Blood Lines (32 page)

>> Intensive Care Unit

>> Presbyterian Hospital

>> Charlotte, North Carolina

>> 1208 Hours

Shel held his cell phone to his ear and listened to the phone ring at the other end. He watched the news footage of the raid on the warehouse that Will and Remy had gone on. Seeing the news story made him feel guilty. He belonged out in the field, not in a hospital bed.

“Shel?” Estrella answered in a friendly and surprised voice.

Shel muted the television. All that was left was the hum of machinery and Don's light snoring as he slept in the chair next to the bed.

“Hey, Estrella,” Shel replied. He continued the conversation in Spanish because he wanted privacy and he hadn't seen a Hispanic nurse in the ICU yet. “Did you decide to take the morning off since Will's out of town?”

“Ha,” Estrella responded. “I only took the morning off because I worked all night helping Will track information regarding Victor Gant. Now I find out that it only half worked.”

“Yeah, well, the Feds got involved.” Shel scratched his nose. There was still enough morphine in his meds to make his nose itch.

“Will's got me looking into Special Agent-in-Charge Scott Urlacher's caseload now.”

“Under the radar, of course.”

“Of course. So how are you?”

“Bored. Ready to get out of here.”

“Bored, huh?” Estrella said. “I can't believe you're still slacking.”

“Now that I know they make you lie in bed this long, I'm gonna make it a point never to get shot again.”

“Good plan. Did you think that up all by yourself?”

“I did.”

“Head hurt much?”

“Don't worry about it. They've got me on pain meds.”

Estrella laughed.

“Has Will given you any clue what he's wanting now?” Shel asked.

“Will thinks Urlacher wants Victor Gant's heroin supplier.”

“It's not somebody local?”

“Judging from the purity of the drugs Victor Gant's people have been caught handling, I'd say it's not local.”

“Then where?”

“Probably out of the country. Heroin's being traded in Central America, then getting brought into the United States through those supply channels. Usually up Interstate 35.”

“But along the way, it gets stepped on,” Shel said.

“Usually pretty hard,” Estrella agreed. “So everybody along the way can take their cut. The stuff the Purple Royals are running is almost pure.”

“They have a direct route.”

“I think so.”

“And that's why the FBI is so hot and heavy after the source.”

“It would be a nice bust,” Estrella said. “But you didn't call to talk about that. You're just covering ground that you know Will has already covered.”

Shel didn't say anything.

“Why did you really call?” Estrella asked.

“I'm getting the feeling you know me too well,” Shel said.

“I do. So fess up.”

Shel hesitated. “This is about my daddy, Estrella.”

Estrella waited and didn't say anything. He knew she was aware that he didn't talk about his father much.

“I got a phone call from him in the middle of the night,” Shel said. “He was drunk. Or had been drinking. Not enough to get totally skunk-faced, but drunker than I've ever heard him.”

“All right.”

Shel hesitated, knowing that once he pressed forward there would be no going back. “You know I don't have a good relationship with my daddy.”

“Yes.”

“For him to call out of the blue like that?” Shel shook his head. “Something's going on.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Victor Gant was a career Army man. He pulled tours in Vietnam. So did my daddy.”

“You think Victor Gant served with your father?”

“That's the only way Daddy could have gotten to know someone like Victor Gant. Gant's from North Carolina. Daddy grew up in west Texas. Except for the Army, Daddy's never been out of the state. Never off the ranch much either.”

“I can pull records from the United States Army,” Estrella said. “But this is something that's going to take a while. The military is still archiving some of that information.”

“It's a needle in a haystack,” Shel agreed. “I knew that before I decided to ask you to take a look.”

“I'm glad you appreciate the effort.”

Shel hesitated a moment, then knew he had no choice if he wanted to keep his privacy. He cleared his throat. “One other thing.”

“Sure.”

“While you're poking around in those files, I'd appreciate it if you kept this below the radar.” Shel hated asking her to do that. It was almost like he was saying he didn't trust Will or the others.

“I can do that,” Estrella said.

“It's just that it might not be anything. And if it isn't—if it's just that Daddy was around something Victor Gant did in the military and knows him from that—it's not going to help Will track the heroin.”

“I agree,” Estrella said. “Personal business is personal business.”

“Thanks, Estrella. How's Nicky?”

“Off sailing with Joe and Celia.”

“Well,” Shel said, gazing out the window, “that sure beats lying in this bed.”
And wondering how Daddy knows a man like Victor Gant.

>> Rafter M Ranch

>> Outside Fort Davis, Texas

>> 1236 Hours (Central Time Zone)

“Do you have a headache, Senor Tyrel?”

Even though he was wearing his hat to shade his eyes against the bright noonday sun, Tyrel squinted to look at Ramon.

The youngster sat astride a paint mare. Red west Texas dust covered him like powder that had been sifted on. His black hair gleamed in the bright sunlight.

“I'm fine,” Tyrel said sourly as he continued to lean on the corral. But he wasn't. He had a headache that felt like it was going to suck the top of his skull in and pour it out through his ears. It had been years since he'd had one like that.

The newborn colt frolicked in the sunlight. Although he wasn't anywhere near coordinated enough yet, the colt tried to kick his heels as he ran around his mama.

