Corruption (12 page)

Lucky lifted one of the packets, though fully aware of the product in all its forms. The crystalline powder resembled Epsom salts, from which the drug took
its name. The packet bore a black skull and the name “Corruption.” Victor could have made a fortune off this stuff if he
hadn’t found such substances beneath him. Now, Stephan, Victor’s pitiful excuse for a nephew? He’d deal in any shit he got
his hands on, which was why Victor’d kept the little snake away from his business dealings. What ever became of the bastard? Probably hiding
under a rock somewhere. Good riddance.

Walter said, “Since June, six deaths in Atlanta alone have been attributed to bath salts, sold to a group of young men at a local club. When new
legislation outlawed the compounds used in manufacturing, distribution moved underground.”

“If we have the source, why not stop it now?” Johnson asked.

“Actually, we don’t have the source. We merely have a portion of the pipeline, and a relatively small portion at that. And as much as I
agree with you that stopping the poison from going anywhere should happen posthaste, we need to discover where it’s coming from, and possibly
allow our counterparts in Mexico to find the source. We also need to identify as many players as we can involved in the smuggling ring, which will require
agents to enter clubs and make buys.”

A collective groan sounded from around the table. Club buys meant late hours and expecting spouses to accept coming home in the early a.m. reeking of
tobacco and other kinds of smoke. Not to mention the occasional drink spilled on clothing.

“When do we go bang heads together?” Johnson asked, cracking her knuckles for effect. Newbies. All eager and ready to go.
She’d learn.

But hell, Lucky might have to find out her first name. Damn, what an agent she’d make some day.

***

Lucky waited for Bo to emerge from Walter’s office. Two hours? What the hell kind of briefing lasted two hours?

At last Bo slumped out, grim faced. He plunked down at his desk. A sigh wafted from his slightly parted lips.

Don’t ask. Let him make the first move. Oh, what the hell…
“How’d it go?”

“Okay, I guess. But I have to admit, I’m nervous as hell.” Bo swiveled his chair to face Lucky, full lower lip tucked between
his teeth. “I’ve been studying in a classroom, and I’ve been on assignments before, but never anything this big. What if I
screw up? What if I fail? Even that night a few weeks ago, I wore a wire and had police backup. I’ll be on my own much of the time this go
round.”

Lucky summoned what he hoped passed for his normally arrogant smirk, while the bottom dropped out of his stomach. “How can you fail? You learned
from me, didn’t you?” Holy shit. Deep undercover. Months spent building an entirely new guise. While maintaining a constant, though
fake, identity for months on end wasn’t quite as grueling as being someone new every day, keeping up the act took a toll on a man. A toll some
agents never recovered from.

Two years into Lucky’s time with the SNB, a man had crossed the line. One of their best, Walter had called him. Yet driving a fancy car and
flashing a lot of cash while posing as a shady supplier proved too great a temptation. He’d never returned from assignment, never arrested the
suspects, never even made a report. For three years the department had mourned him, thinking him dead. Then they’d busted a smuggling operation
in Birmingham and found him running the show. The guy now sat behind bars, serving out a twenty-year sentence.

Discovery. Getting caught in the crossfire. The lure of easy money. Yes, many enticements waited outside the door, ready to sink their talons into Bo. And
this time, Lucky wouldn’t be there to protect him. Screwing up and failing were merely the tip of the iceberg when it came to the worries
involved in undercover work.

“I spoke with O’Donoghue about you,” Lucky confessed. Poor Bo could use the ego boost.

“Really? What’d he say?”

Never in a million years would Lucky disclose the full nature of the conversation. However, creative use of the truth couldn’t hurt.
“He called you one of the best in class. He wouldn’t say that, and Walter wouldn’t have assigned you, if they
didn’t believe you were up to the job.” No, Walter’s experience had only failed him once, with the guy from Birmingham, and
he’d never put a member on his team that he didn’t think was competent. The Department of Diversion Prevention and Control suffered a
high turnover rate, both from Walter’s demand for perfection and the pressures of the job. Only one in ten agents lasted five years with the
department. Bo’d just completed his first.

Bo closed his eyes, slowly sucked in a breath, and exhaled with a sharp
whoosh.

Lucky peeked down the hallway. Good. Not a soul in sight. He spun his chair and placed a hand on each of Bo’s shoulders. “Listen.
You’re smart. You’ve got good instincts, you’ve got the training. You’re in top physical form, and Art’s
already inside. You’re gonna do fine.”

