*** I'm so excited by all your reviews! Thank you kindly, friends :) Well, our story continues with the introduction of another key player. Mary and Marshall are in an unusual position, and I'm sure the next few days will bring some interesting situations! Saddle up! ***
"Be careful... you're a man who makes people afraid, and that's dangerous."
"Well, it's what people know about themselves inside that makes 'em afraid."
– High Plains Drifter
"When I start out to find somebody... I find him. That's why they pay me."
– The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly
Sheryl ran the vacuum over the coffee colored carpet, the mundane task somehow soothing to her perpetually raw nerves of late. This was her last room to clean in the main building of the Circle R Ranch; the staff break room on the administrative floor. She was humming her daughter's latest favorite tune, not able to escape the song as Leanne seemed to play it incessantly on her iPod lately. It was a catchy tune, at least, and Sheryl bobbed her head to her own rhythm as she finished up the carpet. The break room always smelled like slightly burnt coffee and stale doughnuts, but it had a number of cozy, overstuffed chairs that she used for her own break. Starting…now. She smiled as she stared at her watch.
Pulling her snack bag and book from her backpack on the table, she felt momentarily guilty for not walking the half mile back to her own apartment to check in on the kids, but she had been hesitant about wandering the ranch grounds after dark since first talking to the FBI four weeks ago. Always worried there was someone watching her and she would somehow give herself away. It was still hard to believe her simple report of a possible kidnapping had ballooned into this…thing. She didn't even know what to call it at this point, just knew there would be people here soon who could protect her; protect her family. Her decision to turn herself over to them still gave her cramps in the middle of the night, but a lifetime of having to hang on by her fingernails to survive didn't make her wishy-washy. It was time to move on.
The ranch house was quiet, all the administrative staff gone home long ago and the live-in staff now ensconced in their own cabins close by. The night staff was sparse; two housekeepers, a few cowhands that kept watch on the stabled animals, and one of the two ranch managers to attend to any guest issues during the dark hours. Shaking her head slightly to dispel parental guilt, Sheryl reassured herself that Maggie had the kids tucked in at least an hour ago, and her presence in the apartment would only be an intrusion at this point.
Finding the older woman to nanny a few months ago had been a godsend, and Sheryl was loath to rock that boat. The woman insisted on a nominal salary, seemingly happy to have the chance to care for a family again. Sheryl suspected she was just lonely and would've probably worked for nothing, a rarity in this day and age, and she had grown to trust the small, portly woman more quickly than she had expected. When Maggie had told her the story of her missing granddaughter, Sheryl's heart went out to her. As she learned more, she knew she couldn't stand by and do nothing. For the first time in her life, she had stuck her neck out for another person besides her children. It was terrifying.
Sheryl had just lifted her feet off the ground as she settled into a chair when she heard the muted voices through the thin wall between the break room and the offices.
"Listen," a male voice scolded. "I don't care if you have to whore out your sister to get the cash, you better have three trucks available for the pick up on Sunday."
Sheryl recognized her brother-in-law's baritone and suppressed a shiver of misgiving as she continued to listen, hands frozen above her snack so as not to disturb the wrapper.
"Christ, Brad," a deeper voice replied. "We can't have a fucking caravan traveling those roads at that time of night. I'm telling you the feds are sniffing at this, and that sort of activity in the middle of the goddamn desert is going to draw attention."
"Do you think I'm fucking stupid?" Brad asked. "I'm not taking all the trucks in or out at once. We'll stagger pick-up, and the route to the final drop will vary with each transport. We just need to get the deliveries made within a twenty-four hour window."
There was a brief silence, and Sheryl unfolded slowly from the chair, silently praying for stealth plus speed, but knowing she couldn't attain both. She wanted to be out of the room before the men finished this conversation and exited the office. Her stomach roiled with anxiety. She quickly stuffed her snack bag into her pack as her brother-in-law spoke again.
