say thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Bryce said, not at all sure why he was being thanked, and not feeling any compulsion to ask.
“I’m on the task force now,” Donovan said with a broad smile. “I figured you two put in a good word for me.”
“For sure,” Graves said, nodding. “We talked you up big time.”
Bryce just smiled. “What happened to your witness?”
Donovan shrugged. “I don’t know. One minute I was on the Lerardi detail, and the next thing I know I’m off. I guess they got some other guy to watch him thanks to you two.”
Bryce’s smile retreated. He and Graves hadn’t done a thing to help out Donovan, but Bryce thought it sounded a lot like what had happened to Ray Anderson all those years ago, back when he was on the Antonio Conti detail. One minute Ray had a witness to protect, and the next minute that witness was gone.
Bryce’s gaze reverted to his laptop, but his focus was fractured. Donovan lingered in the doorway, motioning to someone Bryce couldn’t see. Soon enough a second U.S. marshal, dressed similarly to Bryce and Graves in a polo and slacks, appeared in the doorway. He was fair-skinned, lean, fit, and tall, with an angular face and a jaw that almost came to a point. His short hair, cut military style, revealed a broad and nearly creaseless forehead. His eyes were blue and held all the warmth of stone. Without a smile, his expression was a blank.
Donovan said, “These are the Baltimore boys I was telling you about, Bryce Taggart and Gary Graves. If you want to be mad at anybody for getting me out from under your nose, blame these two.”
“Last I checked, it’s a temporary assignment,” the man with Donovan said. “In fact, I came down here to tell your new boss just how temporary.”
Donovan said, “Yeah? Well, once the SOG sees I’m the guy who brought in Markovich, I’m betting the move is going be permanent. Taggart, Graves, this is my soon-to-be ex-boss on witness protection, Raynor Sinclair.”
CHAPTER 52
Buzzwords come and they go. That’s the job of those words, I guess. For instance, hash tag (ya know, #) is all in right now, but I bet it’s not going to mean anything to kids five years younger than me when they turn 17. Oh yeah. Happy birthday to me! I’m seventeen now. Yea me. I sure feel like I’ve crammed in a lot more years than that into this life-o-mine, but whatever, I’m 17 so happy birthday to me. But the buzzword thing, right? I think Human Trafficking is kind of a buzzword. I’ve been doing some research online and that’s my big conclusion. It’s sort a fad phrase. Hot topic right now, but check with me in five years and let me know if that’s still the case. My fear is some new issue is going to come along and replace it, and people won’t talk about the problem anymore, and some girl is going to be trafficked just like me and because it’s not a buzzword anymore she’ll just think she was just a prostitute or something. #thatwouldbeashame
Here’s the hard part for me. Just being honest here. I can’t decide if Ricardo is really to blame for what happened to me or if I am. Did he really manipulate me into doing all those horrible things or do I just think he did so I can have someone to blame? And whenever I think that, I think, damn he’s still controlling me, and that I can’t win, and that’s when I start to feel hopeless.
I know I’m worth more than I think I am. I know it, but it’s still hard to accept it. I guess that’s why they’re called emotional scars. It’s like having little x’s scratched all over my body to mark the spot, but instead of digging up buried treasure, you’d unearth my worst nightmares.