“Do you actually believe that?” Bo’s deep brown eyes snapped open, staring into Lucky’s. A man could get lost in
those eyes and never want to be found.

“Have you ever known me to lie?” Wait. Yes, he had. “Don’t answer that,” Lucky growled. They both
chuckled.

A quick lunge planted Bo’s lips to Lucky’s for a fleeting kiss. “You’ve never lied to me when it
counted.”

***

The day drew to a close and Lucky deliberately stuck around after hours, hoping Bo would issue an invitation. None came.

“What ya doing tonight?” Lucky swallowed enough pride to ask.

“Oh. I’m meeting with O’Donoghue to go over more about Cyrus Cooper. You?”

Damn and double damn. “Nothing much. Maybe watch a few back episodes of
South Bend Springs
.”

Bo stopped, disappointment rolling off his stoop-shouldered frame. “Damn. I’d love to watch too. I’m behind about two weeks,
and I hear Lila’s on the prowl again.” The moment stretched. Bo appeared to be waiting, but for what? Finally, he said, “We
haven’t seen much of each other lately…”

Crap. Lucky had a really good mad worked up over being pushed to one side, and now Bo was gonna say something sweet and Bo-like and kill the righteous
indignation. “When do you leave?”

Silence, followed by, “In two weeks. I’ll spend those learning what I need to in order to pull off being Cyrus.”

“About that. What did you mean in the conference room about having used the name ‘Cy’ before?”

A wry grin chased away the shadows on Bo’s face. “Remember how I told you I danced while in college? Cy used to be my stripper name,
‘cause someone said I looked like a certain celebrity with ‘Cy’ in his name.” Bo winked.

Lucky waited until Bo wandered off before adjusting the tenting in his jeans enough to stroll down the hall without attracting too much attention.

Chapter 9

“You wanted to see me?” Lucky stepped into Walter’s office, scanning the room before closing the door. Bo wasn’t
there, darn the luck, though he shouldn’t expect the man to be in on a meeting when they weren’t sharing a case.

“Sit down, Lucky.” The tight-lipped smile didn’t bode well and wasn’t in character for Lucky’s outgoing,
outspoken boss. Lately more and more job pressures seemed to zap Walter’s jovial moods.

“I’m not gonna like this, am I?” Lucky dropped down into his usual chair.

Walter stared at his fingers, gripped tightly together on the gleaming wood surface of his desk. “Maybe so, maybe not.”

Oh shit. Though no longer in danger of being thrust back into prison, for some odd reason Lucky hadn’t quite worked out, disappointing Walter as
a man and not as his boss might be worse. Walter was the only one in the department besides Bo who knew the full story of Lucky’s dark past,
including his guilt over Victor’s death, and didn’t hold past mistakes against him.

“Spit it out.”

Walter slowly lifted his head. “I’ve spoken with you about the restructuring taking place within the bureau.”

“Yes.”

“While you’ve probably noticed a few changes, you’ve not seen everything yet.”

Holy shit. “I’m being fired?”

“No, no!” Walter raised a staying palm. “Nothing so drastic. But you’ve been one of my best agents for close to
nine years.”

Lucky sat up straighter. “Damn right, I’m the best. But you didn’t call me in here to tell me what I already know.”
Take that, O’Donoghue.

“No. I didn’t. Lately I’ve been questioned about you, particularly in light of your last review.”

It’d been one hell of a good review too. “Don’t those asshole higher-ups get tired of finding fault with your hiring me?
It’s not like we haven’t proven them wrong a million times.”

Smug satisfaction rearranged Walter’s facial wrinkles, making him resemble a self-satisfied walrus. “Actually, some have tried to take
credit for my decision to bring you on board, but that’s neither here nor there. Their latest concern, I have to admit, is
well-deserved.”

Walter made a mistake? Oh hell no, he didn’t. Not Walter Smith. “What are you talking about, boss?”

“It seems I’ve allowed a highly prized member of my team to go unrecognized. After the earlier push-back over your hiring, I felt it
best to keep you under the radar.” He grinned. “Or as much under the radar as you fly, Lucky.”

