Cheating Justice (The Justice Team) by Misty Evans, Adrienne Giordano
Authors: Misty Evans, Adrienne Giordano
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tracking system,” she told him. “It’ll give law enforcement agencies limited access to information so they can quickly identify if a weapon has been used in other crimes. All local law enforcement will eventually have the new system, but right now, it’s just the agencies under Justice. We’re the guinea pigs and only supervisors have admin rights. I have access to it so if I have a case involving a firearm, I run the gun through the system and report any bugs.”
“No, Caroline. Logging into that system is the equivalent of standing on good old Donaldson’s desk screaming ‘Look at me! Look at me!’”
Having already experienced Donaldson’s wrath—dumpster diving anyone?—if she ran the gun when she was supposed to be out on a sick day, she’d definitely ping Donaldson’s radar.
Mitch gripped her upper arm. “We’ll figure out another way. I can send the make, model, and serial to Teeg. Maybe he can track it without tipping our hand.”
“Maybe. But we’d lose time. He got this report fast, but who knows how long it would take him to crack into the ATF tracing system.”
He shook that off. “ATF and the FBI have the serial number of the gun that killed an FBI agent. They’ve already run the number and traced it to its owner, but there haven’t been any arrests. Instead, the taskforce has been disbanded and the case sealed. What does that tell you?”
It told her she only had one sick day and time was short. It told her that whatever the FBI and ATF were up to, it wasn’t good. It told her that a good agent—an honorable and very dead agent—was about to be the government’s sacrificial lamb. If the roles were reversed and she was the agent about to be posthumously crucified, she’d want someone to step in and make it right. She jerked free of Mitch’s hold. “Get up.”
The stubborn mule didn’t move. Fine. She leaned over him, unplugged the laptop and picked it up. She’d sit on the bed and do this.
“Caroline, you’re harboring a fugitive whom you transported across no less than seven state lines. If Donaldson gets wind that you’re logging in remotely, he’ll trace the IP address, figure out you’re in New Mexico and your career is toast. He’ll not only end your career, that dickhead will send you to prison.”
She locked eyes with him and grinned. “Only if he catches me.”
He finally moved, leaving the chair and crossing his arms as he stood at the end of the bed. “Don’t throw your life away for me.”
Oh, she had him this time. “That’s the thing, Mitch. It’s not for you. It’s for Tommy. The thing you’ve wanted all along. Now shut up and let me do this.” She returned to the desk. “No offense, but you distract me, and if I’m about to jeopardize my career, I don’t want distractions.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
“Yeah, I do.”
She double clicked the icon and the system’s welcome screen popped up. This is it.
“Caroline—”
“Zip it.”
She’d made her decision and he, of all people, should know when she made decisions, that was it, no going back. No matter if she spent a minute or a year deciding, when she reached a conclusion, she went to the wall with it.
She typed in her username and password and sat back in the crummy chair in the crummy motel and one last time considered the crummy situation.
Tommy doesn’t deserve this.
Boom. She smacked the enter key.
“Ah, Christ, Caroline. You’re in it now.”
“Mitch, I was in it the second you stepped onto that range.”
While the hourglass chugged, she tiled the screens alongside each other and prayed no one would flag her.
Quickly, with tingling fingers, she entered the serial number and double checked it. Missed a digit. Dammit. She fixed it, hit enter and jumped from her chair— oh, God, oh, God, oh, God— waiting the few seconds for the result to pop up. She rubbed her hands over her head and down her ponytail. What had she done?
Mitch extended one arm,
“No, Caroline. Logging into that system is the equivalent of standing on good old Donaldson’s desk screaming ‘Look at me! Look at me!’”
Having already experienced Donaldson’s wrath—dumpster diving anyone?—if she ran the gun when she was supposed to be out on a sick day, she’d definitely ping Donaldson’s radar.
Mitch gripped her upper arm. “We’ll figure out another way. I can send the make, model, and serial to Teeg. Maybe he can track it without tipping our hand.”
“Maybe. But we’d lose time. He got this report fast, but who knows how long it would take him to crack into the ATF tracing system.”
He shook that off. “ATF and the FBI have the serial number of the gun that killed an FBI agent. They’ve already run the number and traced it to its owner, but there haven’t been any arrests. Instead, the taskforce has been disbanded and the case sealed. What does that tell you?”
It told her she only had one sick day and time was short. It told her that whatever the FBI and ATF were up to, it wasn’t good. It told her that a good agent—an honorable and very dead agent—was about to be the government’s sacrificial lamb. If the roles were reversed and she was the agent about to be posthumously crucified, she’d want someone to step in and make it right. She jerked free of Mitch’s hold. “Get up.”
The stubborn mule didn’t move. Fine. She leaned over him, unplugged the laptop and picked it up. She’d sit on the bed and do this.
“Caroline, you’re harboring a fugitive whom you transported across no less than seven state lines. If Donaldson gets wind that you’re logging in remotely, he’ll trace the IP address, figure out you’re in New Mexico and your career is toast. He’ll not only end your career, that dickhead will send you to prison.”
She locked eyes with him and grinned. “Only if he catches me.”
He finally moved, leaving the chair and crossing his arms as he stood at the end of the bed. “Don’t throw your life away for me.”
Oh, she had him this time. “That’s the thing, Mitch. It’s not for you. It’s for Tommy. The thing you’ve wanted all along. Now shut up and let me do this.” She returned to the desk. “No offense, but you distract me, and if I’m about to jeopardize my career, I don’t want distractions.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
“Yeah, I do.”
She double clicked the icon and the system’s welcome screen popped up. This is it.
“Caroline—”
“Zip it.”
She’d made her decision and he, of all people, should know when she made decisions, that was it, no going back. No matter if she spent a minute or a year deciding, when she reached a conclusion, she went to the wall with it.
She typed in her username and password and sat back in the crummy chair in the crummy motel and one last time considered the crummy situation.
Tommy doesn’t deserve this.
Boom. She smacked the enter key.
“Ah, Christ, Caroline. You’re in it now.”
“Mitch, I was in it the second you stepped onto that range.”
While the hourglass chugged, she tiled the screens alongside each other and prayed no one would flag her.
Quickly, with tingling fingers, she entered the serial number and double checked it. Missed a digit. Dammit. She fixed it, hit enter and jumped from her chair— oh, God, oh, God, oh, God— waiting the few seconds for the result to pop up. She rubbed her hands over her head and down her ponytail. What had she done?
Mitch extended one arm,
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