Chapter 1 A flash of brake lights ahead in the darkness warned Faith Nelson that the other car was slowing down. She took her foot off the gas and coasted to a stop on the gravel road. She lowered her window but all she heard was the soft murmur of her engine. It was an inky dark night along the Minnesota River. The air heavy with humidity and the stink of fish. A well-lit pier up ahead produced a shock of intense yellow light. A stand of trees off to the side created a black blotch against the glowing radiance maybe a block away. She was thinking in blocks instead of feet. Typical city girl. The misplaced frame of reference made her smile. It wasn’t the only thing that made her feel out of place here. She was a black city girl from Oakland in the Midwest. She strained her ears and heard a car door shut. When she’d first been assigned the agency minivan, she’d disabled the dome light so there was no illumination when she opened her door. Leaning over, she popped the glove box and retrieved her Maglite, praying the batteries were still good, but didn’t want to risk checking it. She shut the van off and pocketed the keys. As she got out, the tick of the engine was overpowered by the chirping of the crickets. She stuck the flashlight in her back pocket, then pulled her Glock, holding it in low-ready as she moved slowly forward. The gravel crunched under her soft steps. With her elbow, she felt the extra magazines on her belt. Hopefully she had enough bullets. She could almost hear her range instructor back at Quantico barking in her ear: What’re you gonna do, Nelson? His hot breath on her neck as he shouted. Have a plan, Agent! Always have a plan. But she had none. Why were they abducting Moose? Had he done something? Double-crossed them? As she closed the distance, Faith heard a sound, but couldn’t tell whether it was a trunk or car door closing. She made it to a cut in the trees and could see through the leaves where a splintered path led down to the river. It was hard to believe she was in suburban Minneapolis, where the river valley divided Bloomington from Burnsville. She might as well be in the middle of nowhere, as isolated as she felt. At least it was warm. It was still September. She crept forward. From the light of the pier she could make out the concrete seawall at the river’s lip, complete with docking cleats. No barge was moored at the landing. The vegetation had been cleared away closer to the pier and the flat ground packed with stone led to the concrete. This was the easternmost portion of the dock. No doubt they’d dredged the river so that it was good and deep right off the wall. Any arriving vessels would be heavy with ore or grain or garbage or whatever else it was they were bringing in. The smell of fish filled her nose. The odor was anything but fresh. From her position in the darkness, she could make out three figures in the glaring light, their splintered shadows stretching across the gray concrete in several directions. Their boldness only reminded her that she was completely on her own. No cavalry was coming to her aid. Two men stood facing each other. The third crouched, working on something at the foot of the tallest man. She edged closer, counting on the deep shadows to keep her hidden. The target of her surveillance, Darrell Lundgren, was easily recognizable as the tall man at the edge of the cement. His arms were secured behind his back. He was six-five and had long hair. Earlier, Faith had thought she’d be watching a dope deal. Lundgren, known as Moose to his biker gang, had an unscheduled meet with a guy who was supplying him with crank. But Moose had been taken at gunpoint by his contact and another man. And now they were all here next to the dark undulating water of the river. Her problem being that she’d been conducting an unauthorized surveillance. Her calls to the other agents on her team had gone unanswered. Under her breath, she cursed her training agent and his Monday Night Football soiree. Evan Thompson was Moose’s contact. Thompson was bald, short, and stocky, and stood in front of Moose. He held his revolver at waist level, pointed at Lundgren’s stomach. His accomplice, a guy in a wife-beater and Levi’s, was wiring something to Moose’s ankles. Thompson ran his empty hand across his bald head. His voice floated up through the darkness as she closed the distance, worried she’d be spotted at any second. “It doesn’t really matter whether you’re a snitch or a pig. You ain’t walking away from this.” Was Moose a cop? She couldn’t make out his response, though she could see him shaking his shaggy head. For once he wore no ponytail, and his greasy hair covered his face. “But I’ll do this,” Thompson said. “Tell me what you’ve shared—” he paused and circled his gun’s barrel. “—and I can make it quick.” He cleared his throat and spat. When Moose didn’t respond, Thompson hooked his thumb at the river behind him. “Otherwise, you’re going in alive.” Faith heard Wife-Beater Guy mutter something unintelligible. Thompson looked down. “What’s wrong?” The guy’s answer was inaudible. She finally got close enough to see that he’d wrapped Lundgren’s legs, from the knees down, with thick nylon rope and was using pliers to wire cinderblocks to the crimped loops at the end of the line. They were going to drown him, if they didn’t shoot him first. Her mind raced. What’re you gonna do now, Nelson! Gotta do something! Clock’s ticking! She forced herself to think. There was at least one firearm in play, making Thompson the most immediate threat. Before she’d entered the Criminal Investigations Training Program with the D.E.A., Faith had never fired a gun, and then it had taken her three times to qualify. Shooting wasn’t a skill that had come naturally. Know what’s down range! What’s behind your target! Don’t want to kill Grandma if you miss! At least the backstop was the river and the uninhabited bank on the other side. How much time did she have? Regardless, she had to get closer. Rising from her crouch, she started for the men, hoping the deep shadows and their attention on one another would obscure her approach. Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe. Get it right! Someone’s life might be at stake! The range instructor’s voice rang in her ears. Don’t let your front sight bounce! Keep it level and steady! Wife-Beater Guy said something else to Thompson as he scooched back from Moose. He must be done. Faith’s stomach dropped and she couldn’t breathe. Game time. Smooth is fast! her instructor had shouted. Squeeze! “Police!” Faith yelled. “Thompson, drop the gun!” Thompson turned and looked at her. She was surprised at how close she’d gotten as she exhaled slowly out of pursed lips. A smile spread across Thompson’s face before his hand moved, bringing the gun around toward her. The hole of the barrel huge and black. She squeezed the trigger. Double tap! She could feel the spittle on her cheek as the instructor had screamed, Two to the chest! The first explosion scared her. The second sounded hollow and wasn’t quite the surprise the first had been. Thompson stood there. Had she missed him? Was he wearing a ballistic vest? The gun didn’t move for a second. He slouched, took a half step, the gun rose, tilted downward to rise again. One to the head! The words from the range reverberated in her skull. Faith squeezed again. Thompson staggered. A hole had appeared above his right eye. His gun dropped to the ground. Something was happening to the left, but Faith didn’t take her eyes from her target as Thompson fell backwards into the river. Faith looked at the other two men and found the movement she’d registered a second ago had been Lundgren falling. Legs splayed wide, he was struggling to keep his bulk on top of the man in the wife-beater, who was working his right hand toward his waistband. “Roll off, Moose!” Faith yelled. Her voice sounded foggy and distant in her ears. Lundgren fell off to the side, just as the man under him freed a black semi-auto. As Wife-Beater brought it up, Faith squeezed off her fifth and sixth and seventh rounds. The echoing bangs were reduced to pops in her abused ears. She knew without seeing it that she’d hit him center mass. His shirt was torn in three places on his chest. The gun dropped to the cement and he whimpered and hacked as red seeped out through the holes in the cloth. “I. Give.” The man coughed and spit a glob of blood. Faith kicked his gun into the grass. Only then did she shift her Glock to one hand and pick up both firearms, shoving them in her waistband. The flat, metallic planes cold against her flesh. She pulled the flashlight from her back pocket and had to slap it hard on her thigh to turn it on. She swept the dark water of the river with her light. Thompson was nowhere to be seen. As she took deep breaths, reality came back into focus. She checked the wounded man. He was slumped over unconscious, the front of his wife-beater soaked in red leaking over his belt onto his jeans. The stain spread toward the ground. Going to Moose, she tried to roll him over, but she couldn’t. He was too big, and not cooperating. His face was a rictus of agony and spittle drooled from the corner of his mouth as he tried to speak. His hands were swollen and purple and blood streamed from his wrist restraints. His words came out as a hoarse croak. “Ahhhh! Don’t, please,” he said. “My wrists.” He craned his neck to look at her. “ATF” He hadn’t been handcuffed. His wrists had been wired together. The steel cut deep into his skin. She searched the ground before finding the pliers partially under Wife-Beater. She felt sick as she tried to work the jaws under the bloody wire. But they were so tight, embedded in Moose’s flesh. Moose groaned with each movement as she forced the jaws through to the cutter almost at the hinge. Soon, the plier’s grips and her hands were slick with blood. She had to use both hands to cut through the first wire, then the second. Clearly, he needed medical attention. She ran to her minivan and called nine-one-one, reporting the shooting to a police dispatcher who eventually understood where Faith was trying to direct the help. Then she drove the van down the road to the pier. Lundgren was trying to use the pliers to free himself, but he could barely hold the implement. His face twisted in a grimace. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He looked up at her. She took the blood-slick instrument and started on the wire around his ankles. He jerked involuntarily from the pain as she worked the metal that was entrenched beneath his flesh along with material from his sock. Then he chuckled, his teeth streaked with blood. “Oh God, I thought I was dead. The way you took out those two guys—I owe you big time.” He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut, more tears rolling down his cheeks. “Man, you’re an angel.” He groaned. “I’m ATF,” he said again, with more clarity this time as she worked the remaining wire from one leg. “You saved my ass.” Faith wrestled with the remaining cable. “You local?” Lundgren asked, his voice gravelly. She shook her head, biting her tongue. “DEA” “You said police before?” “I’m from Oakland.” She grinned. “Cops are more intimidating than feds.”

×