Chapter Five
Lucky strolled into the living room in a pair of boxers, working his teeth with a foamy toothbrush, leg aching from last night’s unexpected run. No more skulking around the house buck naked with kids around.
Conversation and laughter came from the kitchen, and for a moment a touch of jealousy curled through Lucky’s stomach. Then he snorted. Ty needed a positive male influence in his life and he’d hit the jackpot with Bo.
Lucky crept back the way he’d come. Let the guys have their bonding time while he finished up in the bathroom.
The scent of pancakes and syrup wafted through the house, leading Lucky straight to the table.
“Good morning!” Bo called out, doling out pancakes to Todd and Ty. Damn, but he’d make a good father.
“Mawnin’,” Lucky replied to avoid an elbow to the ribs for bad manners and headed for the coffee pot. Bo’s laptop sat on the counter. One look at the Pharmaceutical Daily News onscreen made Lucky stop.
He leaned down, putting his nose inches from the screen, scrolling to read the article. Icy fingers trailed down his spine. Why couldn’t be breathe?
A half cup of coffee didn’t wake his brain enough to change the article for the better. “Bo, have you seen this?”
Bo strolled back toward him, empty pancake plate in hand. “Seen what?”
Lucky turned the laptop toward Bo.
Bo’s cheerfulness vanished. “I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I.” Some damn body had better explain and explain fast.
The headline said it all: DEA Revokes Registration from Chastain Pharmaceuticals.
***
Lucky took his own car to work since Bo had a different schedule and volunteered to drop Ty off at school. So far Ty hadn’t said too much about his classes, or the people, but he didn’t say a whole lot of words to Lucky anyway.
Thank God for Bo.
Lisa’s eyes widened when Lucky stomped up to the reception desk. “Has Rogers checked in yet?”
“No… no, sir. He’s been out of the office the last few days on assignment.”
Lucky’s hackles rose. “What kind of assignment?”
“I don’t know.” The receptionist’s voice dropped whisper-quiet.
Lucky cut off a groan. No need scaring Lisa. She hadn’t done anything wrong.
That he knew of.
“Is Walter in?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I need to see him.”
Lisa spoke into her phone for a moment. “He says to come on in.”
Lucky made his way to his boss’s office and sat in his normal chair in front of Walter’s desk, breathing in the familiar scents of Old Spice and the boss’s cream-laden coffee.
Walter looked up from the laptop on his desk. “Good morning, Lucky. I suppose this is about Chastain Pharmaceuticals.”
“You read my report. The place was so clean it kind of freaked me out. There was nothing, I tell you, nothing wrong with the place.” Lucky pulled his gaze from the ugly motivational poster behind Walter.
The SNB and Chastain Pharmaceuticals must have hired the same decorator.
Walter rested his elbows on his desk in the small space in front of him not overloaded with papers and files. “Yes, I did read your report. I also know you. If there’d been anything out of the ordinary, or any violations, no matter how small, you’d have included them in your report.”
“Damned right, I would.” Proof positive that maintaining a consistent reputation, even as an iron-clad sonofabitch, came in handy now and again.
Walter pursed his lips, a furrow deepening between his eyebrows. “Do you have an idea of anything that may have occurred after you left?”
“Two hours, Walter! Two hours. Nobody could screw up that badly in two hours.” Not even Lucky. He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “What exactly did they find?”
“So far, there’s been no official word of DEA’s findings. They’re keeping the matter hush-hush for now.”
Not hush-hush enough to keep the headline off the Internet. Lucky scowled. Walter started his career with DEA and knew everybody in the business. “I know you’ve got contacts. Hell, Jameson O’Donoghue is still roaming around the halls. Ask him!”
Walter heaved out a sigh. “While Jameson is here on loan from the DEA, his area is undercover operations training. I seriously doubt he’d have those kinds of connections.”
Lucky didn’t like the man, hadn’t since the dumbass started consulting here and scowled at Lucky’s less-than-stellar past. He’d also trained Bo, which resulted in Bo nearly being killed.
The world would get along fine with one less moron. Lucky certainly could.