"We've got the big cattle round-up all day Friday. Even if someone is watching us, all they're going to see is a bunch of greenhorns chasing their own asses across the mesa as the damn cows run amok. Meanwhile, we use that distraction to herd our own cattle. By the time the steers are rustled into the Redpoint corral and we start loading them into the trucks, the damage will be done and no one will be the wiser."
"We've never moved this many at once," the second man protested.
"We've never been looking at this much blow and arms before," Brad answered. "It's a payout I'm not willing to pass up, eyeballs or not. If you want out, Carter, well, you can take your chances. I've got people lined up for your spot."
The silence was ominous following the threat, and Sheryl began to sweat as she tried to figure out how she could duck out of the break room without being seen. Her fingers closed around an extra pair of headphones in her bag. She had shoved them in there the other day when Leanne couldn't find hers. Thinking quickly, she shoved them in her ears and tucked the other end of the wire into her jeans pocket.
The door to the office opened with a bang, and Sheryl began to sing randomly to herself as she pretended to wipe down a table; hand shaking so badly she could barely hold the cloth. She saw the large ranch hand stalk down the hallway towards the main doors from the corner of her eye. She rubbed the table harder. Just a few minutes more and Brad would either leave or go back in his office. She was making up words to a silent song now.
"Sheryl," Brad called, having stepped into the doorway from his office.
Sheryl pretended not to hear him and bounced to the imaginary beat.
"Sheryl!" Brad raised his voice and she turned a hopefully inquisitive face towards him.
"Hey, Brad." Her voice sounded shaky to her. She hoped it was only in her imagination. "Sorry, I didn't hear you. Did you just get here?"
Brad stared at her warily; took in the backpack and vacuum near the bucket of cleaning supplies. "No. I've been in my office. Did you just see someone leave?" he asked.
Sheryl shrugged, pulse pounding. "Nope."
He leaned against the doorjamb and pasted a falsely friendly smile on his face. "Hey, I wanted to talk to you about our conversation a few weeks ago. You got a minute?"
Palms sweating, Sheryl turned back to her task, "I'm running a little behind right now. Can we talk about it tomorrow after lunch?"
"Sheryl," Brad warned.
Swallowing hard, she forced herself to turn and meet his gaze. Tried to appear calm. "Listen, Brad," she cleared her throat. "You made it pretty clear that I need to keep my mouth shut. I don't have anywhere to go, and I don't have anyone to go to. I'd be an idiot to ruin what I have here."
Brad shoved his hands in his pockets as he considered her. He was a tall man, and Sheryl knew his leanness hid a surprising strength. "I like that word: 'ruin.' There's a lot to ruin, Sheryl; your job, your life, your children's lives. I'd hate to see any…pain…come to my niece and nephew." His smile didn't reach his eyes.
She dropped her eyes to the carpet and blinked back the tears. She only had to do this for another week. Only until Sunday. She had a day now. She thought of Leanne and Tyler at home in their beds. Thought of Maggie wondering if she'd ever see her granddaughter again. Sheryl raised her head and looked Brad in the eye.
"I owe you a lot, Brad," she said with surprising firmness. "I'm not an ungrateful person. I won't let you down."
It was the easiest lie she had ever told.
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Marshall sat on the chair next to the small desk in the motel room, the laptop he'd wired for Skype within reach, and angled the screen so all the occupants in the room could be seen by persons on the remote end. Stan's face currently filled the screen while he perused the Tucumcari audience and gauged the mood of his inspectors. Marshall nodded in greeting, then turned to take his own measurement of the other members of his team. His gaze settled on Mary, strangely silent as she straddled a chair about four feet from him. Her chin rested on the chair back as her hands gripped the sides like a steering wheel. Tense. Her brow was furrowed while she stared a hole in the carpet. Agent Taliswell was pacing leisurely while chattering on his cell phone, but Mary showed no signs of hearing the conversation.
