Marco. “You hang out here, wait for the team. I won’t be long.”
“Agent,” Ty called out before Cooper could leave. Concern deepened the lines of his tired face, giving him a vulnerability that Cooper steeled himself against. “When you see my family, don’t tell them anything more than they need to know. I don’t need my reputation slandered prematurely.”
Cooper nodded. “You’ll need to close down the office for the time being. The team will set up base here to go through everything. We’ll be as discreet as possible, but I can’t guarantee people won’t talk. You may want to consider telling your family the truth.”
Ty’s face reddened. “They’re my family. I’ll decide how and when to tell them.”
Cooper left the office, a copy of the warrant in his coat pocket. Hopping in the department issued black sedan, he whipped out onto the street and headed for the Lucky Fox Distillery.
“THERE ARE eight hundred and twelve barrels in this building. That amounts to just over forty three thousand gallons of whiskey.” Ava enjoyed the surprised faces of her tour guests as they gazed around in awe at the barrel house. “Fun fact, there are actually more barrels of bourbon in Kentucky than there are people. In case you couldn’t tell, we really enjoy our whiskey.
“That beautiful aroma you smell is what we in the business like to call the ‘Angel’s Share.’ It’s the small amount of water and whiskey that seeps through the barrels as they breathe.” She walked over to a barrel resting on the closest rack and pointed to a sap-like substance crusted around a crack in the wood. “Sometimes it’s even visible, like this, on the outside of the barrel. We call this barrel candy, and yes, you can eat it. It tastes a bit like caramel, believe it or not.”
A few visitors snapped off pictures. “Another thing you’ll notice is that it’s pretty darn chilly in here. Kentucky’s cold winters and warm, humid summers actually help with the aging of the whiskey. As the temperature rises and falls, the barrels expand and contract, allowing the whiskey to seep into the wood and pull out the flavors.”
Her eyes shot to the doors of the barrel house as a man entered. It threw her momentarily off balance to see it was the whiskey novice from the day before, looking just as slick in his suit and tie and windswept blond hair. An easy smile played over his lips as he strolled toward the group, his hands tucked into his pockets.
She returned the smile before switching her attention back to the tour guests, not willing to give him more acknowledgment than that. “Y’all want to see the inside of one of the barrels?”
In the center of the room was a square table with a halved barrel propped up on top of it, displaying the charred interior. She patted it with a grin. “I said before how the true magic of bourbon is in the barrel. By law, bourbon must be aged in charred, new white oak barrels for a minimum of two years. We age most of ours anywhere from five to eight years.
“First we toast the inside of the barrel with radiant heat, no flame, for about twenty minutes to cook the sugars and bring out the caramel and vanilla flavors that are in the wood to begin with. Then we turn up the heat for twenty seconds and char the wood, just enough to burn off a few layers without ruining the toasting. This charring is what gives bourbon its rich, golden color. No other flavorings can be added—what you taste is all natural. In fact, these bourbon barrels have so much flavor that we even re-use them to age our Irish whiskey.”
“So what was the Irish whiskey aged in originally?” the mystery man in the suit asked from the back of the group. “You said Joe got into bourbon making later, so I can’t imagine he had bourbon barrels lying around.”
Ava angled her head, impressed by his memory. “Sherry barrels. That’s what the Brannons have always done. But Joe discovered that the bourbon barrels actually
“Agent,” Ty called out before Cooper could leave. Concern deepened the lines of his tired face, giving him a vulnerability that Cooper steeled himself against. “When you see my family, don’t tell them anything more than they need to know. I don’t need my reputation slandered prematurely.”
Cooper nodded. “You’ll need to close down the office for the time being. The team will set up base here to go through everything. We’ll be as discreet as possible, but I can’t guarantee people won’t talk. You may want to consider telling your family the truth.”
Ty’s face reddened. “They’re my family. I’ll decide how and when to tell them.”
Cooper left the office, a copy of the warrant in his coat pocket. Hopping in the department issued black sedan, he whipped out onto the street and headed for the Lucky Fox Distillery.
“THERE ARE eight hundred and twelve barrels in this building. That amounts to just over forty three thousand gallons of whiskey.” Ava enjoyed the surprised faces of her tour guests as they gazed around in awe at the barrel house. “Fun fact, there are actually more barrels of bourbon in Kentucky than there are people. In case you couldn’t tell, we really enjoy our whiskey.
“That beautiful aroma you smell is what we in the business like to call the ‘Angel’s Share.’ It’s the small amount of water and whiskey that seeps through the barrels as they breathe.” She walked over to a barrel resting on the closest rack and pointed to a sap-like substance crusted around a crack in the wood. “Sometimes it’s even visible, like this, on the outside of the barrel. We call this barrel candy, and yes, you can eat it. It tastes a bit like caramel, believe it or not.”
A few visitors snapped off pictures. “Another thing you’ll notice is that it’s pretty darn chilly in here. Kentucky’s cold winters and warm, humid summers actually help with the aging of the whiskey. As the temperature rises and falls, the barrels expand and contract, allowing the whiskey to seep into the wood and pull out the flavors.”
Her eyes shot to the doors of the barrel house as a man entered. It threw her momentarily off balance to see it was the whiskey novice from the day before, looking just as slick in his suit and tie and windswept blond hair. An easy smile played over his lips as he strolled toward the group, his hands tucked into his pockets.
She returned the smile before switching her attention back to the tour guests, not willing to give him more acknowledgment than that. “Y’all want to see the inside of one of the barrels?”
In the center of the room was a square table with a halved barrel propped up on top of it, displaying the charred interior. She patted it with a grin. “I said before how the true magic of bourbon is in the barrel. By law, bourbon must be aged in charred, new white oak barrels for a minimum of two years. We age most of ours anywhere from five to eight years.
“First we toast the inside of the barrel with radiant heat, no flame, for about twenty minutes to cook the sugars and bring out the caramel and vanilla flavors that are in the wood to begin with. Then we turn up the heat for twenty seconds and char the wood, just enough to burn off a few layers without ruining the toasting. This charring is what gives bourbon its rich, golden color. No other flavorings can be added—what you taste is all natural. In fact, these bourbon barrels have so much flavor that we even re-use them to age our Irish whiskey.”
“So what was the Irish whiskey aged in originally?” the mystery man in the suit asked from the back of the group. “You said Joe got into bourbon making later, so I can’t imagine he had bourbon barrels lying around.”
Ava angled her head, impressed by his memory. “Sherry barrels. That’s what the Brannons have always done. But Joe discovered that the bourbon barrels actually
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