Bullert said. âA good one.â
âOperative words being âused to be.ââ The expression on their faces told me everything. âYouâre working the case off the books, arenât you? Itâs a black bag job. You donât want anyone in Justice to know about it. Youâre afraid thereâll be a leak, that someone will go running off to Congress and the hearings will start up again and everyone will be embarrassed and more supervisors will get fired.â
âThat wonât happen if we recover the guns,â Bullert said.
âIf, brother. If.â
âMcKenzie, itâs not just about our reputation,â Bullert said. âEvery time a crime occurs along the Mexican border, people, especially politicians, they start screaming about building electrified fences, building moats, for Godâs sake. Do you want them to start talking like that up here? With Canada? Do you want to see a fence along the Rainy River, the Great Lakes, the St. Lawrence Seaway?â
âIt would be one frickinâ long fence,â I said.
âYou know what Iâm talking about.â
âYes, I do.â I turned in my chair to face Harry. âWhat does this have to do with you? Youâre not ATF.â
âI asked him for help,â Bullert said. âI asked Harry if he knew someone we could depend on, someone we could trust. He mentioned your name.â
I was still looking at Harry when I said, âIâm going to have to thank him for that one of these days.â
âI want to get the guns, too,â Harry said. âBefore someone gets hurt. Do you know how many killings there have been along the Mexican border tied to ATF guns? This seems like as good a plan as any to get them back.â
âYou donât really believe that, do you?â
Harry shrugged.
âWill you do it, McKenzie?â Bullert asked. âWill you help us?â
It took about three seconds to decide. I leaned back in the chair again and spread my hands wide, palms up.
âHell no,â I said.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
âCourse, that was then. Now I was sitting on a deck in the North Woods overlooking a lake I could barely see in the dark. I felt movement behind me and turned my head in time to see the cabin door open slowly and a figure step out. White T-shirt, white shortsâeven in the dark I could tell they were worn by a woman.
âGood evening,â I said.
There was a startled intake of breath before the figure eased cautiously toward me.
âMr. Dyson?â Josie asked. She kept her voice low, probably out of deference to her sleeping family, I figured, so I spoke quietly, too.
âJust call me Dyson,â I said. âI thought we settled that.â
âWhy arenât you in bed?â
âI couldnât sleepâblame it on unfamiliar surroundings. How âbout you?â
âIâm anxious about tomorrow.â
âIf it doesnât feel right, Josie, just walk away.â
âIs that your professional advice?â
âAs a matter of fact, it is.â
âI wish it were that easy.â
âYou need to make it that easy.â
âYou donât understand. There are bills to be paid.â
âI figured it had to be something like that.â
âWhat do you mean?â
âThere are only three reasons people stealâto feed their family, to take a vacation in Jamaica, or to pay for a drug habit. You guys donât look like meth heads to me, and this certainly isnât Montego Bay. That leaves Jean Valjean and his loaf of bread.â
She moved to the railing, stepping between the moon and me, and I became aware of the shape of her body beneath the shorts and T-shirt. It was a nice shape, a body to arouse MILF fantasies in the young men at the minimart and gas station. Being older, of course, I was immune.
âDyson, if you donât mind my asking, how did you become a
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