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Chapter 1
Special Agent Brenda Lawson snatched a brown coffee cup, angry and impatient.
“This is serious,” she snapped at the man rubbing his eyes across the desk from her. “The IP address is connected to the house Joey Curanto lives in. The scumbag is recruiting innocent kids, probably to run drugs or guns.”
“Come on, Brenda,” Henry complained, “it's after midnight and I'm tired. Who cares what Curanto is doing? No one’s gonna go after that guy. He's too much of a liability and has too many connections. Who cares if he's recruiting a bunch of wasted teenagers to run drugs or guns for him.”
Oh, how Brenda hated working for the FBI. The FBI was filled with too many clowns. Henry Tillers was a rat in a suit who kissed a lot of unclean backsides to further a career that offered power and money.
He is just another political weasel. Why do I even waste my time? Brenda felt like a stuffed turkey in the gray suit she was wearing. Henry's cramped office was hot and stuffed with a bunch of golfing junk intermingled with a few important legal items. Sure it was freezing outside, but even in the dead of summer, Henry kept his office boiling.
Henry didn't notice Brenda's discontent. No. He was too tired to care about 'Ms. Wyatt Earp' who was now determined to run down another gang of outlaws. Brenda was too high speed for his taste—a woman who cared too much about the letter of the law rather than leaning back and enjoying a free ride. Why care if Joey Curanto was recruiting a bunch of deadbeat teenagers? Henry wasn't going to get on Joey's bad side and risk losing his life. Curanto had some serious contacts.
“Look, Brenda. Director Summers assigned us to work on the new 'Social Media Terror Task Force' to search for political terrorism, not to annoy a deadly mafia boss. Our job is to protect the big guys in Washington, okay?”
Brenda stared at Henry. The guy resembled a tall, scrawny alley cat that smelled of cheap cologne. Brenda guessed she didn't look much better. She had gotten the impression that her looks favored a war torn soldier who had just walked off a bloody battlefield. Brenda knew she was a rough woman who didn't carry a feminine beauty, but so what? She was forty-two years old, in good shape, healthy, and able to take care of herself in a real fight. Brenda was too battle scarred by life to ever become a housewife that wore pretty little dresses and baked muffins all day.
“Yeah sure, Henry. Have it your way, you boot licker.”
Henry raised his sour, exhausted eyes to Brenda. “What did you call me?”
“I called you a boot licker,” Brenda confirmed in a hard tone. “You make me sick.”
“Hey, I'm not risking my life over a bunch of low life teenagers who don't have anything better to do than hang out on a lousy social media site and complain about not having a new smartphone!” Henry barked. “Curanto is a deadly man. No one with any common sense messes with him unless you want to end up dead, get me?”
Henry’s thick Brooklyn accent began to flow from his angry mouth. “I don't mess with him and you don’t mess with him. Now get out of my office.”
“You're pathetic,” Brenda snapped in a disgusted voice and then stormed out into a stuffy hallway lined with closed doors.
“Director Summers will have your job if you don't back off,” Henry yelled after Brenda. Our job is to monitor—”
Brenda slammed Henry's office door before he could finish his sentence.
“My job is to take down the bad guys,” she whispered through gritted teeth. “I'm not backing down.”
She checked the time and hurried to a small, cramped office that resembled a military barrack. Brenda plopped down behind a spotlessly clean pine desk, and fished a cell phone out of her gray suit jacket.
“Be awake,” she muttered as she dialed.
Brenda’s office was located in Jamaica, New York. Brenda preferred to be in the city, but Jamaica would have to do. Detective Mack Abernathy wasn’t too far away.
“If you're calling me at this hour then something is wrong,” a gruff voice answered. “What is it?”
“The new social media site called 'Dazed'. A user that goes by the name 'Underyournose' is recruiting local teenagers. The user is attached to an IP address that belongs to Joey Curanto.” Brenda spoke in a low and direct voice. “What's the word on the streets?”
Mack was sitting in a gray, unmarked police car across from a lousy, ramshackle diner filled with late night drug dealers.
“The word is I'm looking for a street dealer that gunned down another street dealer.” Mack respected and liked Brenda, but he was on a case. “I'll call you back in a few hours.”
Brenda imagined Mack, who looked like an old street fighter who had his face beaten in too many times, sitting in a cold Oldsmobile, drinking lousy coffee, munching on lousy Chinese food, while waiting for some street gang to show up.
“I'm not far—”
“I'm sitting in front of the Side Alley Diner. Know where it is?” Mack asked, taking a drink of warm coffee.
“Yeah, been there...food is junk. I'll be to you in about half an hour.”
“Snowing pretty hard,” Mack told Brenda and then ended the call.
Brenda grinned a little. She stood up, grabbed a heavy gray coat off a wooden coat rack, and then headed out into a cold, icy, snowy night.
A black BMW clicked on a pair of headlights as soon as Brenda walked out into the night and began making her way down a dimly lit, snow-covered sidewalk lined with sleeping vehicles. Brenda felt the headlights splash through the heavy falling snow and kick her back. She eased her right hand under her coat and gripped the Glock 17 hidden in a secure shoulder holster, and kept walking. The black BMW eased forward like a slithering snake preparing to strike.
“I've got trouble,” Brenda said under her breath.
The black BMW tailed Brenda until she reached the end of Gardens Road and then roared forward at a dangerous speed. Brenda spun around, snatching her gun out as she did, and watched the car slide to a stop. Seconds later, the passenger side window rolled down. Brenda recognizes the deadly face peered out i
nto the falling snow.
“Got a message for you from my boss,” Vincent Santoro growled at Brenda.