Marshall thought back to his interaction with his partner before the agent had arrived. He no longer felt the strange chemistry that had briefly filled the air during their conversation, but he wondered if Mary had sensed it also. If she, now, was brooding about that odd shift in relationship paradigm that had had them both momentarily teetering. Like the crackle of ozone after a storm, the slight electrical charge had danced along the hair on his arms, jumped from her jaw to his finger…her eyes to his, carrying a faint hint of arousal that wafted into his brain. Desire. Now he wondered if it was just residual scents from too many cleaning products and an earlier notice of dents in the wall behind the headboard. Maybe the heat, too many electromagnetic fields, greasy chalupas playing tricks with his mind…
Her mood had definitely soured since Taliswell's arrival, and it wasn't due to the phone call from the ranch confirming her shuttle pick-up tomorrow morning. She was contemplating something more complex than wake-up calls and choosing the right jeans to wear. Marshall had seen this aura overtake her more frequently the last six months. Observed this thoughtful Mary that somehow set his nerves on edge, yet offered a primitive flutter of hope he couldn't quite define. She was thinking.
"God, I love it when a plan comes together," crowed Taliswell as he snapped his cell phone shut and plopped down on the edge of the bed. "Our source called early this morning." He cocked a brow at the marshals in anticipation.
Mary finally gave in with an exaggerated eye roll. "Are you gonna tell us, Hannibal ? Or do I have to sic Murdock over there on you with a paper clip and some duct tape?"
"That's MacGuyver," Marshall corrected her.
"Says the king of geeks," Mary snapped.
"MacGuyver was total babe magnet," Taliswell jumped into the debate, unaware of the peril. "I mean, what woman could resist a guy who knew how to use a switchblade, rubber bands and a diaper to foil a plot to blow up Denver?"
Marshall held up a finger with a frown, "No…no. The Denver gang was brought down by his homemade tear gas canisters. Remember? He used the empty soup cans from the school cafeteria."
"I thought that was when he rescued that chick in Phoenix. Didn't he use the heat from the pavement at midday …"
"Jesusgod, please shut up," Mary moaned, cradling her head in her hands. "Stan!" she implored.
"Personally," came Stan's tinny voice, "I think Baracas could've beaten the crap out of MacGuyver with one finger."
Mary rose halfway from the chair, intent upon the laptop, and Marshall held her at bay with one hand. "No. It's expensive."
He met her furious glare with a raised eyebrow, more than willing to do battle, and she slowly sank back into the seat with a blasphemous mumble. Stan intervened.
"All right, let's get this done." He looked down, presumably reviewing information in front of him. "Taliswell, tell us what your source said."
Agent Greg Taliswell, twelve year veteran of DHS with five years working Immigration and Customs Enforcement, was the lead interagency liaison with the Homeland Security Investigations directorate. Over the last year, his team had been slowly gathering information to establish a solid intelligence profile on this current project; a large, human smuggling operation that had recently merged with a smaller arms and narcotics cartel. It was only in the last four weeks that ICE had finally landed the elusive prize: a reliable inside source. Based on the information they had received, and the vulnerability of the source, an emergent plan was devised that included the USMS, DEA and ATF at varying levels.
To Stan, Marshall and Taliswell, it was a Rube Goldberg construction of glorious proportions. To Mary, it was a clusterfuck waiting to happen.
Taliswell pulled out a picture that Mary and Marshall recognized. "Sheryl Christianson, nee Sheryl Perez. I assume you're quite familiar with her background - your intelligence will be better than ours in that realm – so I'll skip to the juicy bits."
Mary shifted in her chair and rested her head on her hands while Marshall fiddled with the pen on the desk, legs sprawled out in front of him. He was hoping the agent wasn't going belabor the point.
"Sheryl called the FBI office in Las Cruces four weeks ago claiming to have information on a human smuggling operation running out of the ranch she worked at. Her brother-in-law, Brad Christianson, is apparently the leader of this particular crew. He and - " Mary cut him off.
