Undercover Warrior. Aimee Thurlo

      Chapter One

      Kyle Goodluck liked living on the edge. He carried his NCIS badge with honor, stood tall and faced things squarely. He’d served his country well, first as a marine and now as a federal agent. This time the case he was working on had brought him back home.

      Kyle watched his brother, Hartley Police Detective Preston Bowman, take a call. Preston’s face was characteristically impassive and hard. Once finished, he put the cell phone back in his pocket.

      “Sorry for the interruption,” Preston said. “Now talk to me. What’s going on? I thought you were going to turn in your badge and come home for good this time.”

      He wouldn’t lie to his brother, but Kyle wasn’t above sidestepping the issue. “You know how it goes. Sometimes you have to step back and think hard about long-term decisions, particularly ones that’ll affect your future.”

      “So you’re not ready to talk about what’s really going on.”

      He laughed. “Nothing much gets past you, does it? Forgot who I was dealing with for a sec.”

      “You and I have always been able to read each other,” Preston said. “I’m guessing you’re under orders, but this is my turf. You may need my help and HPD’s cooperation somewhere along the way. Keeping us in the dark is a bad idea.”

      “I hear you—loud and clear.” Preston’s warning was unmistakable. He wouldn’t take it well if an undercover op went down under his nose and he knew nothing about it. Unfortunately, orders were orders.

      “I better be shoving off,” Preston said. “Where are you planning to stay? You can use the ranch house at Copper Canyon, if you want. We’ve continued with the upgrades and it’s in pretty decent shape right now. You’ve also got Hosteen Silver’s letter waiting for you there...,” he said, pausing for a reaction.

      “No way I’m opening that, buddy. The first four of us who did ended up getting married. I’m leaving that envelope unopened in the desk drawer for the foreseeable future.”

      “Coward.”

      “Guilty,” Kyle answered laughing. “Hosteen Silver was a good hataalii,” he said, using the Navajo word for medicine man. “He could do some amazing things, like predicting future events, but sometimes it’s better not to know.”

      “There’s a lot to be said for advance notice,” Preston said. “Forewarned is forearmed.”

      “Maybe, but my work, my life, is all based on what happens minute by minute. The future...well, it’s still going to be there waiting for me to arrive.”

      “I hear you,” Preston answered.

      Kyle phone’s rang, and seeing the display, he glanced back at his brother. “I’ve got to take this.”

      Preston stood. “I’m going to work. You know how to get hold of me if you need me.”

      As Preston left the table, Kyle answered the call. “Kyle here.”

      “We’ve had a new development,” Martin Hamilton said. “Call me back on a secure phone.”

      The next thing he heard was a dial tone.

      Slipping into his black leather jacket—the early-morning fall breeze was brisk—Kyle walked out to his service-provided SUV. He’d arrived about three hours ahead of the man he was supposed to tail, and had found the $100K prize waiting for him at the airport. His ride had come equipped with bulletproof windows, integral ceramic and Kevlar armor, a special mobile data terminal and satellite phone in the center console. GPS tracking gear was also hidden within the body, so his exact location would always be known to any agency with the right equipment.

      Under the seat was an easy access M4 selective fire assault rifle with night vision capability and three thirty-round magazines. The spare-tire compartment contained tear gas, smoke and flashbang grenades beside a first-aid and survival kit that would provide a week of food and water for two people. No spare tire was needed because they were all run-flat, immune to road hazards, spike belts and any weapons smaller than fifty caliber.

      He picked up the satellite phone and entered the number. It was answered almost immediately at the other end by a female voice he recognized.

      “Hello, Kyle,” a rich, sultry voice greeted. “In place yet?”

      “You bet. Just heard the boss wants to talk.”

      “I know. Don’t I always? Patching you through now.”

      A moment later, a male voice came through clearly. “Regarding your target, Lieutenant Henry Leland. Any suspicious activity, any contacts?”

      “No. This morning Leland’s at Secure Construction. I’ve monitored his movements since his arrival. I’m currently down the street. He’s there with his regular staff.”

      “Unless there’s a specific reason for keeping him under surveillance, I suggest you break cover and meet up with him. He just called NCIS and asked for our help. He says he’s being blackmailed by terrorists.”

      “Interesting development. What are my orders?”

      “Check out his story, then stick to him like glue. Find out every detail of what’s going on, and keep me in the loop. Leland just spent weeks in Spain at a U.S. naval base, working in restricted areas. We could be talking about a major breach in security.”

      “Copy that.”

      Kyle switched on the ignition, pulled out of the parking lot and drove down the street, alert for anything that might seem off or unusual. Nothing drew his attention. It was just another weekday morning in Hartley, New Mexico, a town just off the rez in the Four Corners region of the state.

      This section of town was industrial, and most of the businesses were oil and gas field related. There were container-storage or building-supply warehouses and the occasional hole-in-the-wall fast-food place or gas station.

      Kyle approached Secure Construction’s five-acre, fenced compound from the east, passing the large warehouse and model structures, which were facing the street for maximum exposure. Ahead was the big double gate, parking lot and offices. All the buildings were constructed from the strong, corrugated metal-ceramic laminate components the company had built its reputation upon.

      Making a right hand turn through the open gates into the parking lot, Kyle noted two vehicles in front of the office. One was Hank Leland’s Silverado pickup, the same truck Kyle had bugged, followed here from the airport last night and, lastly, to Leland’s home. This morning its travel route had been more direct—home to office.

      Just then a man in a light jacket and ball cap stepped out of the office’s front entrance, Leland right behind him. Another man was on Leland’s heels. Behind them, a woman was being forcibly pulled along by a third man.

      Kyle recognized the stunning brunette from her file photo. It was Erin Barrett, Leland’s office manager. Either Leland and the woman had just been arrested by undercover cops, or something was seriously wrong. His gut went with the latter option.

      Kyle whipped his SUV around and skidded to a stop, placing his vehicle between him and the people coming