Her cinnamon hair was pulled back in a ponytail that bounced with every turn of her head. She’d flirted like a pro with Jameson. And what was up with the fatherly guy groping her like he owned her?
It didn’t really matter, did it? Sometimes he was such a pansy-assed wuss. The heel of his hand vibrated the steering wheel once again.
“Get a grip, Ayden. You’re just pissed because she hurt your masculine pride walking out on you and acting like she didn’t know you today. It doesn’t really matter, anyway. She’s only the landscaper, not some bimbo with information on Jameson’s drug cartel. You’re such a dumb-assed fuck. You can’t even hit the right mark. You should’ve found the blonde wench from the backyard. Well, Ayden, ol’ boy, get the right head back in the game. You’ve got a job to do.”
He was driving the Saab at a reckless speed, using the time to cull the cobwebs from his brain. His team had a lot of work ahead of them. He needed to focus all his manpower on Jameson. At least he had that information correct.
He shifted gears again, feeling the power of the vehicle as it chewed up the miles. He wasn’t looking forward to going back to his little Toyota when this gig was over. Maybe he’d buy himself a Jag some day. Yeah, and maybe copper-haired fairies would reappear to screw him senseless again. He pushed out a derisive laugh.
* * * *
Ayden placed another thumbtack into the map of Cutler and its surrounding towns. His team had left, and he’d just finished the conference call with his superiors in Boston. Harriman and Jones were the only two left in the little office over the convenience store. They were at the computers, listening in on the phone and wire taps at Jameson’s estate. Everything there was still working. It made him a little uneasy.
Plowing his fingers through his hair, Ayden looked at the surveillance photos again. He knew all the players. He had all the facts. They’d have teams in place to take down Jameson on Sunday night when the shipment came in. Jameson had given him that much information when they’d talked over details on their little walk. Ayden just needed to work Jameson throughout the coming week to nail down the specifics.
There was a small airstrip in Wesley, just outside Cutler, but he didn’t think they were going to fly the drugs in, not with the mansion sitting pretty right next to the ocean. More likely, they’d route the heroin shipment from South America, through Canada and bring it into Maine by boat. He was banking on that.
Ayden had no idea how big a haul they were talking, Jameson hadn’t been willing to discuss how many kilos he’d sell him. They were still parrying, like two fencers with swords, dodging and striking, neither willing to give up too much information.
Ayden’s gut told him they had the right guy, and he was putting all his eggs in that basket. Reluctantly, the guys in Boston agreed to the plan as he’d laid it out.
“Hey, Scott,” Harriman yelled from the bank of computers. “We’ve got a situation in Cutler.”
* * * *
Nausea rolled through her stomach and clogged her throat. Deirdre was in some kind of nightmare.
They’d brought her coffee, but her trembling hands weren’t able to pick up the cup without spilling the contents all over the marred table. So she sat in the metal chair, worrying her fingers, staring at the handcuffs on her wrists. How the hell had this happened?
They hadn’t officially charged her yet, but she figured it was only a matter of time. Unfortunately, she had no idea what crime they thought she committed.
And to top it all off, no one knew she was here.
Mark had taken Rachel with him in the van back to the high school in Delmont. The Cutler police weren’t letting her use the phone. Wasn’t she allowed one phone call? Or did that only happen in the movies?
Deirdre had no idea how long she’d been in the little room. She’d lost all sense of time since the three police cruisers
It didn’t really matter, did it? Sometimes he was such a pansy-assed wuss. The heel of his hand vibrated the steering wheel once again.
“Get a grip, Ayden. You’re just pissed because she hurt your masculine pride walking out on you and acting like she didn’t know you today. It doesn’t really matter, anyway. She’s only the landscaper, not some bimbo with information on Jameson’s drug cartel. You’re such a dumb-assed fuck. You can’t even hit the right mark. You should’ve found the blonde wench from the backyard. Well, Ayden, ol’ boy, get the right head back in the game. You’ve got a job to do.”
He was driving the Saab at a reckless speed, using the time to cull the cobwebs from his brain. His team had a lot of work ahead of them. He needed to focus all his manpower on Jameson. At least he had that information correct.
He shifted gears again, feeling the power of the vehicle as it chewed up the miles. He wasn’t looking forward to going back to his little Toyota when this gig was over. Maybe he’d buy himself a Jag some day. Yeah, and maybe copper-haired fairies would reappear to screw him senseless again. He pushed out a derisive laugh.
* * * *
Ayden placed another thumbtack into the map of Cutler and its surrounding towns. His team had left, and he’d just finished the conference call with his superiors in Boston. Harriman and Jones were the only two left in the little office over the convenience store. They were at the computers, listening in on the phone and wire taps at Jameson’s estate. Everything there was still working. It made him a little uneasy.
Plowing his fingers through his hair, Ayden looked at the surveillance photos again. He knew all the players. He had all the facts. They’d have teams in place to take down Jameson on Sunday night when the shipment came in. Jameson had given him that much information when they’d talked over details on their little walk. Ayden just needed to work Jameson throughout the coming week to nail down the specifics.
There was a small airstrip in Wesley, just outside Cutler, but he didn’t think they were going to fly the drugs in, not with the mansion sitting pretty right next to the ocean. More likely, they’d route the heroin shipment from South America, through Canada and bring it into Maine by boat. He was banking on that.
Ayden had no idea how big a haul they were talking, Jameson hadn’t been willing to discuss how many kilos he’d sell him. They were still parrying, like two fencers with swords, dodging and striking, neither willing to give up too much information.
Ayden’s gut told him they had the right guy, and he was putting all his eggs in that basket. Reluctantly, the guys in Boston agreed to the plan as he’d laid it out.
“Hey, Scott,” Harriman yelled from the bank of computers. “We’ve got a situation in Cutler.”
* * * *
Nausea rolled through her stomach and clogged her throat. Deirdre was in some kind of nightmare.
They’d brought her coffee, but her trembling hands weren’t able to pick up the cup without spilling the contents all over the marred table. So she sat in the metal chair, worrying her fingers, staring at the handcuffs on her wrists. How the hell had this happened?
They hadn’t officially charged her yet, but she figured it was only a matter of time. Unfortunately, she had no idea what crime they thought she committed.
And to top it all off, no one knew she was here.
Mark had taken Rachel with him in the van back to the high school in Delmont. The Cutler police weren’t letting her use the phone. Wasn’t she allowed one phone call? Or did that only happen in the movies?
Deirdre had no idea how long she’d been in the little room. She’d lost all sense of time since the three police cruisers
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