Chapter Nine
“Come in, sit down.” O’Donoghue waved Lucky in. As if he needed an invite to park his ass in his own butt print. He lugged in the favorite chair he’d found in a store room. The chair belonged to Lucky, and in Walter’s office. Only, he should be here talking to Walter.
Instead, Walter lay in a hospital bed, unconscious. Lucky glanced at the floor, where he’d seen Walter lying so still, lips blue, heart failing. He shook himself. No time to worry now, when facing a man who definitely didn’t have the bureau’s best interests at heart.
O’Donoghue raised his brows at the chair but said nothing, sitting behind the brand-new desk, a laptop in front of him, along with a can of ink pens and a coffee cup. Nothing else. No paper mounds. No files. All signs of Walter were gone, like he’d never even been there.
Out of the office two weeks and already this opportunistic bastard moved in. Well, he’d better not get too comfortable, because Walter would be back. If and when he chose to retire, it’d be someone from the SNB replacing him, not Jameson Fucking O’Donoghue.
The moment the boss got back, O’Donoghue better get his ass back to his own borrowed office. Or better yet, go back to Assholeville or wherever else he came from.
“You wanted to see me.” A statement, not the question Lucky would have asked Walter. He sprawled in the chair. Maybe a man who prided himself on reading body language might take Lucky’s slouch and crossed arms for, “Spit it out, you insignificant moron. Quit wasting my time.”
O’Donoghue tutted. “Harrison, what am I going to do with you?”
Not a damned thing. Not even with someone else’s dick. Lucky didn’t give the jerk the dignity of a spoken reply.
The man who’d never boss Lucky tapped a finger against his laptop, much as Walter might have done to the stack of folders normally piled to a toppling threat on his desk. “At one time, you were the best agent in the department.”
“Still am.” Always would be. Except maybe for Bo. And possibly Johnson. One day. Whatever the poser alluded to on the laptop changed nothing.
“I’m afraid Walter’s affection for you might have blinded him to a few oversights.”
“What oversights?” Lucky might not be sure of much in the world, but he’d damned sure crossed the T’s and dotted the I’s at work.
Sort of.
O’Donoghue waved his hand toward the laptop screen. “Now don’t get me wrong, we appreciate the excellent work you’ve done for us in the past, especially under the circumstances.”
“What circumstances?” Us?
The man who’d never fill Walter’s barge-sized shoes gave Lucky a bland expression, tinges of his New York beat cop accent bleeding through his otherwise controlled tones. “Your felony conviction. Walter took a big chance recruiting you, even challenging his superiors.”
An invisible gut punch stole Lucky’s breath. He clenched his jaw and still managed to get out, “I did my time. I’ve got a clean slate. Even a new name. Walter said the past didn’t matter anymore.”
O’Donoghue steepled his fingers, elbows on the desk, a familiar gesture, bringing Walter to mind. The similarities between Walter and O’Donoghue stopped there. “And it shouldn’t. Or rather, wouldn’t if not for your recent poor performance.”
“Poor performance?” Lucky shot from the chair. “What the hell are you talking about?”
O’Donoghue tapped the laptop some more. Do that again and he’d be missing a finger. “How you overlooked a major infraction at Chastain Pharmaceuticals. I’m afraid you’ve set a bad example for your protégés Loretta Johnson and William Schollenberger. You led them astray.” He tipped his head to the side. “It’s even been suggested that you might have deliberately turned a blind eye to certain… inadequacies.”
Who dared make such a suggestion? Lucky slammed his hand down on the desk. “Blind eye, my ass! We went over the place with a fine-toothed comb. We didn’t find anything worth more than a note in the margin.”
“Do you really believe DEA would revoke their registration if that were the case?” O’Donoghue took condescending to new heights. “They wouldn’t, believe me.”
Still, why would DEA have even investigated the place after SNB gave it a clean bill of health, “anonymous tip” or no? One and one added up to no fucking sense. “I still say I doubt the illegal shipment.”