For long moments Walter studied him. “Are you really concerned about a pharmaceutical company being wrongly accused, or of your own opinion being questioned?”
Ouch. Direct hit. But Lucky wasn’t wrong, damn it! He’d even gone by the book for once in his life. “You know for years some folks at the DEA have been calling the SNB wannabes and come waltzing in after we’ve done the dirty work to claim credit during takedowns.” A few examples came to mind, sneering faces—several he’d nearly punched. “And it’s not just me I’m worried about. Hell, everyone knows my reputation, but Bo and Johnson were with me on this one.” He slammed a hand down on the desk. “They did everything right. No way in hell did DEA find big enough problems to yank their registration two hours after we concluded our audit. Just the fact they voluntarily asked us for a compliance evaluation says a lot about them.”
Walter leaned back in his chair, staring off at the far wall. “While I wouldn’t dare naysay another agency, or show disrespect, I’ll request a copy of the report.” He gave Lucky his best barracuda smile. “After all, cooperation between agencies is key to winning the war on drugs.”
Lucky couldn’t hide a smirk. Walter often repeated those words in front of the cameras when being interviewed, or when trying to worm his way into another agency’s good graces, which he usually managed with startling ease.
What would Lucky do without him?
He paused at the door on his way out and almost asked if Walter put a tail on him.
No. He wouldn’t ask. He knew the answer.
***
A shadow fell over Lucky’s desk. Lucky growled at the person who wasn’t Bo, Johnson, Walter, or Lisa, the only people allowed in his sanctuary.
Owen Landry tossed a printed out copy of the Chastain article on Lucky’s desk. “Does it hurt much? Being wrong?” The asshole sneered. “I wouldn’t know, personally.”
Lucky rose from his chair, but Landry retreated before Lucky could grab his fool neck and choke the life out of him.
He collapsed into the chair behind his desk, barely catching himself when the Hell Bitch tried to throw him. Damned chair.
He rose immediately, running a hand through his hair and pacing to Bo’s desk and back in their shared cubicle. Where was Bo? He needed Bo.
Or Johnson. Where the hell was everybody? He called the receptionist. Lisa answered on the first ring. “Hello, Mr. Harrison. How can I help you?” Mr. Harrison. Not Lucky.
“Have you seen Agent Schollenberger or Agent Johnson?” Two could play the “let’s be formal at work” game.
“No, sir, I haven’t. Could I help you with something?”
Lucky started to hang up, but imagined Bo swatting the back of his head and hissing, “Manners!”
“No. But thanks.” He ended the call and resumed his brooding. After all these years, the first few spent in a dizzying round of alternately hating and admiring Walter, now that the verdict came in for admiring, the man planned to leave.
Well, not really planned. Asshole higherups pissed all over the man’s untarnished record and intended to throw him out like so much trash.
To top things off, Landry had grown a set of balls or had lost his fool mind. In Lucky’s experience, flunkies only started mouthing off if they thought they were safe from retribution.
O’Donoghue replacing Walter meant Landry moved up the food chain.
Lucky lobbed an empty Starbucks cup at the far wall. It sailed out of his cube, smacked the wall, and hit the floor, barely missing a passing newbie’s head.
The guy gave Lucky wide eyes.
“What the fuck you lookin’ at?” Lucky growled.
The rookie took off down the hall, hissing to an unseen someone, “You don’t want to go that way. He’s throwing things.” Since no one else passed the cube, whoever he’d spoken to must’ve taken the advice.
Damn, but Lucky’s skin crawled. Walter should be here. Always. How old was he, anyway? Not too old to keep a bunch of misfit agents in line. Drug traffickers feared Walter Smith. He’d worked hard to earn his reputation.
All for what?
He’d go to bat for Lucky, Bo, and Johnson, get to the bottom of whatever else turned up they hadn’t been aware of.
Save the bureau’s reputation.
Save Lucky’s.
They’d done a thorough job at Chastain. Textbook, as far as Bo and Johnson were concerned.
Lucky dove a bit farther, with the mind of a criminal looking for security breaches.
Nothing.
Agencies shared information. DEA knew the SNB inspected the place.
