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A tall figure emerged from the dark hallway. Two men followed behind him. “Who are you?”
“Agent Duane Dickerson,” the man said, taking a seat at a small wooden table right outside the cell.
“Am I in jail?”
“County,” Dickerson replied. “You’re in solitary confinement.”
“For what?” Hank asked, wondering if he were in Columbia, Tennessee, or Bogota, Colombia, after that remark. Since when did Columbia have solitary confinement in their small facility?
“We’re keeping you here until we have a chance to see what’s going to happen out at your place.”
“What do you mean by that?” Hank asked, gripping the bars, staring at the man who offered his name and title, but didn’t flash a badge or show credentials.
“I don’t have time to explain.”
“You can’t hold a man against his will,” Hank told him, noting the man didn’t act like he was in any particular hurry. He crossed his arms, leaned back and studied him like he planned to sum him up for a bit.
“I’m asking for your cooperation.”
“I’d be more cooperative if you guys weren’t holding me behind bars for no apparent reason!”
“You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“No.”
“Then let me go!” Hank demanded.
“I can’t do that.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because you’re a target someone wants dead. Your brother doesn’t have a price on his head, and I’m not sure why. Someone wants you and the girl dead. Until we know who, we’re protecting you, and assuming your brother will protect your woman.”
“Julie?”
“Yes.”
Hank gulped. “You’re using her for bait, aren’t you?”
Dickerson pulled out his cell phone and started texting. He frowned at the facing on his phone as he typed out a long message.
“Answer me! You’re using her to set a trap, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” the agent replied without looking up. “And you’re gonna sit right here until she helps us hook a criminal responsible for killing a few race car drivers.”
“I don’t know of any drivers dying suspicious deaths.”
A man standing behind Dickerson slapped a folder over his shoulder. Dickerson took a few steps, pulled free a stack of pictures, and handed the contents to Hank. When Hank flipped through the glossy images, he nearly choked on the bile rising in his throat.
“One suspicious death on the circuit is speculative. In our field, we can draw all sorts of conclusions. However, four deaths in one night raises brows when the victims all share one common thread.”
“They’re race car drivers,” Hank said softly, acknowledging a friend’s face when he flipped to the fourth photograph. He swallowed hard and slowly lifted his gaze to meet the federal agent’s eyes. “I need to be with Julie.”
“I can’t let you mess this up, Hank. We think the only reason Julie hasn’t been killed yet is because you and your brother took her in.”
“I can protect her.”