“Well, the state Board of Pharmacy sure believes. After the DEA’s report they’ve shut Chastain down for the foreseeable future.”
“What the fuck?”
O’Donoghue piled on the scorn. “I’ll give it to you straight. You recently completed a grueling assignment in Mexico. You were abducted, by your own account.”
“My own account? Ask Johnson! Ask B… Schollenberger.”
“Yes, your loyal fan club. One’s sleeping with you and the other socializes with you off-duty.” The sonofabitch shook his head. “Then there’s the matter of your continued counseling and recent major surgery.”
What the ever-loving fuck? “Saving my dad’s life by parting with a chunk of liver’s got nothing to do with this.”
A bit of a growl crept into O’Donoghue’s tone. “I beg to differ. Your brother was recently discovered to be trafficking in illegal substances. Another brother is in drug rehab. You have a rather traumatic family life, don’t you?”
The Lucklighter clan was no more dysfunctional than any other family. “Leave my folks out of this. If you’ve got something to say about me, then say it.”
At least the fuckwad didn’t bring up the ethics committee looking into his and Bo’s relationship. Circulating the rumor of Bo wanting to transfer at least served some purpose.
“Okay. You want me to be blunt, I will be.” O’Donoghue leaned back in his… no, Walter’s, chair, or should be if the asshole hadn’t made the department buy a new one, crossing his arms across his chest. “You’ve been with this department over twelve years. Which is close to the record for field agents. Burnout is high in our line of work.”
“Yeah, it is. Lucky for you, I’m not about to burn out.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Look, you’ve been doing sloppy work, you’re bordering on insubordination now. Both classic signs of burnout. Plus, you’ve admitted yourself that you’re unsure about what might have happened with the whole Chastain Pharmaceuticals audit.”
“What the fuck?” He’d said no such thing. At least, not to O’Donoghue or any of his butt-kissers. But he had spoken to… No, it couldn’t be. Whatever he did, he couldn’t let O’Donoghue’s direct hit show on his face or in his body language. He bristled, letting his anger twist his features into a sneer, but he wouldn’t show fear. “I am not burned out. I’m just getting warmed up good.” As soon as this clusterfuck ended, he’d hunt down Loretta Johnson and find out exactly what she’d told O’Donoghue and why.
O’Donoghue stood. “I don’t agree, and neither do those I answer to. Between your recent questionable judgement and criminal past, I’m afraid I have no choice but to assign you to desk duty until further notice. I’ll not risk agents out on the streets counting on someone unstable.”
Why, the little shit! “Unstable? I’ll give you unstable.” Lucky leapt toward the desk.
O’Donoghue quickly schooled his wide-eyed fear into a scowl. “Violence is another sign of burnout.”
Oh shit. Not much of a reaction. Which meant one thing: somewhere someone recorded every second of their exchange. “What about Schollenberger and Johnson?”
“They’d likely defend you with their dying breath. They’re loyal. Too loyal, and can’t see what a danger you’ve become to yourself and this department. Otherwise, they’re both exemplary agents and will be assigned to a new handler.”
Lucky stared daggers at his non-boss. “Who?” The only danger Lucky presented was to O’Donoghue’s superiority complex.
“Owen Landry.”
And maybe Landry’s.
Owen Landry, another loaner from DEA sent here to train. Must be a slow learner, staying so long. He’d also had the nerve to cozy up to Bo. Like his puppet master O’Donoghue, Owen strutted around like the lone cock in the henhouse. Prick was more like it.
“That piece of shit? He’s not even fully trained.”
O’Donoghue’s face remained an impassive mask. “I believe otherwise. Guess whose opinion matters?”
Lucky would be happy to bitch slap the smug straight off the bastard’s face. “What will I be doing?” Like he didn’t know. He’d been pretty much on desk duty for the past few days.
“The usual. Searching websites for illegal suppliers. Making controlled purchases.”