“That little horse is going to be a dickens,” Ramon said. He grinned at the colt's antics.

Despite the way he felt, Tyrel grinned a little at that. The word was his and he knew it. Hearing Ramon say it just sounded funny.

“You don't look so good.” Ramon dismounted and tied the reins to the corral.

“I feel better'n I look,” Tyrel growled. “I can still set a horse longer than there are hours in the day.”

Ramon shrugged. “I didn't say you couldn't. I was just wondering if you should get in out of the sun.”

Irritation flared inside Tyrel. He reined it in because he didn't want to visit any of it on the boy.

“I suddenly look old to you, Ramon?” he asked.

“No, senor. You looked this old yesterday too.” The answer was earnest and innocent of rancor.

“You know,” Tyrel said, “now I'm kinda wishing I hadn't asked that question.”

“Why?” Ramon looked confused.

“Never mind, amigo. The fences all look good?”

“Sí.”
Ramon reached into his shirt pocket. “There are a few places we need to mend soon. I made notes.” He passed over the small notebook Tyrel always sent him with.

Tyrel glanced through the notes, then pocketed the notebook. “You eat yet?”

“I had a burrito I took with me. I'm all right.”

“You're young, amigo. You can eat again. Come on inside the house. I got a pot of beans on.”

Ramon looked troubled. “Are you sure?”

“I wouldn't have asked if I hadn't been.” Tyrel threw the dregs of the coffee into the corral and spooked the little colt into jumping and nearly getting tangled up in his spindly legs.

Even with the hangover plaguing him, the colt's surprise pleased Tyrel. He laughed a little. That kind of innocence, where everything in the world was surprising, was hard to come by. He missed it.

>> Interview Room

>> Federal Bureau of Investigation Field Office

>> Charlotte, North Carolina

>> 1348 Hours

“I'm in a real bad mood here, Victor.”

“Maybe you should try a nap,” Victor said. “I hear a lot of people put store by them.”

Urlacher sat on the other side of the table. “You think you're smart, don't you?”

“Maybe so, but it seems like you're the one with all the questions,” Victor said. He sipped the Gatorade someone had gotten for him. He'd turned down the offer of coffee, water, and a soft drink to be difficult and to prove that the FBI agents were going to do whatever it took to make him happy.

As long as they thought he was going to rat out his connection.

“Let me give you a few answers for a change,” Urlacher said. “I'm protecting you at this point. That protection's not going to last long. And I'm betting that NCIS commander can put something on you that the local cops haven't been able to find. He'll find a body you didn't quite bury enough or buried in the wrong place. Then you're going to be looking at a fall for murder one.”

Victor sipped his Gatorade. He didn't feel quite as confident as he had a moment ago, but he wasn't going to let on.

“In fact, I'd be willing to bet that if I let you go, you'll do something stupid about that big Marine who shot Bobby Lee,” Urlacher said.

“You can bet the farm on that,” Victor grated.

“Even if you manage to kill that man,” Urlacher said, “NCIS will hunt you down for it and you'll go away forever anyway.”

“They won't find me.”

“We found you.”

Victor laughed in derision. “I wasn't hiding.”

“You know, Victor, that's the first truly stupid thing I've heard you say.”

Victor leaned across the table. “If I decide to disappear, I'll disappear. I was trained by Uncle Sam in one of the hardest-fought ground wars the United States has ever been in. In my time, I've been a ghost. I've walked into camps at night, with armed men everywhere, found the officer in charge, dropped a hand over his mouth, and slit his throat. Then I held him like a baby while he fought and kicked and drowned in his own blood.”

Urlacher didn't say anything, but Victor saw that his words had left an impression on the man.

“Don't make the mistake of thinking that just because that Navy guy hit me this morning I can't take care of myself,” Victor said.

“I want your connection,” Urlacher said.

“You can't have him,” Victor said.

“Hanging on to him is foolish.”

“Says you.”

Urlacher shook his head. “You can't go back to that life, Victor. Whether you're willing to admit it or not, everything you've had up till now is gone. The heat's going to be on your gang. Tarlton will take Fat Mike and the others apart; then they'll break the pieces.”

“I don't believe that.”

“Then I should just give you back to Coburn and let you take your chances.”

“No,” Victor said. “You gotta learn to be happy with what I'm willing to give you.”

“What you're giving me isn't enough.”

Victor finished the Gatorade and set the plastic container aside. “Get a pen and paper. I'll give you the local MS-13 dealers.”

Urlacher gestured, and one of the younger agents brought over a legal pad and a pen. The FBI special agent-in-charge slid them over to Victor.

“Get me something to eat,” Victor said.

Urlacher just stared at him.

Victor didn't move to take up the pen.

Angrily Urlacher gestured at one of the younger agents.

“Ribs,” Victor said. “Falling off the bone. Potato salad and coleslaw. And it better be hot when it gets here. And I want a gallon of tea.”

Urlacher nodded, and the young agent stepped out of the room.

Victor pulled the pad to him. Then he picked up the pen and started to write. Despite his bravado, he knew he was working on borrowed time. The FBI would protect him only as long as he kept the pump primed. The minute he shut down entirely, they would too.