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“That’s damn unfortunate.” Dante added garlic to the pan, its spicy aroma instantly filling the kitchen. “Years of fucking work went into that op. Does Hatch have any ideas who the leak is?”
Regardless of his hunger pangs and Dante and Morrison’s conversation, André started thinking about who could have taken a shot at him. For the life of him, he couldn’t come up with an immediate suspect. It wasn’t as if Cooper Springs was Mayberry, and he very much wasn’t Andy Taylor—the fictional sheriff had been much more patient than André. But André didn’t think he’d made any enemies in town. Not anyone who hated him enough to try and kill him anyway.
“André, can you hand me a sleeve of pasta?” Dante asked. “There should be some in the cabinet behind me. I can’t stop stirring or the garlic will burn.”
“Sure.” André rose to his feet, crossing over to the cabinet Dante had indicated.
As he leaned down to open the cabinet, Morrison said, “Yeah, so we think someone in the office has been compromised, but they’re good at hiding their tracks.”
André took in the contents of the cupboard. There was no pasta in boxes or in plastic sleeves. He did, however, see a Glock. Not his—his was secured in a concealed Kydex holster.
“Dante, there’s nothing in here but your spare weapon.”
André bent down to look more carefully, in case he was just not seeing the spaghetti.
Behind him, Morrison laughed. “That’s Dante, can’t use a gun safe. Gotta be original.”
“Look, Dani’s not gonna touch it,” Dante protested, his voice rising, “and I’m not gonna be caught with my pants down and my spare weapon locked where I can’t fucking get to it.”
“You gotta keep your pants on in the kitchen. I got a grease burn once on my ass and damn did it hurt.”
There was a long silence while André at least processed what Morrison had just said.
“TMI, big guy,” Dante said. “And please don’t derail the conversation with your ass. André, maybe check the next one over. I’m still getting used to this kitchen.”
André opened the next cupboard and found the pasta stash. Selecting a bag of spaghetti, he set it on the counter next to Dante.
“Damn, I’m hungrier than I realized,” Morrison said. “Thanks for feeding me.”
“I’m sure I’ll regret it. Now, tell me everything you can from the beginning.”
André leaned his butt back against the counter, watching Dante cook while Morrison rehashed the information he’d been sent to Cooper Springs to share. The operation Dante had been a part of wasn’t the only one that had been compromised. The agency had been forced to abandon a second op after a key inside man had been found in several pieces shoved inside a garbage bin in downtown Portland.
“Damn, Hatch and the uppers spent at least two years getting someone inside that organization,” Dante interjected.
The names Morrison mentioned weren’t familiar to André. The agencies often worked together, but his last months with the Marshals Service had primarily been working protection assignments. The only thing André had left from his old life was to testify in the State vs. Campos trial, and that wasn’t set to begin for another six months after the prosecutor’s death. Jensen would have contacted him if he needed to be concerned about anything.
“Hatch thinks whoever it is, they’re trying to find you,” Morrison added.
Thathad André paying attention again. Dante was a pain in his ass, but he was André’s pain in the ass—something he was still working on processing. But he and Dani were also residents of Cooper Springs and therefore under André’s protection.
“Maybe it’s a good thing you didn’t go into the system after all,” Morrison finished. “Maybe you would’ve been found by now.”
“The marshals’ system is tight,” André protested. WITSEC was need-to-know only and sometimes not even that. Once, he’d been assigned to a mother who was testifying against some Very Bad People, one of whom was her ex-husband, and André alone had known where she and her son were hiding. “Could it be this Hatch guy you keep mentioning? It wouldn’t be the first time someone higher up has been compromised.”
Both men turned to look at him. Morrison looked thoughtful, and Dante shook his head.
“Anything is possible. But, except for sending Morrison, Hatch hasn’t done anything to make me think he’s on the take.”
“No system—not even the U.S. Marshals’—is safe from the inside,” Morrison said blandly. “Whoever is behind this shit has some computer chops.”
André knew he was right, but he didn’t have to like it.
“I guess we can rule you out, Morrison,” Dante said dryly as he began to scoop pasta and sauce onto dinner plates. “Here,” he said to André, pointing at a plate with more food than André had eaten in several days piled on it, “take that one.”
Without arguing, André took the plate back to the table and sat down, sensing that Dante would force-feed him if he complained. Morrison side-eyed his meal.
“You can have half of mine,” he whispered.