“Rookie work.” If Lucky clenched his teeth any harder his jaw might break.
“Work that needs doing. Now, I’m being generous offering you a chance to remain with the department when many in my place wouldn’t.”
“What are you talking about? Not too long ago the big boys tried recruiting me.” Yes, he had friends in high places, whose reach made the SNB seem like a neighborhood watch.
If Lucky hadn’t been looking so hard for a reaction, he might have missed his enemy’s slight flinch. Ah, so he hadn’t known. Then he also didn’t know about Lucky’s guardian devils.
Nice to have a pair of aces up his sleeve.
Victor Mangiardi and Nestor Sauceda, the man who’d saved Lucky and Bo’s asses in Mexico, and handed over Victor’s useless nephew, the man they’d needed saving from.
Sitting up straighter didn’t help the wannabe fill Walter’s role. Not by a long shot. “Be that as it may, you’re no longer fit for undercover ops or training. You’ve become a liability, and some see your conviction for drug trafficking as a clear strike against your career.”
Lucky bent over the desk, getting right up in O’Donoghue’s face. The bastard jumped back. “How can you fight the war on drugs if you can’t think like the enemy? That’s why Walter brought me in to begin with. Not to mention all the cases I’ve solved. Check out the stats. I’ve got more successfully closed cases than anyone in the department, past or present.”
“Harrison.” O’Donoghue spoke slowly. “You’re not making this easy. You’re being relieved of active duty. A panel is currently debating your future with the SNB. I’d like you to go for psychological evaluation.”
An invisible fist delivered a roundhouse right to Lucky’s ego. “I’m already seeing a counselor.”
“You’ll be assessed by one assigned by me. If you want to keep your job. I’ll have Human Resources make an appointment.” He turned a soul-crushing glare on Lucky. “If you hope to have any kind of future with this organization, you’ll do as you’re told. I’m not Walter Smith. I won’t laugh off your indiscretions and defend you against those who complain.”
“Asshole!” Who cared if Lucky got fired now, with some Johnny Come Lately holding him by the short hairs? He gave the door a less-than-satisfying slam on the way out and stomped down the hall to his cubical. Let the asshole remove the chair Lucky had dragged in, or better yet, leave it there to cradle Lucky’s sore ass the next time he went in there for a chewing.
O’Donoghue had gotten one thing right: He was no Walter Smith. Not even close.
Bo wasn’t waiting for Lucky, darned the luck.
Lucky slammed his fist down on the desk, dislodging one of the ever-present coffee cups. The cup hit the floor, sloshing out day-old coffee. He dropped down, grabbing the desk when the chair tried to throw him. All he needed to make a shitty day even shittier.
Keith stuck his head inside the cube, a grin plastered to his face. “Heard you got sacked!”
Lucky reared back to punch him. Keith darting his gaze to the corner gave Lucky pause.
Surveillance junkie better not have installed a camera. “Come to gloat?” He’d play along for a moment, since he already skated on thin ice.
Keith slapped a hand on Lucky’s desk. “Oh, yeah, buddy.” He maneuvered his back toward the offending corner, lifted his hand, and stuffed a scrap of paper under one of the surviving Starbucks cups on Lucky’s desk. He sauntered off without another word.
What the hell?
Lucky stood and paced, putting on what he hoped would be a worthy performance. He slammed things around, knocking another cup to the floor and palming Keith’s paper scrap.
With his back to what had to be a camera, he read, “O’Donoghue, Landry, Rogers, and O’Donoghue’s personal lapdog, Phillip. Do you sense a takeover?”
Rogers. In surveillance. So, Keith felt the hot breath of replacement coursing down his neck too. The two senior agents under Walter’s command, now with targets on their backs. Bo hadn’t been here long, and neither had Johnson. O’Donoghue said they were in Lucky’s corner.
Bo most definitely was, but more and more Johnson showed signs of disloyalty.
