DEA grunts scrubbed out the back of Sid’s car so he wasn’t driving around a bloodbath on wheels. After that, and with Fordham’s permission, Sid ran out and got Jack and me whole new outfits. (“Never, ever ask me to buy you skivvies again,” Sid griped.) Considering they’d been through two blazing hot days, a fire, a meth lab explosion, and a couple of shootouts, our clothes were a little ripe.  

DEA headquarters had a bathroom with a shower. After a good scrubbing and a change of clothes, I felt almost human again.

Before we left, Fordham gave us all burners – cheap, disposable cell phones – and had us transfer any contact info we needed from our old phones (well, my old phone, seeing as Jack’s had been shot) into the new ones.

“In case Chief Peters decides he wants to perpetrate some illegal wiretapping or phone tracking before you take him out of office,” Fordham said, “he won’t know to track these new ones.”

Although when he said ‘take him out of office,’ it sounded more sarcastic than confident.

As Fordham was about to let us go, Sid grumbled, “Christ, now I gotta play Drivin’ Miss Daisy to you two with fuckin’ biker gangs shootin’ at my ass.”

“I might be able to help with that,” Fordham said. “Go on out front, Semper Fi, I’ll send ‘em around to meet you.”

While Sid went out to his car, Fordham took us down a long hallway and into a motor pool, where a small fleet of shiny new SUVs, sports cars, and motorcycles stood parked.

“Take what you need,” Fordham said. “They’re seizures from drug busts and gang shit we haven’t turned over to the regional office yet.”

“Really?” I asked in shock.

“Are you serious?” Jack asked, looking at a top-of-the-line Harley.

“Well, I want them back,” Fordham said in exasperation. “These are loaners for the next couple of days, not gifts. But as long as you’re going to get shot at, you might as well get shot at in style.”

I paused beside a Lamborghini.

“Maybe try to stay slightly inconspicuous, huh?” Fordham snapped.

I pouted for a second, then chose a shiny black Escalade instead. Jack took the Harley.

Fordham got the keys from a locked cabinet in the wall, then tossed them underhanded to us. “I’m betting hard on you assholes. Don’t make me regret it.”

“Why?” I asked.

“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 they’ll 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.”

I rolled my eyes as I got in the Escalade. “Great pep talk.”

Why did all the guys in the DEA have to be assholes?

And then Fordham did something unexpected.

“Hey Christenson… you asked why I’m betting on you, but you asked the wrong question.”

“What’s the right one?” I asked, about as enthusiastic to hear the answer as a teenage goth girl at a knitting party.

“The right question is, why am I trusting you?”

Fordham pointed at me.

“Risked her life to go undercover to find out who killed her cousin.”

Then he pointed at Jack.

“Lifelong criminal who tried to go straight, almost succeeded… then risked it all for a woman he’d just met.”

Fordham looked me square in the eyes. “If I gotta bet hard on somebody… I’ll take you two.”

With that, he walked back inside headquarters and shut the door.

I have to admit, I was a little choked up as I drove out of the motor pool and onto the road back to reality.