Rookie Rogers also seemed to be tailing him. If that was Rogers he’d seen last night. For all he knew Victor’s outfit kept an eye on him.
Victor. The way-too-handsome, way-too-powerful drug lord who’d taken Lucky under his wing, taught him the business, and tried to save him in the end. Made the deal with Walter to get Lucky out of prison early, to work off his sentence in service to the good guys.
Lucky closed his eyes, heart clenching as a vision swam before his eyes—a vision of Victor hanging in a jail cell. How he’d hated himself, blamed himself for the testimony that had helped put him there.
He should’ve known a prison sentence wouldn’t stop the man. Like Lucky, the former drug trafficker changed his ways, and now headed what could possibly be the international version of the Southeastern Narcotics Bureau, without the good-old-boy vibe and Southern accent.
Who’d wanted Lucky to work for him again.
No, Victor’s group hired the best of the best. If Victor had him followed, they wouldn’t be seen.
Rereading his report provided zero answers.
Perusing trainee files didn’t give him stress relief. Where was Bo? He knew better than to ask Walter. Being put in charge of training meant it wasn’t Lucky’s business what a non-trainee agent did. He’d know about Bo’s cases if and when he needed to, per bureau policy.
The bureau.
He’d given years of his life to the bureau. Done a damned fine job.
For what? One swift kick toppled the trash can. If he didn’t get out of here, he’d throw more than a coffee cup.
He eyed the Christmas cactus perched on the filing cabinet, tendrils nearly grazing the floor.
Nope, he couldn’t throw the plant. Bo might never forgive him for destroying the reminder of what should have been their first Christmas together.
Reaching under his desk, he fumbled around for his gym bag. Ah, there. He unzipped the compartment and took a whiff. Clean. Must be ‘cause of Bo. Lucky didn’t remember washing his workout gear lately.
Striding past the reception desk, bag slung over one shoulder, he told Lisa, “If anybody asks where I am…” He corrected, “If Walter, Bo or Johnson want to know where I am, tell ‘em I’m at the gym down the street. If anyone else asks, tell ‘em it’s none of their business.” He didn’t say, “Tell ‘em to fuck off.” Bo would be so proud.
***
The usual guy sat on a stool in the gym lobby, playing with his cell phone. He jumped up and backed away when Lucky flung open the door and marched inside. “You!”
“What about me?” Lucky fixed the guy with a glare sure to send newbies running. Yeah, yeah. Teach a few guys a lesson and nobody forgot. The smart ones, at least.
The guy’s Adam’s apple bobbed and he stared wide-eyed. “Um, how can I help you?”
Yeah, ‘bout time this asshat learned some respect. “I need a ring.”
“N… number seven’s open.”
“I’ll take it.” Lucky marched toward the locker rooms, glancing back over his shoulder. “Oh, and one more thing.”
“Yeah?” The attendant blanched. “I mean, yessir?”
“Find me a cocky asshole who needs taking down a few notches.” After further consideration, he amended, “Better make that several.”
An hour later Lucky limped out of the gym clutching his side, hella sore, dog tired, but he’d left the other guys worse off.
His doctor might scream at him for over exerting, Bo might fuss at him for not following doctor’s orders, but at the end of the day, he still had it.
But what was he going to do with it?
***
Too late now to go back to work, might as well go on home. He picked up his cell phone to text Bo about his plans, only to find a message from Bo: “Taking boys to store for more school supplies and to pick up pizza. Be home soon.”
The boys. No way could he go home and scream and yell like he wanted to, and he couldn’t exactly ask Bo to fuck him hard and fast on the living room floor, his normal coping mechanism.
It should be him taking Ty to buy notebooks and whatnot, not Bo. Only, Ty wouldn’t talk to Lucky and Bo was uncle too, right?
One day. He’d have to work on the whole family thing.
The Chastain Pharmaceutical fuck-up had to be addressed. Bo and Johnson didn’t need this shit. They’d left nothing to chance. What the hell had DEA found that they hadn’t?
Bo’s SUV sat in the yard when he arrived, and Lucky paused at the front door, breathing deep to release tension.
He eased the front door open with a wince, expecting Moose to flatten him and drool on his face. Nothing.