Lapdog Phillip. Loretta’s boyfriend. Had she passed on information from Lucky to the loser?
Out. He needed to go out. The clock on the wall said eleven forty. He’d take his lunch hour early.
He texted Bo, “Running errands” and trotted to the elevator. Lisa sat behind the reception desk, chatting with Judy from acquisitions, allowing Lucky to slip into the elevator and jab the down button unnoticed.
A desk job! After all he’d done for this place! Walter would be livid, but Lucky couldn’t go running to Walter. Walter trusted O’Donoghue enough to keep him around, and besides, recovery came first before Lucky dumped this load of shit on his boss’s doorstep.
The doors opened in the parking level and Lucky peered out. He’d gladly take his wrath out on anyone he found. But no. No one. He made a beeline to an empty parking space. Right. Todd used his car to play taxi for Mrs. Smith. He’d better not put a single scratch on the .
Oh, well, nothing burned off righteous anger better than going for a run—or fucking. Too bad Bo wasn’t here, and he wasn’t dressed for running.
He could pull his gym bag out from under his desk, but that’d mean going back upstairs. With his side still healing, Bo might give him a good talking to about running anyway, though he hadn’t yet continued their conversation about Lucky’s recent adventures in the boxing ring.
No one said he couldn’t walk.
Down Peachtree, turn the corner, and keep going. He stared into the pit of an excavation site, heavy equipment digging up the ground to put in another skyscraper—one destined to block his conference room view of Stone Mountain. Asshats.
On and on he wandered, pushing aside thoughts of motherfucking O’Donoghue. The nerve of the guy!
Keith’s words came back to him. He felt the tornado of change coming too.
O’Donoghue wasted no time rearranging Walter’s office, as though Walter wouldn’t be back.
Did he know something Lucky didn’t?
He could always call in favors from Victor and Nestor, if he wasn’t too proud to beg for help. He’d clean up his own messes.
An enticing green sign caught his attention. Starbucks. He could do with some coffee, full caffeine, and about half sugar. But no, come home on a caffeine and sugar high and Bo would know. Besides, Georgia Tech merchandise shone in the windows, and inside folks younger than most of Lucky’s socks sat around chatting, sipping lattes, or staring at computers.
He didn’t need a bunch of college students reminding him how old he’d gotten. Nope, he kept on going, around the corner and down the street. Scaffolds surrounded an older building getting a facelift, and graffiti covered the sidewalk.
He caught whiffs of fried chicken, coffee, exhaust fumes, and more as he ambled the streets.
Atlanta. His city. More so than the wide spot in the road he’d grown up in.
Lucky shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and stalked on. He’d wind up somewhere, sooner or later. Right now, keeping going and never looking back sounded good.
But what about Walter? Bo? Rett? his nuisance of a conscience asked.
To which he replied, “What about them?”
There he went, talking to himself. He could try calling Charlotte, Mama, or even Rett or Bo, but they couldn’t help him. At least not till he’d scraped away the bullshit and figured out what lay beneath.
There before him appeared a former haunt he’d not seen much of lately: The Varsity. His stomach rumbled. Man, he missed the burgers and fries there since Mr. Healthy entered his life.
Bo might forgive him easier for eating at The Varsity than swilling down a cup of liquid adrenaline. He went inside, the scent of sizzling meat nearly sending him into a carnivore frenzy. In his mind Bo growled, “Down, T-Rex.”
Better to ask forgiveness than permission. He ordered and took his meal upstairs to watch passing cars from the glassed-in dining room.
Before Bo he’d eaten there often, chowing down during lunch. Back when he’d been alone and hating the world. He wasn’t alone anymore, but him and the world weren’t seeing eye to eye lately.
Big mouthfuls of greasy burger made amazing comfort food. Not the sort of comfort Bo provided, but enough to keep Lucky from pounding the next coworker to cross his path.
His recovering liver might not thank him.
Letting off steam at the gym might help, taking his frustrations out in a boxing ring.
Or he could sit right here, letting the world go by.
If only he could talk to Bo. Or Walter. Or Rett. But would they believe the shithead taking over the department schemed to railroad him right out the door? Especially with all Bo’s training to bow to authority.
Who’d that leave?
What wrong turn had he taken in life that his greatest ally happened to be his worst enemy?
Well, maybe not worst, but Keith came close.
Maybe he should try contacting Nestor after all. Nah, that would be too much like hollering for Daddy when one of his brothers pissed him off.
Besides, no telling what Nestor might want in return.
Still, if O’Donoghue tossed him out on his ass, at least he might have a job waiting.
What the hell was he thinking? He couldn’t work with Nestor, and by extension, Victor, and he couldn’t leave Bo here while he traveled the world doing God knew what.
He washed down the last of his burger with a mouthful of sweet tea. Caffeine. And sugar. Too late now when he’d already swallowed half of the glass.
More ketchup made his French fries tastier, and he dragged each one through a sea of red on its way to his mouth.
O’Donoghue taking over, surrounding himself with yes men, spelled the end of Lucky’s career with the SNB. With Lucky gone, nothing stopped the man from going after Bo, Rett, and any others who didn’t bow down and kiss his ass.
He used to worry about one day becoming another obituary on the SNB memorial page. Better to die in the line of duty than be discredited and live in shame behind a desk.
What the fuck? Death better than dishonor? Sounded like something former Marine Bo said, not Lucky.
Yet… the thought lingered.
He’d helped expand the Department of Diversion Prevention and Control, with Walter’s help and, for Walter, he’d gotten a lot of drug dealer scum off the street.
He’d built his job, like he’d built his home, with blood and sweat and years of his life.
No one would steal his pride.
***
Lucky stared out the window, relaxing back into the passenger seat of Bo’s Durango.
Bo pulled out of the parking garage. “Did you have any lunch?”
“I ate.” Bo didn’t need to know about Lucky’s burger and fries throw down.
“McDonalds, Burger King, or Hardee’s?”
Why did Bo have to know him so well? “The Varsity.”
Bo stopped at a red light, and slowly, slowly, turned his head toward Lucky. “Go big or go home, right?”
“Something like that.” Let Mr. Healthy’s sermon begin.
Bo remained quiet long enough for Lucky to brace for a good ass chewing. Instead, Bo accelerated on the green light and said, “At least you ate.”
What? No sermon? “You’re not gonna lecture me for eating unhealthy, artery clogging fast food?”
Bo shrugged. “Sounds to me like you’re doing a pretty good job of beating yourself up already. I’ll leave you to it.”
He didn’t have to sound so smug. “What did you have for lunch?” What did vegetarians do for comfort food?
“Lettuce wraps and a spring roll.”
Did Lucky detect a hint of guilt? “And…”
Bo let out a sigh. “Owen Landry asked me to go to lunch with him. Said he wanted to talk to me about something.”
Fire shot through Lucky’s veins. If not for scaring Bo, he’d have hit something—hard. Sometimes Landry stared at Bo way too long or laughed too loud at his jokes. Enough for Lucky to want to kick his ass and tell him to leave Bo the hell alone. Now. O’Donoghue wanted to make Landry, a relative trainee, Bo’s handler. Lots of time together. Lucky nearly snarled, “What did he talk about?”
“That’s the weird thing.” Bo took one hand off the steering wheel and rubbed his neck. “He never said anything worthwhile, really. Talked baseball, gossiped about coworkers, that sort of thing. He did drop hints about whether or not I planned to transfer, but I left him hanging. I learned crapspeak from the best. He’s probably just now figuring out that I never answered him.”
“What time did you go?” Sneaky suspicion happening in five, four, three…
“Eleven thirty? Why?”
Just in time to get Bo away while O’Donoghue steamrolled Lucky.
Divide and conquer.