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24
They heard a squawk from Fayreen, then sputters and shouts. The door to the interrogation room burst open and there stood SAC Bettina Kraus, her Glock strapped to her thigh, holding an HK MP5, a submachine gun that would scare any sane human being. She was wearing riot gear—an army-green multithreat body armor system and flak jacket with FBI stenciled in big yellow letters across the front. Her pockets were filled with extra magazines, a radio, flex-cuffs, and naturally, a cool pair of sunglasses. Trust Savich to tell Bettina to come bristling with attitude and weapons. In her jeans, dark blue T-shirt, and scuffed black boots, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a short tail, she looked as mean as a pissed-off mother-in-law. Griffin couldn’t have scripted it better himself.
Two more FBI agents stood behind Kraus in full riot gear like hers, their MP5s in their hands, their bulging biceps on display in their blue short-sleeved T-shirts. They stood tough and silent as boulders. Griffin knew them both. David Foxx, aka Slick, liked to play the badass, though he had a wife and three young daughters who ruled the roost at home. Griffin had played horse with DeAndre Watkinson at his neighborhood basketball court. DeAndre was nearly six and a half feet tall, and had a vicious scar bisecting his left cheek. Luckily, he wasn’t a very good outside shooter, and Griffin had won forty dollars off him their last game.
Brewster, the idiot, put his hand on his Beretta.
He thought better of it when Slick tapped him on his shoulder. “Moron. Don’t you move another muscle.”
Kraus said, “Slick, DeAndre, take their weapons.”
Slick and DeAndre simply stood directly in front of the deputies, eyed them up and down, absolutely no expression on their faces, and held out their hands, waggled their fingers. “Sidearms, now, butts first.”
Brewster swallowed, handed over his Beretta, and nodded to Jewel, who quickly followed suit. DeAndre and Slick slipped the Berettas into their flak jackets and took up positions on either side of them, their MP5s pointed to the floor.
“Now,” Kraus said, “stand down. Do not move. Do not open your mouths unless I tell you to. You would not like the consequences.”
Kraus gave Griffin a big smile. “I believe we have containment, Agent Hammersmith. Glad to see you in one piece. You’re well, I hope? No fingernails pulled out? No bruised kidneys from these two fine specimens?”
Brewster yelled, “Hey, wait! We didn’t do anything!”
Kraus slowly turned and gave Brewster the stink-eye. “No more warnings. Keep your mouth shut.”
Brewster’s mouth worked, but he wisely kept quiet and looked down at his scuffed boots.
Jewel cleared his throat. “Ma’am? May I speak?”
“What? Make it fast. Don’t waste my time.”
“We didn’t lay a hand on either of them, I swear, ma’am, Agent Ma’am.”
Griffin caught a smile on Slick’s mouth that didn’t, however, reach his cold eyes.
Kraus said, “Griffin, you okay?”
“Fingernails still intact, but no telling what they would have got up to.”
“And who is this?” She turned to Carson, an eyebrow up.
Carson stared at this awesome woman, cleared her throat. “I’m Carson DeSilva. I met Griffin today. He saved my life, kept me from being murdered.”
“That isn’t true!” Brewster yelled. “Rafer’s a good man, never hurt a flea, ask his ma, his pa, his pa’s brother, ask anyone in town, well, except for fighting sometimes at Five Star Bar, but everyone’s always fighting out there.”
DeAndre picked Brewster up by the neck and swung him around. “Keep your mouth shut, little dude. Nod when I put you back down.”
Once Brewster’s feet touched the floor, he swallowed, rubbed his neck, and nodded.
Kraus smiled. “Good to hear Griffin can be useful when he’s not on the clock.”
Brewster was scared, but he knew he had to man up. Jewel was too young and he’d probably already peed his pants. Besides, he knew to his bones Jewel would tell everyone in town what happened if he folded like a two-dollar tent. He drew himself up as straight and tall as he could. “Ma’am, sirs, I’m a sworn officer of the law. My questions and observations are justified. You’re wearing what look like official uniforms and combat gear, but you can buy that stuff on Amazon. I’m going to need to see your identification. And I want to know why you came busting into our sheriff’s station looking like you’re ready to take out Al Qaeda.”
Kraus smiled at Brewster, surprised he was showing some backbone. “Do you now?”
Brewster gripped his mojo in both hands and took a very small step toward Kraus. “Ma’am, I don’t know who you are, but you don’t have any business here in our station. We are the law here in Gaffer’s Ridge. What did you do to Fayreen?”
Kraus handed Brewster her creds. “Fayreen? She’s in your cell. As you can see, Deputy Brewster, I am Special Agent Kraus, FBI, from the Richmond Field Office.”
His hand shook as he looked down at the FBI credentials, but he couldn’t let the sheriff down, or his life would be hell. He swallowed, licked his lips. “How do I know these aren’t bogus, like his?” He nodded toward Griffin.
Bettina’s voice remained smooth, steady, interested. “Why in the world would you think Agent Hammersmith’s creds are bogus? You could have easily called to verify his FBI status.”
“He’s a murderer if Rafer doesn’t make it, both of them are. Him and the gal over there tried to kill poor Rafer. And look at them, they don’t look like cops. We thought they were con artists, and poor Rafer got in their way.”
“Hmmm.” Bettina gave both Griffin and Carson the once-over, nodded. “I agree, they’re both too pretty for their own good. But why didn’t the sheriff allow Agent Hammersmith to call his superior in Washington? Why didn’t your sheriff speak with Agent Hammersmith’s boss?”
Brewster saw the alligators gliding toward him, mouths open, teeth ready to chomp. He cleared his throat. “Sheriff Bodine thought the fellow who called him was this Hammersmith’s cousin. Fayreen hung up on him.”
Kraus blinked, looked astonished, though Griffin bet Savich had already told her everything. “I would have to say your sheriff is neither very bright nor is he professional. Now, here’s what you are going to do, Deputy Brewster. You’re going to call Sheriff Bodine, tell him his presence is requested in—” She looked down at her black-banded iWatch. “Ten minutes, no more. After I’ve spoken to him, I’ll decide whether or not to take all of you into federal custody. You’ve broken enough laws to paper your cell in the Pennington Gap federal prison.”
