4. Hawk

CHAPTER 4

HAWK

There's a taste of blood and dust in my mouth and my wrists ache from the cold feel of the cuffs.

"Move it," one of the agents barks at me as I'm shoved into the backseat of an unmarked car, just like Flynn. He's the only one who's been dragged out of the tunnel, all bruised and covered in dirt but seemingly with no injuries.

Our eyes meet briefly before we are tucked into our respective vehicles. It's a silent conversation of confusion and fear and I try to figure out if he saw what happened, if he heard me calling my badge number to save Isaac's life. But Flynn's gaze doesn't give anything away. Besides, he was too far away. He couldn't possibly…

But Jeremy and Ricky… They were close. And I wonder if either one of them caught the slip of my identity amidst all the gunfire and all the shouting. Did they hear the name "Dallas" spill from some careless man's lips? Did they hear me say "Special Agent?"

I'm not given time to dwell on it as we pull away.

Isaac's face flashes in my mind, pale and stained with blood—a crimson bloom spreading from his side, painting the ground beneath him. My gut twists. He was so still when they dragged me away, the chaos muddying my last glimpse of him. I didn't see any medics reach him, didn't catch the whir of a helicopter's blades cutting through the air to lift him to safety.

I don't know if he's been helped, if he's lying in some sterile room fighting for his life, or worse...

What the fuck happened anyway?

Why now?

And how did the ATF get wind of this?

The pieces just don't add up in my head no matter how I turn them.

"Hey!" I call out to the guy behind the wheel. "What about my asset? Is he—"

"Don't know anything about that," a voice from the front comes. An empty gaze meets mine in the rearview mirror, reflecting absolutely nothing as the car speeds on through the brand-new night.

"He's crucial to my operation, asshole! He needs a fucking doctor! I asked for a goddamn medivac, for fuck's sake!"

"I suggest you calm down."

"Calm down? You're ruining months of undercover work!"

I get silence in return.

Great. Just great.

I feel like every turn takes me further away from the answers, from the semblance of control I thought I had. It's all a huge mess now—lives hanging in the balance, the Bureau's operation teetering on the edge of ruin.

And Isaac... God, Isaac.

Please, let him be okay— the thought rushes through my head. I know it's useless, this fragile wishful thinking, as fragile as my state of mind.

Still, I pray.

The bleak, empty room I'm huddled into some time later in the night is a huge contrast to the blood and grime of the ambush site but it doesn't make me feel any better. The cuffs around my wrists click open. The sound rings in the silence, mocking me with a freedom I can't truly grasp.

"Your badge number checked out," the officer states flatly, his face as nondescript as the walls. "Superior's on the way."

"What about my asset?" My voice scrapes against my throat, raw from the dust and shouting.

I need information, something to hold on to in this vacuum where Isaac's fate is still unknown.

"Reynolds will get you up to speed." That's all the officer gives me before he exits. The door seals behind him with a quiet snick.

Minutes drag into an eternity. I pace the confined space, replaying the chaos, the sounds of gunfire, Isaac's face leached of all color. Each thought is like a spike driven deeper into my chest.

The door finally shudders open what seems like a lifetime later and—I presume—Agent Reynolds steps in.

He's a towering man in his fifties, the kind of man who doesn't bother with formalities involving knocking but enters as if he owns every inch of the world. He's got a stern gaze, probably hardened by years of wielding power. And immediately I sense an adversary in him rather than a friend. Although we're supposed to be on the same side.

"Special Agent Dallas Bradley with the FBI," he says, tone clearly mocking. "What the hell are you doing here in Arizona?"

I'm a fortress of frustration and fear. I square my shoulders, meeting his gaze. "I should be asking you the same question. Your men came in guns blazing. No warning. What the fuck was that? You blew my cover."

He studies me for a second before supplying, "We've been working our target for over a year now, Agent Bradley. So don't you tell me my men blew your cover. The FBI chose not to disclose they were digging into the Hellhounds. You boys always think you're better than anyone while we all work for the same man."

"With all due respect, sir, but you put fucking lives on the line! Mine included."

His tone scales up with incredulity. "Again, not my problem your superiors didn't communicate with us, Agent Bradley. I'm just trying to salvage what I can now."

"Are you serious?" My laugh is bitter, the sound of it bouncing off the walls.

"Do I look like I'm playing games? Besides, the good news is that your cover's still good. No one except Thoreau was around to hear you blasting your badge number. My men had the rest of the Hellhounds pinned inside the tunnel."

"How many did you arrest?"

"Flynn Carson is the only one in custody. The rest are in the wind. We won't bother. Warrants don't do shit when it comes to these guys. They have to be caught red-handed."

"What about my asset?"

"Thoreau?" Agent Reynolds pauses as if he can actually read through me, as if he knows Thoreau isn't an asset at all. "He's alive. Out of surgery."

Relief hits, swift and staggering, but it's mixed with a sour twist of dread. Alive isn't the same as safe. Not in this game.

"Take me to him," I say, the demand is in every shred of authority I possess in this fucked up situation.

Reynolds nods, a tight movement. "Get cleaned up first." He heads for the door but stops and says over his shoulder, "My team wasn't aware the Feds were investigating Thoreau. He's not worth the effort, if you ask me. Just some small-time criminal, riding his daddy's reputation coattails."

"It's not for you to decide, is it?" I grit out, "if he's worth my time?" But something in the man's tone has my mind racing. If the ATF don't seem to be bothered by Thoreau's dealings, why does the Bureau have so much interest invested in this?

"Thoreau's small fry compared to Solovey," Reynolds retorts, and then his mouth snaps shut, as if he's caught himself revealing too much.

"Solovey?" I'm connecting dots in rapid succession. "You're telling me you've been digging under Solovey all this time?"

"You know I can't talk about this, Agent Bradley. If this were a joint task force, things would have been different. But as it stands now, you and my men are working different angles. Unless your superiors stop being dicks, I don't see what else we can do except for figuring out how not to fuck it up even more. Anyway, someone's already flying out to sort this through."

Reynolds's lips press into a thin line and he strides out of the room.