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“Because I’ll tack five years onto your sentences if you steal them, that’s why.”
“No, I mean – ”
“I know what you meant.” He looked at Jack’s Harley. “For Eddie, partly. Because I want to nail the sons of bitches who killed him more than I’ve ever wanted anything else in my life.”
“We don’t know that he’s… well, not for sure,” I said, although I couldn’t even convince myself.
Fordham gave me an under-the-eyebrow Gimme a break kind of look. “Let’s not kid ourselves. You and I both know what Lou Shaw’s capable of.”
“You said ‘partly,’” I pointed out.
“What?”
“You said ‘partly for Eddie.’ What’s the other part?”
Fordham looked over his shoulder at the door to the offices, as though he were making sure no one else could hear him. Then he turned back to us.
“Partly for Eddie… partly because the top brass are making me close up shop, and you jokers are my only option… and partly because I’m at the end of the road. Forced retirement six months from now. I’d like to go out with a bang.”
I looked at him coldly. “So, a nice big bust to end to your career.”
Fordham fixed me with a steely gaze. “Let me tell you something, Christenson. I’ve done this for 31 years. Got in at 26 – first the marines, then college, then straight into the DEA. I could have retired at 51 with 25 years of service, but I didn’t. You want to know why? Because I like catching bad guys. And the longer I’ve done this, the more fuckin’ bad guys I’ve seen slip through the cracks. I cuff ‘em and process ‘em and send ‘em to court, and occasionally one goes away forever – but the truth is, the average motherfucker goes to jail for six or seven years, then they get out and do more bad shit. And then I have to catch ‘em all over again, but this time they’re smarter and meaner. It’s like catch and release where the fish gradually turns into a barracuda, then a hammerhead, then a Great White shark every time you bag him. And I’m fuckin’ sick and tired of it.
“Lou Shaw and the Santa Muertes are some of the shittiest lowlifes I’ve ever had the misfortune of chasing. Dan Peters? He’s just a corrupt idiot. I want him behind bars because the only thing worse than a criminal is a criminal with a badge. Fucks up people’s trust in the system.
“The Santa Muertes, unfortunately, are like weeds – pull out a hundred of them, and a thousand’ll take their place. No way to get rid of them unless you burn the whole fuckin’ town down – and even then, some more weeds from the next town over’ll just blow in, take root, and start the whole shitshow over again.
“But Lou Shaw… he’s the one I want. He’s smart, he’s vicious, and he’s the head of one particular dragon that hasn’t gotten too big to kill yet. If you cut the head off now, the rest of it’ll die, guaranteed. I either want to see him dead or serving three consecutive life sentences without parole.”
Fordham paused.
“Actually, Lou’s exactly the type that’d end up running a criminal empire from his prison cell… so no, I just want to see the fucker dead.”
“Is that permission?” Jack asked. “Or just a preference?”
“Let’s just say I won’t cry any tears if he ends up with an extra nostril or two. But if you say I said that, then fuck you. I’ll perjure myself in court, and we both know who’ll they believe.”
“Say you said what?” Jack asked nonchalantly.
Fordham grinned and pointed his finger at Jack like Attaboy. Then he got serious again. “But, just so we’re clear – I want Lou, I want Peters, and I want the Santa Muertes – or no fuckin’ deal.”
“And you think we can succeed where the DEA failed,” I said sarcastically.
“We at the DEA are hampered by rules. You are not,” Fordham pointed out.
“Rules you’ll overlook if we break them?”
Fordham shrugged. “If I’m not there in the forest when the tree falls, how do I know it made a sound?”
“Never thought I’d hear a Fed say that,” Jack said as he got on the Harley.
“And you didn’t,” Fordham said.
“Understood,” Jack agreed.
I got in the Escalade. “Got a pep talk for us before we go out on the front line?”
“How’s this: get me my perps, don’t die, and you won’t go to jail.”
