ago, we arrested a Caucasian female in her late twenties for going ten miles over the speed limit,” Vasquez replied, leading the agents inside.
“And?” said Agent Philips skeptically.
“She was sporting a Speeding Seraphim tattoo on her lower back, and tried to speed away when an officer went to check the trunk of her car.”
“A biker chick driving a car?” said Agent McMahon as they were led to the back of the station. “That’s got to be at least a 15 year sentence.”
“Especially given what she was smuggling,” Vasquez answered, doing his best to ignore McMahon’s haughty sarcasm as he led them to the forensic labs.
Half a dozen officers were cataloguing the weapons and boxes of ammunition they had seized from Sandy’s car, and the ATF agents removed their shades in surprise, their disdainful skepticism evaporating instantly.
“A dozen disassembled M16s, a dozen Glocks, a pair of sawn-off shotguns, a thousand rounds of ammunition for all three, and a pair of hand grenades,” said Vasquez.
“This is the biggest seizure we’ve had in months,” said Agent Philips.
“Call the team here,” McMahon ordered, “and tell them to bring a firearms forensic kit.”
Agent Philips nodded and went outside to make the call.
“I need to speak with the woman who was transporting all this.”
“Sure,” Officer Vasquez led Agent McMahon to the interview room, “we were letting her stew first before questioning her; thought you might like to do that yourself.”
“What do you know about her?”
“Her name’s Sandy Harper, she lives in the next county, and her driver’s license is actually a motorcycle license. But she’s got no prior convictions, and this is the first time she’s ever been arrested.”
McMahon only half heard the rest of Vasquez’s words; he had stopped in his tracks on hearing her name.
“Is something wrong, Agent?”
“That name’s familiar,” McMahon said truthfully, “in fact she’s been under suspicion for a while, but there’s no problem.” His second statement was a lie.
“Well, here she is.” Vasquez led McMahon into the viewing room.
McMahon remained outwardly implacable and austere, but inside he had lurched back into the past. The woman sitting at the table on the other side of the two-way mirror was slim and attractive, with dyed red hair cut short just above the shoulders. She had on a woman’s biker jacket, a pair of skin-tight jeans, and flat-bottomed heels . She was hanging her head slightly, possibly contemplating the life sentence she had incurred. In spite of her change in style, she was undoubtedly the same girl he’d grown up with.
“The team is on their way,” announced Agent Philips, returning from making the call, “they should be here in about an hour.”
“Officer Vasquez, would you mind giving us a minute alone?” McMahon requested. Vasquez nodded and left the room.
“What’s the problem?” Philips asked.
“I know her,” McMahon said grimly. Philips silently mouthed an awkward ‘oh’, not sure what to say in response.
“How long ago and how well did you two know each other?” she eventually asked.
“We grew up in the same town,” replied McMahon, staring at Sandy through the glass like a memory in physical form, “and we were very close indeed, before I left for college. This is the first time I’ve seen her in ten years.”
“You know she’s probably working for the Speeding Seraphim now, right?” Philips asked, sounding concerned.
“Why else would she be driving a car full of illegal weapons?” McMahon answered, missing his partner’s implicit meaning.
“I’m just saying, it can’t be easy seeing an old friend on the other side,” Philips persisted.
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” McMahon demanded defensively.
“It means that we can’t afford for your shared history
“And?” said Agent Philips skeptically.
“She was sporting a Speeding Seraphim tattoo on her lower back, and tried to speed away when an officer went to check the trunk of her car.”
“A biker chick driving a car?” said Agent McMahon as they were led to the back of the station. “That’s got to be at least a 15 year sentence.”
“Especially given what she was smuggling,” Vasquez answered, doing his best to ignore McMahon’s haughty sarcasm as he led them to the forensic labs.
Half a dozen officers were cataloguing the weapons and boxes of ammunition they had seized from Sandy’s car, and the ATF agents removed their shades in surprise, their disdainful skepticism evaporating instantly.
“A dozen disassembled M16s, a dozen Glocks, a pair of sawn-off shotguns, a thousand rounds of ammunition for all three, and a pair of hand grenades,” said Vasquez.
“This is the biggest seizure we’ve had in months,” said Agent Philips.
“Call the team here,” McMahon ordered, “and tell them to bring a firearms forensic kit.”
Agent Philips nodded and went outside to make the call.
“I need to speak with the woman who was transporting all this.”
“Sure,” Officer Vasquez led Agent McMahon to the interview room, “we were letting her stew first before questioning her; thought you might like to do that yourself.”
“What do you know about her?”
“Her name’s Sandy Harper, she lives in the next county, and her driver’s license is actually a motorcycle license. But she’s got no prior convictions, and this is the first time she’s ever been arrested.”
McMahon only half heard the rest of Vasquez’s words; he had stopped in his tracks on hearing her name.
“Is something wrong, Agent?”
“That name’s familiar,” McMahon said truthfully, “in fact she’s been under suspicion for a while, but there’s no problem.” His second statement was a lie.
“Well, here she is.” Vasquez led McMahon into the viewing room.
McMahon remained outwardly implacable and austere, but inside he had lurched back into the past. The woman sitting at the table on the other side of the two-way mirror was slim and attractive, with dyed red hair cut short just above the shoulders. She had on a woman’s biker jacket, a pair of skin-tight jeans, and flat-bottomed heels . She was hanging her head slightly, possibly contemplating the life sentence she had incurred. In spite of her change in style, she was undoubtedly the same girl he’d grown up with.
“The team is on their way,” announced Agent Philips, returning from making the call, “they should be here in about an hour.”
“Officer Vasquez, would you mind giving us a minute alone?” McMahon requested. Vasquez nodded and left the room.
“What’s the problem?” Philips asked.
“I know her,” McMahon said grimly. Philips silently mouthed an awkward ‘oh’, not sure what to say in response.
“How long ago and how well did you two know each other?” she eventually asked.
“We grew up in the same town,” replied McMahon, staring at Sandy through the glass like a memory in physical form, “and we were very close indeed, before I left for college. This is the first time I’ve seen her in ten years.”
“You know she’s probably working for the Speeding Seraphim now, right?” Philips asked, sounding concerned.
“Why else would she be driving a car full of illegal weapons?” McMahon answered, missing his partner’s implicit meaning.
“I’m just saying, it can’t be easy seeing an old friend on the other side,” Philips persisted.
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” McMahon demanded defensively.
“It means that we can’t afford for your shared history
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