“You’ll work a standard caseload. No undercover. That last job?—”
“Give me the Dillinger cold case.” Rebel blurted the words before he could check himself.
“You gotta let that one go,” Calvin said.
“Would you ifyourdad had been gunned down while workin’ a case?”
Calvin sighed. “I’ll consider it. Take the rest of the day off. Clear your head over the weekend.”
On auto-pilot, Rebel rose. “Thanks for being straight with me.”
“Always.”
On the way out, Rebel couldn’t get twenty feet before someone stopped him to chat or say hey. While this should have been a good thing, he was too pissed to care.
“I’ve run into a real roadblock with my case,” one of the agents said as they walked toward the elevator. “I’d love to bring you up to speed. We could really use you in Miami to help track down a killer.”
“Thanks,” Rebel replied. “But I’ve been benched.”
“That’s a bitch. Lemme know when you’re back on the streets.”
While riding down, another agent asked him if he had a few minutes. Then, just as he headed into the lobby, another waved him over.
Forty minutes later, Rebel exited the building with a major effin’ chip on his shoulder. He’d been HRT’s top candidate, but they rejected him without even talking to him.
I chose to be a rebel, so I shouldn’t be surprised.
While hecouldconform to being a team player, he hadn’t. It would take a very special reason for him to change his ways. Something even more important to him than the Hostage Rescue Team.
Despite the logic of their decision, Rebel was pissed. Heshouldswing by his gym and take out his frustration with a balls-to-the-wall workout, but that would be too constructive. This piss-poor news called for his favorite greasy spoon on Capitol Hill. He’d burn through the anger with a brisk fifteen-minute walk through town. After sliding on his shades, he made his way east.
Despite his attempts to infuse logic and sanity into the equation, he was still seething when he arrived at Rudy’s, a popular Capitol Hill restaurant that offered the best greasy burgers and crispy fries in the entire city. Squirreled off the beaten path, the tourists didn’t know it existed. But itwashighly trafficked by some of Washington’s biggest power players. Over the decades, Presidents had frequented the joint, pictures of them with Rudy lining the building’s cracked walls.
Rebel entered the noisy restaurant and scanned for familiar faces. He recognized an ATF agent, a smattering of congresspersons, two senators, and someone who looked familiar.
Maybe the White House?
Rebel kept his sunglasses on, but before he could snag Rudy’s attention, the ATF agent waved him over.
“Rebel, how’s it going?” asked the agent.
“Join us,” said the woman who was eyeing his windblown hair.
“I can’t, but good seeing you.” He tossed them a nod, then moved through the restaurant toward the back.
Rudy intercepted him. “Hey, Joaquin. Eating alone?”
“Yeah. Let’s keep it that way.”
“Been one of those days?” Rudy led him around the corner to an empty two-top near the back exit.
“I got gut-punched, but I deserved it,” Rebel replied as he sat with his back to the wall.
Ruby nodded. “Been there, my friend. I know just the cure. Too early for a whiskey?”
“And a beer chaser.”
“You want your usual?”
