Skeeter’s sweet ass was going to have to wait.
He leveled his gaze back at Hawkins.
“So she went to El Salvador after the Panama mission,” he said, the “she” in question being the “she” who was always in question at SDF, their stringer, Red Dog. “Why?”
“The guys at the DEA say Tony Royce has opened a branch office there, in a town called San Luis. He’s working with Mara Plata, using the gang as a rung of bottom-feeders to get a foothold in Central America.”
“She needs to stop fucking around with Tony Royce.”
Hawkins gave a short nod. “You’ve told her. I’ve told her, and sure as hell Travis has told her. But there isn’t anybody in this office who doesn’t know she went to Uzbekistan when Royce was trying to put together a deal with Gul Rashid—a deal that fell apart.”
“We’ll take Royce out when, and if, Grant tells us to take him out.” Which couldn’t be any too soon to suit Dylan, especially since his London trip. The whole Rashid deal was getting a lot of play in a lot of bad places, and one of the names that had gotten attached to the story belonged to a man connected to Arthur Kendryk.
Dylan hated it when his enemies started connecting to each other. It made the hair rise on the back of his neck, because if there was one thing he and Hawkins didn’t believe in besides Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, it was coincidences of any kind.
“Unless Red Dog gets to Royce first,” Hawkins said. “There have been other deals she’s blown for him, Dylan. At least two I can verify, and a couple of others I can’t, but which seem to have her fingerprints all over them.”
Shit. The woman needed to be reined in, before she did irreparable harm to herself or SDF. But no matter what she’d done or hadn’t done, if it started to look like Royce was trying to flank SDF in retaliation for Red Dog’s sabotage, Dylan didn’t doubt that Grant would authorize the man’s summary execution. It was an order Dylan would gladly carry out himself. He’d been there the night Gillian Pentycote had been tortured, and he cut her a lot of slack because of it, but there were limits.
The SDF operators were loose cannons, they were cowboys, and they were a good many other things, but they weren’t out-and-out pirates. They could—and would—act when no one else seemed able to, which Dylan figured was what had prompted White Rook to sponsor an outfit like SDF in the first place, but they had a line they didn’t cross, the one drawn for them by General Grant.
It was the only line they needed—most of them. Red Dog was the exception. Sometimes he wondered if there were any lines she wouldn’t cross, and sometimes he wondered what he might have to do, if she went too far.
“Is Rydell still in Panama?” C. Smith Rydell could be trusted to act, to get a job done without making a mess of things or exposing SDF to unwanted scrutiny. A DEA agent for years before he’d joined the chop-shop boys on Steele Street, he knew how to cover his ass and his tracks.
“I already sent him to El Salvador. He’s in San Luis tonight. I tasked him with intercepting Gillian, but he’s ended up on his own. She showed up in Commerce City about two hours ago.”
“Good.” At least they knew where she was.
The ringing of a phone out in the main office caught his attention. The look on Skeeter’s face when she answered it had him straightening up in his chair, tuned in to his wife.
She turned more fully toward him and met his gaze. After a couple of seconds, she put the caller on hold.
“You might want to take this,” she said. “The call is showing FBI encryption, but it’s not a government number, and the point of origin appears to be New Jersey. Atlantic City. He’s asking to talk with you, personally.”
“Route it through your system,” he said. “Record and trace, and put it on my speaker.”
She turned back to the phone in the office, and almost immediately, the “incoming”
He leveled his gaze back at Hawkins.
“So she went to El Salvador after the Panama mission,” he said, the “she” in question being the “she” who was always in question at SDF, their stringer, Red Dog. “Why?”
“The guys at the DEA say Tony Royce has opened a branch office there, in a town called San Luis. He’s working with Mara Plata, using the gang as a rung of bottom-feeders to get a foothold in Central America.”
“She needs to stop fucking around with Tony Royce.”
Hawkins gave a short nod. “You’ve told her. I’ve told her, and sure as hell Travis has told her. But there isn’t anybody in this office who doesn’t know she went to Uzbekistan when Royce was trying to put together a deal with Gul Rashid—a deal that fell apart.”
“We’ll take Royce out when, and if, Grant tells us to take him out.” Which couldn’t be any too soon to suit Dylan, especially since his London trip. The whole Rashid deal was getting a lot of play in a lot of bad places, and one of the names that had gotten attached to the story belonged to a man connected to Arthur Kendryk.
Dylan hated it when his enemies started connecting to each other. It made the hair rise on the back of his neck, because if there was one thing he and Hawkins didn’t believe in besides Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, it was coincidences of any kind.
“Unless Red Dog gets to Royce first,” Hawkins said. “There have been other deals she’s blown for him, Dylan. At least two I can verify, and a couple of others I can’t, but which seem to have her fingerprints all over them.”
Shit. The woman needed to be reined in, before she did irreparable harm to herself or SDF. But no matter what she’d done or hadn’t done, if it started to look like Royce was trying to flank SDF in retaliation for Red Dog’s sabotage, Dylan didn’t doubt that Grant would authorize the man’s summary execution. It was an order Dylan would gladly carry out himself. He’d been there the night Gillian Pentycote had been tortured, and he cut her a lot of slack because of it, but there were limits.
The SDF operators were loose cannons, they were cowboys, and they were a good many other things, but they weren’t out-and-out pirates. They could—and would—act when no one else seemed able to, which Dylan figured was what had prompted White Rook to sponsor an outfit like SDF in the first place, but they had a line they didn’t cross, the one drawn for them by General Grant.
It was the only line they needed—most of them. Red Dog was the exception. Sometimes he wondered if there were any lines she wouldn’t cross, and sometimes he wondered what he might have to do, if she went too far.
“Is Rydell still in Panama?” C. Smith Rydell could be trusted to act, to get a job done without making a mess of things or exposing SDF to unwanted scrutiny. A DEA agent for years before he’d joined the chop-shop boys on Steele Street, he knew how to cover his ass and his tracks.
“I already sent him to El Salvador. He’s in San Luis tonight. I tasked him with intercepting Gillian, but he’s ended up on his own. She showed up in Commerce City about two hours ago.”
“Good.” At least they knew where she was.
The ringing of a phone out in the main office caught his attention. The look on Skeeter’s face when she answered it had him straightening up in his chair, tuned in to his wife.
She turned more fully toward him and met his gaze. After a couple of seconds, she put the caller on hold.
“You might want to take this,” she said. “The call is showing FBI encryption, but it’s not a government number, and the point of origin appears to be New Jersey. Atlantic City. He’s asking to talk with you, personally.”
“Route it through your system,” he said. “Record and trace, and put it on my speaker.”
She turned back to the phone in the office, and almost immediately, the “incoming”
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