To top it all off, the old doc had fallen in love with a three-hundred-pound specimen he'd made clear he wasn't going anywhere without.
Hawkins didn't have time to baby-sit either the doc or the bones. As far as Roper Jones knew, Hawkins was still working for him, and he'd been called in for the night shift. Hawkins could use Quinn and Kid right about now, but Quinn's cover as a low-lifer named Jeff Frazier had been blown all to hell, and if Roper had his way, the all-American hero was as good as dead the minute he stepped back inside Denver city limits.
The bones and Quinn—Roper wanted both of them back, and he wanted them bad, which was why Quinn had been shipped to Cisco with Kid to baby-sit.
Leaving only Skeeter in SDF's Steele Street office.
Hell, Hawkins hadn't even gotten through the last time he'd tried to reach the little nerdzoid. So much for the dashboard-laptop-phone combo that should have connected him to Skeeter's Jeep. It didn't work. His gadgets never worked. Kid said it was because Hawkins let off too much electromagnetic energy, whatever the hell that meant.
Kryptonite, Skeeter had further explained. “You're like raw kryptonite, giving off an interstellar force of exponential power and frying the heartsheath of the laptop's unprotected motherboard.”
Sometimes Hawkins wondered if Skeeter's lightbulbs were screwed all the way in.
Alerted by the sound of a metal door opening, he pushed off the wall and flicked his cigarette onto the asphalt.
Special Agent Tom Leeder, a big, burly guy in a dark suit, walked over to him. “Sorry, Hawkins,” the FBI agent said, lifting his hands and shrugging in resignation, “but this is it. I'm outta here. If the old man finds anything tonight, let me know, and I'll have agents all over this place.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” The old man wasn't going to find anything. They'd already cut open all the plaster jackets and come up with nothing. One case of assault rifles, that's all he'd wanted. One frickin' case of OICW prototype assault rifles. Was that too much to ask for a lousy four months' work? With the FBI working from the top down and Steele Street working from the bottom up, they should have found them by now—if the guns had ever actually been slated for an exchange in Denver. Hawkins was beginning to have his doubts.
“We'll have a crew up here from Buckley Air Force Base in the morning to get everything packed up and shipped out.”
“Where are the bones being sent?” Maybe with a little bit of the right wheel-greasing, Doc McKinney could still have a chance at his three-hundred-pound fossil. Steele Street owed him that much for dragging him into this.
“Into the abyss of bureaucracy.” Leeder flashed him a grin. “An official warehouse someplace where even the guy who loads them off the forklift won't know where they are.” Lifting a hand in farewell, the agent turned to leave, then stopped. His expression sobered. “Things are heating up all over. If the cops can get that pimp on Wazee Street to talk, Roper Jones is going to get nailed for killing that whore a few weeks ago. And then the shit's really going to hit the fan. Watch your back.”
Hawkins nodded, appreciating the tip even though Leeder's warning was not exactly a news flash. Hell, Hawkins knew the situation was heating up. Roper's primal nerve endings were fraying right down to their synapses over the missing crates. It was a dangerous condition for a guy who was at best a meaner-than-hell sociopathic son of a bitch. The question they hadn't been able to answer was
why
.
Why was Denver's newest crime lord fretting over a bunch of old bones?
As for the pimp, Hawkins knew Benny-Boy Jackman personally, and he didn't care what the cops threatened or promised, Benny-Boy wasn't going to talk. Desiree hadn't been the first girl Benny-Boy had ever lost. She'd just been the first he'd lost to a knife. It hadn't been pretty.
Watch your back.
Hawkins's mouth curved in a mocking grin, and
Hawkins didn't have time to baby-sit either the doc or the bones. As far as Roper Jones knew, Hawkins was still working for him, and he'd been called in for the night shift. Hawkins could use Quinn and Kid right about now, but Quinn's cover as a low-lifer named Jeff Frazier had been blown all to hell, and if Roper had his way, the all-American hero was as good as dead the minute he stepped back inside Denver city limits.
The bones and Quinn—Roper wanted both of them back, and he wanted them bad, which was why Quinn had been shipped to Cisco with Kid to baby-sit.
Leaving only Skeeter in SDF's Steele Street office.
Hell, Hawkins hadn't even gotten through the last time he'd tried to reach the little nerdzoid. So much for the dashboard-laptop-phone combo that should have connected him to Skeeter's Jeep. It didn't work. His gadgets never worked. Kid said it was because Hawkins let off too much electromagnetic energy, whatever the hell that meant.
Kryptonite, Skeeter had further explained. “You're like raw kryptonite, giving off an interstellar force of exponential power and frying the heartsheath of the laptop's unprotected motherboard.”
Sometimes Hawkins wondered if Skeeter's lightbulbs were screwed all the way in.
Alerted by the sound of a metal door opening, he pushed off the wall and flicked his cigarette onto the asphalt.
Special Agent Tom Leeder, a big, burly guy in a dark suit, walked over to him. “Sorry, Hawkins,” the FBI agent said, lifting his hands and shrugging in resignation, “but this is it. I'm outta here. If the old man finds anything tonight, let me know, and I'll have agents all over this place.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” The old man wasn't going to find anything. They'd already cut open all the plaster jackets and come up with nothing. One case of assault rifles, that's all he'd wanted. One frickin' case of OICW prototype assault rifles. Was that too much to ask for a lousy four months' work? With the FBI working from the top down and Steele Street working from the bottom up, they should have found them by now—if the guns had ever actually been slated for an exchange in Denver. Hawkins was beginning to have his doubts.
“We'll have a crew up here from Buckley Air Force Base in the morning to get everything packed up and shipped out.”
“Where are the bones being sent?” Maybe with a little bit of the right wheel-greasing, Doc McKinney could still have a chance at his three-hundred-pound fossil. Steele Street owed him that much for dragging him into this.
“Into the abyss of bureaucracy.” Leeder flashed him a grin. “An official warehouse someplace where even the guy who loads them off the forklift won't know where they are.” Lifting a hand in farewell, the agent turned to leave, then stopped. His expression sobered. “Things are heating up all over. If the cops can get that pimp on Wazee Street to talk, Roper Jones is going to get nailed for killing that whore a few weeks ago. And then the shit's really going to hit the fan. Watch your back.”
Hawkins nodded, appreciating the tip even though Leeder's warning was not exactly a news flash. Hell, Hawkins knew the situation was heating up. Roper's primal nerve endings were fraying right down to their synapses over the missing crates. It was a dangerous condition for a guy who was at best a meaner-than-hell sociopathic son of a bitch. The question they hadn't been able to answer was
why
.
Why was Denver's newest crime lord fretting over a bunch of old bones?
As for the pimp, Hawkins knew Benny-Boy Jackman personally, and he didn't care what the cops threatened or promised, Benny-Boy wasn't going to talk. Desiree hadn't been the first girl Benny-Boy had ever lost. She'd just been the first he'd lost to a knife. It hadn't been pretty.
Watch your back.
Hawkins's mouth curved in a mocking grin, and
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