"We've read the file, Tally…Taliswell." She rolled her head to the other cheek and pinned him with a baleful look. "I even took a note or two. Skip the remedial shit."
"What my less than polite inspector is trying to say," Stan quickly interjected, "is that she and Marshall have received all the essential facts surrounding the circumstances of their witness. They will be prepared to provide her the utmost protection, but we do need the most recent information to do that."
"She's not your witness yet," Taliswell cautioned. "We need to see some verification of what she's telling us before we cut her loose to the DOJ."
"She's agreed to testify against her brother-in-law in exchange for entry into WITSEC." Marshall rolled his head gently on his neck, knowing they were venturing into a topic where splitting hairs was trickier than splitting the atom. "Typically, at that point, she qualifies for the program and falls under our protection. Chief," he turned to look at Stan, "have we heard anything back on our inquiries regarding early extraction?"
"Nothing but the sounds of cockfighting in the afternoon," Stan replied, obviously irritated. "I'm hoping the DOJ and DHS can play nice with this one so we don't have to decide who's going to be King Solomon later on."
Marshall knew Stan had been on the phones for days trying to establish a hierarchy. Too many predators wanted to climb the food chain, and no one wanted to give up their precarious perch. Personally, he had trouble seeing past the safety of the witness…source…but there were others with eyes on a drastically different goal.
The agent shifted his weight and sighed, tapping the file folder in his hands against the wildly paisley hotel comforter. Shades of impatience colored his complexion. "There won't be anything to testify against if her information isn't any good and these jackasses slip through our fingers yet again. We thought we had them two months ago. We didn't. Now they're twitchy and we've backed way off. Sheryl's closer than any agent has gotten, as she's family, but her presence, and her knowledge, is noted. Any abnormal behavior is going to spook them."
"We're not disputing the fact that she won't qualify for the program if there isn't a trial, or that we would have to re-evaluate her criteria," Stan clarified the marshals' position, "but if it's determined her presence on the ranch has put her in danger, then it would be prudent to extract her to a safe location at that time. If we do it correctly, there's a good possibility her absence won't raise any alarms and her information can still be verified when the operation goes down."
Marshall shrugged in agreement. "A win-win, really. We both get our man, so to speak."
Mary tossed her head off her hands while blowing a stray bang off her forehead. "Look, if she doesn't think we'll be there to rescue her if things go in the crapper, then what makes you think she won't just decide to clam up to save her own ass? We promised her protection…you promised her protection. You can't hang her out to dry at this point."
Taliswell pursed his lips with a long sigh. "My ass, as fine as it is, does not sit in the decision making seat. But I understand your logic…I do. I'll press the director for some answers sooner rather than later."
"'Sooner' was before Marshall and I roasted our livers in the desert," Mary drawled, clearly irritated.
Stan cleared his throat. "This situation has three ending scenarios. Without my marshals able to extract Mrs. Christianson at their discretion, you boys lose two out of three. Give us enough rein to do what we do, and you flip those odds."
Nodding in reluctant agreement, Taliswell jotted a few notes before looking back up at the silent crowd across the room. "So, do you still want to know what Sheryl had to say? Or do we need to negotiate that also?" Three stony stares replied. He grinned. "She overheard Brad planning the pickup and transfer. The party is Sunday night."
"I think we'll leave before you fellas spike the punch," Marshall said. "And we'll take the guest of honor with us."
***Poor Sheryl! And the dance of jurisdiction begins. Nothing more irritating to our duo, I'm sure. *sigh* Stan needs to kick some ass. Well...if you're still liking it, then please REVIEW and keep reading. If you don't like it...well... ***
*** Some definitions (per request)
DHS: Department of Homeland Security, ICE: Immigration and Customs Enforcement, DOJ: Department of Justice (branch the USMS fall under), USMS: US Marshals Service, DEA: Drug Enforcement Agency, ATF: Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms