The Trap (Agent Dallas 3) (2 page)

Wednesday, Oct. 1, 9:35 p.m., Emporia, Virginia

Luke Maddox hunched forward in his seat, watching the lights on the ground below. Despite his love for daredevil sports, landing made him nervous, especially in small aircraft. Cree was a good pilot, but he smoked a lot of late-night pot, and Luke never quite relaxed on their trips. But he was lucky to have Cree, and his family plane, supporting their missions. A wealthy donor who’d contacted him through JRN made their secret campaign possible. He or she preferred to remain anonymous and deposited monthly donations into a bank account Luke had opened under a charity name.

“Ree-lax,” Cree said, drawing out the word. “We’re almost down.”

But Luke couldn’t. He hated the southern part of Virginia and had sworn to never return. The rural airport below was less than fifty miles from the state prison where he’d wasted ten years of his life. He still couldn’t think about it without tensing.

“Maybe you should sit back.” Cree laughed. “You’re not really a co-pilot, and you look like you’re ready to jump.”

That almost made him laugh. He’d met Cree two years ago during a skydiving event, so he
had
already bailed out of a plane his friend was piloting. “Sorry, you know I hate landing. That’s why I prefer to jump.” Abby, on the other hand, was sleeping soundly in the back.

Cree snorted and gave him a fist bump. “I hope Aaron is at the airport and ready to go. We’re running late.”

“He will be. Number crunchers like to be punctual.” Aaron Foster had joined their group four months earlier, offering his analytical and tech skills to their cause after he’d been diagnosed with pulmonary fibrosis and knew his days were numbered. Facing early death had motivated Aaron to make his life count for something. Aaron’s sister had died in prison, so the cause was personal for him too. They’d dropped off the analyst on their way to Utah so he could attend yet another family funeral.

“Hang on, we’ve got a little crosswind now.” Cree’s smooth baritone held a note of concern.

Luke closed his eyes. If he died today, he had no regrets about the last few years. He didn’t consider himself a bad guy. The criminals were the politicians and judges who ruined lives with excessive and often-immoral punishments. Luke had just turned eighteen when he’d been arrested for possession of marijuana—plus intent to distribute—his first and only brush with the law. A typical teenager who’d experimented with pot. Yet, a conservative judge had sentenced him to ten years. Luke had done the full decade of his time—and emerged from prison a different person. The bitterness was part of him now. So was the stigma. He had no choice but to try to save others from the same fate.

He couldn’t shake the memory. Ten years of his life caged like an animal. The beatings, the humiliation, the lack of sunlight were enough to break a man—but nothing compared to the depression. Waking every day and wondering if he would be better off dead. And for what? It had all started with his friend Ryan’s older brother, who was a pot dealer. Ryan had pinched a small bag of pot from his brother’s stash, then met Luke and another friend, Chad.

Ryan’s plan was to roll and sell joints at an outdoor concert they had tickets to. Luke hadn’t even known how much pot they had until Ryan showed him on the way into the concert and asked him to carry it because his jacket was bigger and bulkier. They’d already smoked a joint on the way, and Luke had been too young and too high to understand the potential consequences. Ryan’s joint-selling venture fizzled, and after the show, they’d walked toward a burger place to get some food. A cop car had pulled up beside them, flashed his lights, and ordered them put their hands in the air.

Chad had run, but he and Ryan had been searched and arrested. Ryan’s parents had hired a lawyer, and because he hadn’t been carrying drugs on him, Ryan had ended up with probation. Luke’s day in court had gone differently. It came back to him with painful clarity.

The courtroom was smaller than he’d envisioned, and it reeked of furniture polish. Beside him, his mother clutched her purse straps and pressed her lips together in a tight worry. Luke headed for an empty back row.

“Let’s sit up front,” his mother said, touching his arm. “It’ll look better to the judge.”

Luke didn’t think it mattered, but he wasn’t going to argue with her. Not here. They sat in the second row behind another young man and an older woman in a wide sunhat. It was obvious who the defendants were, and they were almost all men, many with brown skin.

The room was quiet except for the hum of the air conditioner. A young clerk sat up front on the dais, but the judge’s bench was empty. How long would they have to wait? Luke just wanted it to be over with, so he would know what he faced. “What’s going to happen?” he whispered to his mom. They’d discussed the possibilities to death already, but he wanted her assurance again.

“I’m sure it’ll be probation and a fine,” she whispered back. “It wasn’t your pot, and you’ve never been in trouble before. Now hush until they call you.”

After ten long minutes, the judge came in. The black robe intimidated Luke, but the man himself was a shrimp, five-seven at most and scrawny, with graying hair. The female clerk stood, so everyone else did too. Judge Bidwell called the session to order and told everyone to sit.

The clerk summoned the first defendant. “Jared Wilson, please step forward.”

Were they going in reverse alphabetical order or randomly? Luke just wanted to get it over with quickly.

The man on the front bench stepped forward, and the clerk read the charges: public drunkenness and vandalism. The judge fined him fifteen hundred dollars and sentenced him to three months in jail, suspended, with probation. Jared Wilson thanked the judge, and he and the old woman walked out.

Luke breathed a sigh of relief. This guy was going easy on people.

“Luke Maddox,” the clerk called.

He stood, legs shaking, and walked to stand in front. “Yes, Your Honor.” His mother had coached him to say that.

“You’re charged today with possession of ten ounces of marijuana and intent to distribute, both felonies.” The judge’s voice was bigger than his body.

The word
felony
made Luke’s heart skip a beat. “It wasn’t my pot, Your Honor. I’m not a dealer.” It was all he could say. Even though Ryan hadn’t done the right thing and admitted he’d brought the pot, Luke wasn’t going to rat on him.

“The report says it was in your possession. And don’t speak unless I ask you a question.” The judge was clearly irritated.

Luke wanted to explain, but was afraid the truth would make him sound like a thief as well as a pusher.

“I have no sympathy for drug users or dealers, because they all prey on innocent victims. Ten ounces is way more than enough for personal consumption, so I find it probable you planned to sell it. In addition, the young man arrested with you is only seventeen. So I find you guilty of the charge of corrupting a minor as well.”

A pause.

“I hereby sentence you to ten years in prison. Bailiff, please take Mr. Maddox into custody.”

It slammed him like a blow to the chest. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t argue. The uniformed guard stepped toward him and grabbed his elbow. “But it wasn’t mine,” he called out, his voice weak, as the guard pulled his hands back to cuff him.

As he walked out of the courtroom, Luke glanced back at his mother. Her hand covered her mouth as she sobbed. It was the last time he saw her.

The wheels touched the tarmac and the plane bounced a little, jarring Luke back to the present. Abby woke up in the back and sputtered, “Where are we?”

“Southern Virginia. We’re picking up Aaron.”

“I knew that,” she snapped. His girlfriend was still irritated with him for inviting Tara to join. The inner circle had formed all at once a year earlier when they were active in JRN. But the national group’s failure to accomplish anything had motivated him and his friends to try more aggressive tactics. They’d only brought in one other person since, and Aaron had moved in with them and kept their secrets. But he was too sick to go out on most missions. The group needed someone like Tara, who had energy and ideas. And damn, she was sexy.

“What if Tara can’t handle her assignments?” Abby said, going right back to arguing about his decision. “What if she freaks out when she learns what we have planned?” Abby had been complaining since they left Utah.

“We’ll test her. Once Tara is dirty, she can’t tell anyone.” Luke regretted getting sexually involved with Abby, but she was passionate and smart and willing to risk everything for their cause. How could he not love her? He just wasn’t in love. Whatever that meant.

The plane came to a stop near the hangar, where Aaron was waiting with a small carry-on bag. The analyst was thin everywhere, even his hair, and had a protruding brow. He looked older than forty, even without his glasses. “I told you he’d be waiting.” Luke opened the door and climbed out of the plane to stretch his legs.

Aaron shuffled over. “Thanks for the lift. I hate flying commercial.”

As they walked to the Cessna, Aaron said, “I’ve been analyzing data and looking at targets, and I know what we should hit next.”

“I’m listening.”

“Prison supply trucks. It’s time to take the fight to the ground.”

Thursday, Oct. 2, 11:37 a.m., Washington DC

Dallas rolled out of bed, checked the time, and cursed. Last night, her second flight had been delayed, and she hadn’t made it back until a couple of hours ago. Now she only had a few minutes to get downtown before Agent Drager texted her about their meetup. She pulled on yoga pants and a long-sleeve T-shirt, brushed her teeth, and headed out. She would grab coffee later.

The Acura she’d leased was parked in the basement of the rental complex in Georgetown near the university, so she trotted toward the stairs. At the last minute, she changed her mind and headed for the nearby bus stop. She hated driving in DC, and finding a place to park was a nightmare! Phoenix traffic was bad, but at least it moved, and the city’s grid was easy to navigate. DC was a mess of diagonal streets, crowded roundabouts, and main arteries that stopped and started elsewhere. But the bus and metro system were both great, and the city was amazingly clean. Yet the air smelled a little dank, like the slow-moving river that cut through it.

Twenty minutes later, she climbed off at the intersection of M and 7th, and blinked in the bright warm sun. Fall was late again this year. Thirsty and irritated, she walked three blocks to a coffee shop, ordered a cup to go, and waited for Drager’s text.

Finally, it came:
Go into Midtown Cleaners, walk behind the counter, and enter the red door.

Another few minutes, and she stood outside the dry cleaner business, one of many on the first floor of a red-brick building. Out of habit, she had glanced around while she walked, but no one had followed her. And why would they? She didn’t know anyone in DC, except a few people from Justice Reform Now. The legitimate organization was national and had thousands of members, many of whom were here in the capital. The clandestine nature of their meeting was to be sure no one from either activist group ever saw her with Drager. She’d been involved with JRN since she’d moved to DC, so some locals knew her now.

Inside, the smell of hot chemicals assaulted her, and dozens of suits and dresses hung on a room-sized conveyor system. Did people really still dry-clean their clothes? A middle-aged woman behind the counter greeted her. Dallas nodded, rounded the counter, and walked toward the red door at the end of the short hall.
What was this place?

Down a flight of concrete stairs, another door opened into a little cafe with booths along the sidewalls, and a short counter-service in the back. Only five customers, all men, three in dark suits and two older guys at a table in golf shirts. Did the bureau run this place?

Drager, in the last booth, waved her over. Under sagging skin, a thick nose, and weary eyes, his once-handsome face could still be seen.

“Hey, what is this place?” she asked, scooting into the booth. The previous time, they’d met in a backroom display of the National Art Gallery. They’d had little to discuss then, and she suspected the point of the meeting had been to build trust. She still didn’t have much to report.

“It’s a private café run by a retired agent.” One corner of Drager’s mouth turned up. “He worked undercover most of his career and likes the clandestine stuff too.”

An old guy in a black T-shirt and white apron shuffled up to the table. “Hey, pretty lady, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

“Thanks.” The owner/cook smelled like burgers and fries, and her stomach growled. “Do you have a menu?”

“Nope. Just tell me what you want.”

She hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday—if you didn’t count airport cashews—so she ordered a grilled ham and cheese and a cup of coffee. Drager tapped his cup. “I’ll have the same.”

When the old guy left, Drager said, “I’ve got bad news.”

Please don’t cancel the assignment.
“What’s going on?”

“A retired judge named J.D. Bidwell is dead.”

Dallas scrambled to place the name but couldn’t. “Was he murdered?”

“Beaten to death with a tire iron.” Drager raised his eyebrows. “MPD is handling the case, but I’ve asked to sit in on their task force meetings.”

“How does his death connect to my assignment?”

“Bidwell is the Virginia judge who sentenced Luke Maddox to ten years in prison. So I think Maddox is a primary suspect.”

That was worrisome. She’d known Luke was bitter, but he’d never mentioned going after the judge. “If it was a grudge killing, any of the ex-cons Bidwell sent to prison could have done it.”

“Maybe.” Drager gave a shrug. “But we know Maddox is aggressively seeking justice, and you overhead him say ‘terminate.’ That’s why you’re on this assignment.”

In getting to know Luke, she’d forgotten that part of the overheard conversation. The fact that her target could be a killer sent a cool ripple of fear through her. But it didn’t change anything. “It’s good that I’m about to work my way in. The inner circle may have more hits planned, and we need to stop them.”