No need for the dog to greet him with three other people to get pats from.
Cat Lucky eyed Lucky from the back of the couch, blinked once, then closed his eyes and went back to sleep.
“Good to see you too,” Lucky grumbled.
He managed to put on a relatively happy face over dinner, trying not to piss Ty off too much, and to think of other things to say to Todd than, “So, are you looking forward to college?” and otherwise silently telling Bo things weren’t okay. Bo raised a brow but said nothing until the boys were settled on the couch, watching a sit-com.
“Hey, Lucky. Could you help me move something in the garage?”
“Um… yeah, sure.” What the hell could Bo want to move? Nothing much out there but the Harley.
The moment he stepped into the garage, Bo closed the door, folded his arms across his chest, and glared at Lucky with narrowed eyes. “You left work to go to the gym, which means you found someone to kick the shit out of, and you didn’t come back. We’ll talk later about how badly you might have hurt yourself. I mean, the doctors cut you open…” Bo closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Sorry. Like I said, we’ll address that later.” He stepped forward and enveloped Lucky in a hug. “Sorry, sorry. Now’s not the time.”
Lucky relaxed into the embrace, bringing his arms up to encircle Bo’s waist and breathing in the man’s scent, right now mingled with pizza smell, though Bo only served the pizza and ate salad himself.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” Bo whispered against Lucky’s neck.
Bo knew him well—both a blessing and a curse. Lucky pulled back enough to see Bo’s eyes and emptied his lungs in a harsh exhale. “I don’t know where to start. Today’s been a shitty day.”
Worried creases furrowed Bo’s brow. “Then start at the beginning.” He kept a hand on Lucky’s shoulder, warm and comforting. “Has this got to do with what we read on Chastain this morning?”
With a quick nod, Lucky steeled his nerves to tell Bo the whole story. “I asked Walter what the DEA found that we didn’t.”
“And?”
“He didn’t know, but he’s trying to find out. Bo, you and Rett did an outstanding job. There was nothing for anyone to find.”
Bo hung his head. “I wondered about that, going through things in my mind over and over. We went by the damned book!”
Of course he did. Lucky was the one known for bending rules until they broke. “I just don’t get it. But it wouldn’t be the first time someone from DEA decided to discredit me.” Several examples came to mind, most from his early days with the bureau.
“You think this is personal? About you?”
Lucky shrugged. “Unless they got something against Chastain.”
“Well, maybe they’d hidden something really well.”
They couldn’t have hidden anything to the point Lucky wouldn’t find it. “Somehow, I’m not believing that.” He needed a reason, not just for his sake, but to save Bo and Johnson’s reputations. If someone had it in for him, he’d find a way to settle the score, and no one, absofuckinglutely no one, messed with one of Lucky’s without paying dearly.
Bo closed the distance and wrapped Lucky in a firm hug. “Why is this bothering you so badly? Is there something you’re not telling me?”
As much as he hated to lose the comfort of Bo’s arms, he pulled back enough to make eye contact. “Just a sec.” Lucky pulled out his cell phone and sent Walter a text. “Can I tell Bo about retirement thing?”
Walter wrote back, “I didn’t mean you couldn’t discuss matters with your partner.”
Okay. Getting the boss’s permission didn’t make the words come any easier. “Assholes higher up are pushing Walter to retire.”
Bo’s mouth and eyes flew wide. “What? Why?”
“I dunno. They say he no longer meets the requirements.”
Bo threw his arms in the air and whirled around. “Walter doesn’t need to retire until he’s damned good and ready. Is there someone we can make our case to?”
Lucky clenched and unclenched his jaw, initial rage returning, fueled by Bo’s righteous anger. “If there is, I’d like to introduce the sumbitch to my fist.”
“There must be something we can do if Walter’s being forced out against his will. What does Walter say? Does he want to go, or does he want to fight?”
“I think he’s given up.” Defeat wasn’t a good look on Walter, either. “Legally, I’m not sure what they can do but make it clear he isn’t wanted.”
Lucky’s phone chimed again. “I received DEA report. Stop by my office in the morning.”
And didn’t that pretty much guarantee a sleepless night.