Identity: Unknown. Suzanne Brockmann
and Mitch Shaw had all been part of the team that located and destroyed the deadly nerve gas. Yeah, they remembered that break-in all too clearly.
“The Trip X nerve agent wasn’t the only thing taken,” Joe Cat continued grimly.
Wes ran his hand down his face. “I don’t think I want to hear this.”
“Plutonium,” Joe said. “Enough was taken to make a small nuclear weapon.”
A small nuke. Great.
“Shaw was working to track it down,” Joe Cat continued. “He was following a lead both he and Admiral Robinson thought was probably empty. That’s why he was out there alone. The bulk of the Gray Group’s manpower is working from the other end—finding the potential buyer seemed easier than finding the plutonium in the haystack. But now that Shaw’s gone missing, I’m not sure what’s going on.”
“New Mexico’s a big state,” Bobby commented.
He was right. And if Mitch was working a black op, he wouldn’t have broadcast his whereabouts to anyone. “How the hell are we gonna find him?”
“Shaw was carrying ten counterfeit hundred-dollar bills,” Joe answered Lucky. “Admiral Robinson implemented a technique used by the spooks at the Agency—apparently his wife’s a former agent. See, how it works is if some bad voodoo goes down and the agent—or SEAL in this case—is eliminated by the opposition, that funny money tends to go into circulation. It makes sense, right? An agent is hit and his or her body disappears. But if you’re the guy who did the hit, you check pockets for weapons or cash. No point in sinking that in the quarry with your victim’s earthly remains, right? So the money changes hands, so to speak. In the past, this method has occasionally been effective enough to track all the way to the killers. Once they start spending the money—as soon as it’s ID’d as fake—it’s like a big red flag gets dropped.”
“Are you saying you think Lieutenant Shaw is dead, sir?” Wes swore sharply. “I liked the guy.”
“I don’t know what’s up with Shaw,” Joe told them.
“But one—and only one—of his counterfeit hundred-dollar bills showed up in Wyatt City, New Mexico. In the donation box of the First Church Homeless Shelter, of all places.”
“When do we leave?” Bobby asked.
“We’ve got a flight out to Las Cruces in three hours,” Joe said. He smiled crookedly. “I, um, need a little time. I haven’t exactly told Ronnie yet that I’m leaving.”
“Well, sir, we, uh…” Wes braced himself. “ I kind of took care of that for you, Cat.”
Joe closed his eyes and swore.
“I’m really sorry, Captain,” Wes said.
“Skipper, you know…Me and Ren and Stimpy here can handle this. You don’t have to come along—it’d be overkill anyway,” Lucky earnestly told the captain. “We’ve worked with Mitch, we know what he looks like—at least when he’s not in disguise. And like you said, the rest of the Gray Group’s covering the other end. Give yourself—and Veronica—a break.” He paused. “And give me a chance to practice those leadership skills they worked so hard to teach me at the academy, sir. Let me take care of this.”
Joe looked up at the hillside above the beach, at the warm lights of his home cutting through the thickening fog.
He made up his mind. “Go,” he said. “The paperwork giving you leave is already at the base. But I want sit-reps over a secured line every twelve hours.”
“Thanks, Captain.” Lucky held out his hand.
Joe clasped it and shook. “Find him. Fast.”
* * *
“Are you Casey?”
Casey. Casey Parker. If that was his name, why couldn’t he remember it? “Yeah, that’s me.”
A ten-year-old kid had come into the barn. He stood in front of Mish now, his eyes magnified by a crooked pair of wire-framed glasses. “I’m supposed to tell you to saddle up a pair of horses for me and Ashley. Ashley’s my sister. She’s a pain in the butt.”
Saddle up some horses…
“What’s your name?” he asked the boy.
“My real name’s Reagan. Reagan Thomas Alden. But people call me Chip.”
Mish turned back to the stall he was shoveling out. “Rumor has it, Chip, guests under age eighteen aren’t allowed to ride out on their own.”
“Yes, but…I’m not signed up for a ride until after four o’clock. What am I supposed to do until then?”
“Read a book?” Mish suggested, getting back into the easy rhythm of his work.
“Hey!” Chip brightened. “ You could ride out with me and Ash. There’s this place, about a half a mile east of here where there’s these big, creepy-looking rocks, kind of like some giant’s fingers sticking out of the ground. I could show ’em to you.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Come on, Casey. You’re not doing anything important right now.”
Mish kept right on shoveling. “The way I figure it, I’ve got one of the most important jobs here—making sure the horses you ride have a clean place to sleep at night.”
“Yes, but…wouldn’t you rather be riding?”
Mish answered honestly. “No.” The truth was, he could remember nothing about horses. If he’d at one time known how to ride, that knowledge had slipped away with his memories of his name and his past. But somehow he doubted that. Somehow, he got the sense that horseback riding was a subject he’d never bothered to learn much about.
It was troublesome. If he was Casey Parker, then he’d lied to get this job. And if he wasn’t Casey Parker, then who in heaven’s name was he?
Casey Parker or not, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t going to like finding out who he really was.
The handgun in his boot. The wad of money. The bullet wound. It all added up to the same grim conclusion: he was not on the side of the angels.
If his dream had held just one ounce of truth, he was a killer. He was someone who shot and killed other people for a living. And, if that was the case, he didn’t want to remember who he was.
He—and the world—would be better off if he simply stayed here for the rest of his days, shoveling manure and—
Mish lifted his head, listening intently to a low rumble. Was it thunder? Or an approaching truck?
“That sounds like Travis Brown,” Chip told him. “Doing what Becca calls his first-rate imitation of a damn fool.”
It was the sound of pounding hoofbeats—faint, but growing louder until it became a clatter of noise directly outside of the barn. It was accompanied by a high-pitched whinny of fear and pain from the horse. That sound was echoed almost identically—except this second scream came from a human throat. Mish dropped his shovel.
“That’s Ashley!” Chip bolted for the door, but Mish swung himself over the wall of the stall and beat him there.
A riderless horse stood on its hind legs, pawing the air as a man dressed in fringed leggings and a leather vest lay sprawled behind him. A young girl crouched in the dust in front of the enraged horse, covering her head with her arms.
Mish didn’t stop. He started toward the girl at a sprint.
He could see Rebecca Keyes running just as quickly toward them from the direction of the ranch office. Her hat fell into the dust, and she reached the horse’s bridle just as Mish grabbed the girl and pulled her out of harm’s way.
The horse’s slashing hooves came within