to compromise—”
“I’ve spent an entire year running this operation with no success!” McMahon snapped angrily, “These gangs hide behind reams of legal bullshit, and all the while the guns they trade all over the state are claiming more lives every week. So I don’t need a reminder on the importance of not compromising our only lead, thank you!”
“Calm the fuck down, Brad,” Philips shot back, keeping her tone level but hard, “I just don’t want it getting too personal.”
“It won’t,” McMahon said through gritted teeth. An awkward pause followed.
“Were you going to question her, or should I?” Philips asked, breaking the silence.
“I’ll talk to her,” said McMahon, heading into the interrogation room.
***
Sandy heard the door open and looked up from her despondence to see a well-built man in an ATF jacket enter the room. He was at least six feet tall, and crossed the room with a stern, businesslike air about him before sitting down opposite her and giving her a hard stare. He was clean-shaven, with wavy brown hair, blue eyes, and an almost perfectly square jaw. Sandy completely forgot her predicament as she stared back at him in astonishment.
“Brad?” she asked, scarcely believing it was him.
“That’s Agent McMahon to you, Miss Harper.”
“Don’t you ‘Miss Harper’ me,” Sandy shot back. “You know my name, so use it.”
“Why were you driving a car with a motorcycle license?” Brad asked her.
“I’ve been fine these last ten years, thanks for asking,” Sandy replied with a note of sarcasm in her voice, “how about you, Agent?”
“Maybe I should rephrase that,” continued Brad, appearing totally unmoved. “Why were you transporting 500K worth of military-grade weaponry in your car?”
“The car’s a rental,” Sandy said innocently. “Maybe the last person to drive it was a gun runner and left his stash in the trunk by accident.”
“Or maybe you’re the one who runs guns for the Speeding Seraphim.”
“The who?” Sandy asked with an innocent smile.
“A biker gang who smuggle weapons for various gangs all over the state, and sometimes across state lines,” Brad accused , “of which you are a member. That’s who.”
“And what’s your proof for that?”
“The tattoo on your lower back.”
“Oh, you mean this?” Sandy got up and turned around, lifting up her shirt to reveal a tattoo of the Speeding Seraphim insignia; a naked woman with angelic wings spread wide, curled up in a model’s pose with her hands covering her modesty. The words ‘Speeding Seraphim’ were emblazoned on a banner underneath the angel.
“Nice,” said Brad, barely flinching and not sounding at all impressed. Sandy lowered her shirt and sat back down.
“That’s not the only tattoo I’ve got, you know,” Sandy said with a flirty smile, leaning forwards and reaching for her jacket zipper.
“That’s enough,” said Brad sharply. Sandy sat back again, looking disappointed.
“This is the bottom line: you enter a plea bargain where you tell us everything you know about Speeding Seraphim gun running operations in exchange for a significantly reduced sentence, maybe even amnesty.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then I’ll personally lock you up in one of the famously hospitable federal prisons and throw away the key,” Brad answered coldly.
“You’d do that to your ex-girlfriend?” Sandy asked incredulously. “What the fuck happened to you, Brad?”
“I became responsible for stopping the flow of arms into this state, and got tired of people dying because of the guns your gang of thugs smuggles in.”
“You and your Fed buddies have killed plenty of us,” Sandy shot back. “The only difference between you and us is that ATF jacket, you fucking hypocrite.”
“So what’s your decision?” Brad demanded impatiently. Sandy sat back
“I’ve spent an entire year running this operation with no success!” McMahon snapped angrily, “These gangs hide behind reams of legal bullshit, and all the while the guns they trade all over the state are claiming more lives every week. So I don’t need a reminder on the importance of not compromising our only lead, thank you!”
“Calm the fuck down, Brad,” Philips shot back, keeping her tone level but hard, “I just don’t want it getting too personal.”
“It won’t,” McMahon said through gritted teeth. An awkward pause followed.
“Were you going to question her, or should I?” Philips asked, breaking the silence.
“I’ll talk to her,” said McMahon, heading into the interrogation room.
***
Sandy heard the door open and looked up from her despondence to see a well-built man in an ATF jacket enter the room. He was at least six feet tall, and crossed the room with a stern, businesslike air about him before sitting down opposite her and giving her a hard stare. He was clean-shaven, with wavy brown hair, blue eyes, and an almost perfectly square jaw. Sandy completely forgot her predicament as she stared back at him in astonishment.
“Brad?” she asked, scarcely believing it was him.
“That’s Agent McMahon to you, Miss Harper.”
“Don’t you ‘Miss Harper’ me,” Sandy shot back. “You know my name, so use it.”
“Why were you driving a car with a motorcycle license?” Brad asked her.
“I’ve been fine these last ten years, thanks for asking,” Sandy replied with a note of sarcasm in her voice, “how about you, Agent?”
“Maybe I should rephrase that,” continued Brad, appearing totally unmoved. “Why were you transporting 500K worth of military-grade weaponry in your car?”
“The car’s a rental,” Sandy said innocently. “Maybe the last person to drive it was a gun runner and left his stash in the trunk by accident.”
“Or maybe you’re the one who runs guns for the Speeding Seraphim.”
“The who?” Sandy asked with an innocent smile.
“A biker gang who smuggle weapons for various gangs all over the state, and sometimes across state lines,” Brad accused , “of which you are a member. That’s who.”
“And what’s your proof for that?”
“The tattoo on your lower back.”
“Oh, you mean this?” Sandy got up and turned around, lifting up her shirt to reveal a tattoo of the Speeding Seraphim insignia; a naked woman with angelic wings spread wide, curled up in a model’s pose with her hands covering her modesty. The words ‘Speeding Seraphim’ were emblazoned on a banner underneath the angel.
“Nice,” said Brad, barely flinching and not sounding at all impressed. Sandy lowered her shirt and sat back down.
“That’s not the only tattoo I’ve got, you know,” Sandy said with a flirty smile, leaning forwards and reaching for her jacket zipper.
“That’s enough,” said Brad sharply. Sandy sat back again, looking disappointed.
“This is the bottom line: you enter a plea bargain where you tell us everything you know about Speeding Seraphim gun running operations in exchange for a significantly reduced sentence, maybe even amnesty.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then I’ll personally lock you up in one of the famously hospitable federal prisons and throw away the key,” Brad answered coldly.
“You’d do that to your ex-girlfriend?” Sandy asked incredulously. “What the fuck happened to you, Brad?”
“I became responsible for stopping the flow of arms into this state, and got tired of people dying because of the guns your gang of thugs smuggles in.”
“You and your Fed buddies have killed plenty of us,” Sandy shot back. “The only difference between you and us is that ATF jacket, you fucking hypocrite.”
“So what’s your decision?” Brad demanded impatiently. Sandy sat back
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