Page 10 of The Pleasure of Panic

“What the fuck is going on?” Chella asks, coming over to stand next to me.

“Dunno,” one of her servers says. “They came in here about forty minutes ago, said no emergency, but they were shutting down the street to traffic, so if anyone had a car parked outside, they should go get it now. About a third of the people cleared out immediately.”

“What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

The server smiles, then shrugs. “He said nothing to worry about. And you were having fun.”

“But…” I stutter. “But they’re in my office!”

I push through the door, cross the street, and even though at least four people try to stop me with a mad grab at my coat sleeve, I yank free and continue walking until I’m stepping right up to the man in a suit who seems to be in charge. “Just what the fuck is going on here?”

He looks down at me. He’s a tall guy, mid-thirties, maybe. Dark hair and dark eyes. His suit says high-ranking government asshole. But his mouth says, “I’m afraid someone was pranking you, Miss —”

“Grey,” I say. “What do you mean, pranking me?”

“We got an anonymous tip that there was a meth operation being run out of this office.”

“What?”

“And then we got a search warrant, so we went inside.”

“You didn’t even call me?”

“Not sure if you understand what a search warrant is, but it gives us permission to—”

“Don’t mansplain to me! I know what a fuckin’ search warrant is!”

“Good,” he says, opening up a small notebook and writing something down. “Then you understand why we didn’t try to get your permission first.”

I look at my office. There are dogs in there. Cops everywhere. Guys in special uniforms I don’t even recognize.

“Special Agent Ivers?” a man with a giant German Shepherd says, snapping my attention back to the guy who seems to be in charge.

“Yes,” Ivers says.

“We found something. You better come have a look at this.”

CHAPTER TWO - FINN

My father died on a Tuesday.

It was a dark day. Late last fall when the trees around DC were turning gold, and red, and brown, and the city air was nothing but a mean, cold wind that sliced through you like a knife. The funeral was short and small.

He was the rock of my world for most of my life. A guy with big ideas, and the nerve to see them through, and the gall to take what he wanted if no one gave way.

And even though there were a lot of things I didn’t like about my father, he didn’t deserve to go out the way he did.

I take a drink of my whiskey-laced coffee, not caring that I’m working. My boss has been giving me light days ever since I landed here at the FBI satellite office in Denver, so I’m expecting this to be another one of those. Boring, meaningless hours that add up to twenty-four and then start all over again.

“Hey, Finn,” the waitress—Darla—says as she positions a pot of coffee, ready to refill my cup. I put a flat hand over the cup to stop her. Don’t need the whiskey watered down any more than it is or it might lose its kick. “Need the check then?” she asks.

“Sure,” I say, not looking her in the eyes. Not looking at her at all. Just staring out the window at the approaching night.

“You doin’ OK these days?”

“What?” I ask, forcing myself to stop looking outside and focus on her instead.

“You seem so… distracted lately. Everything all right?”