Yeah, well, Lucky couldn’t help if his cases occasionally ended up making headlines when a drug kingpin fell. But he wouldn’t call
himself unrecognized. Walter wasn’t into grand gestures, but neither was Lucky. Still, the boss never failed to heap praise where it was due.
“I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

“A promotion, Lucky. In all the years you’ve worked for me, you’ve never been given a single promotion.”

Promotion? A desk job? Fuck, no. “If this is about my leg, the doctor says I’ll be back to normal in another few weeks.”
Please, dear God, not a desk job.

“No, it’s not about your job-related injuries. It’s about building a better team that doesn’t replace members every
six months.”

Lucky settled back into the chair, ignoring the squeak of leather that sounded too much like a fart. “Go on.”

“Instead of allowing the separate divisions to hone their own methods, creating diversity in how each is run, we’ve
consolidated.” Walter heaved out a body-crumpling sigh, tapping an ink pen against his desktop. “The Southeastern division will serve
as a training center. The classes you attended were part of a pilot program.”

Training center. A bunch of whining newbies underfoot all the time. Say it ain’t so.

“Jameson will conduct classes and head up the efforts to mix classroom with practical application, while instilling inter-agency cooperation
among various drug enforcement agencies. That’s where you come in.”

“Me? What do I have to do with this?” Give Lucky the streets and a couple of two-bit drug dealers, or doctors cranking out illegal
prescriptions. Oh, hell, give him a truckload of stolen narcotics, but keep him the hell out of a classroom.

“Congratulations, Lucky. You’re now supervisor of the training division. You’ll be working in close cooperation with Jameson
until you’re ready to handle the task on your own, but will still report directly to me.”

Promotion? Good thing. Reporting to Walter? Another check in the plus column. Working with O’Donoghue? Yet to be seen.
“Raise?”

“Eight percent.”

Eight percent would add a nice cushion to Lucky’s motorcycle fund. “What do I have to do?”

“Funny you should ask.”

***

I’m a babysitter. A motherfucking babysitter.
Lucky scowled at the toddlers under his care and attempted to hear over the pounding tempo of some gawd-awful squawking that reminded him of Cat
Lucky’s screeching to get into the house. Give him some classic rock or even country music over this teeth-jarring shit.

A few feet behind him in line, Johnson and Landry chatted up a trio of mini-skirted young women who couldn’t be far from their teens. Not that
Johnson and Landry didn’t fit right in.
Black eyeliner, Landry? Really?

Lucky almost didn’t recognize Johnson in a form-fitting white dress with a low- cut back, seemingly designed to show off her muscle definition.
For the first time in their acquaintance, she wore full makeup, and her dangly earrings flashed in the pulsing neon lights outside Armageddon, or Armadillo, or
whatever the hell the club’s name was.

“I’ve always wanted to come to Amarillo,” a woman in front of Lucky said. Amarillo. Yeah, Amarillo. Close enough to
Armageddon.

One of the girls placed a hand on the newbie’s butt. Landry didn’t even flinch.
You’re not here to get laid, hot shot.
Of course, if Landry got into females, maybe he wasn’t interested in Bo.
Go for it, big boy. Take a walk on the other side of the street. Yeah, take her up on her offer and keep your mitts off of Bo.

Johnson wriggled to the music filtering out of the club, crowding the predatory woman back a few steps. Another of the women gestured with her hands, and
the third? Paydirt! Neon green fingernails dipped into a purse and returned with a tiny packet similar to the ones presented in the conference room.

The women smiled. Landry and Johnson completed the ritual with their own display of teeth. Any more gleaming brightness might blind a man.
Jeez, people, put those things away.

At last Lucky stood before the bouncer, who had the audacity to wink. “Back again, I see.” He took Lucky’s money and allowed
him through the door. The man didn’t even glance at the bulge in Lucky’s jacket.
What does it take to get frisked these days?
At
least this muscle-bound gym rat might actually stand a chance against a drugged-out secretary.

Lucky strode up to the bar and ordered a beer, the better to blend in. He didn’t have to drink the hoity-toity imported shit with a name he
couldn’t pronounce. Damn O’Donoghue for being right.

Johnson and Landry showed up a few seconds later, still in the company of their new friends. He hoped the women hadn’t talked the rookies into
paying their cover charges. Accounting would have a fit.
Oh crap, now I’m thinking like a supervisor.
What came next? Defending
Landry’s honor against the touchy-feely woman?