He waggled his head. “I’m good at multitasking.”
“I’m sure you are. What’s up?”
“Thorn told me she wants to see us as soon as you got here. She’s in her office.”
Devlin took a couple quick spoonsful of fruit-infused yogurt before deserting the plastic container and joining her partner for the short walk to their boss’s office. “Did she say what this was about?”
He shook his head. “No, but I got the impression it’s important.”
“Why’s that?”
“She’s been back to my office twice in the last ten minutes, asking if I’ve seen you.”
Puckering her lips, Devlin faced forward. A tick later, she eyed him again. “Speaking of time...how’d you end up beating me here this morning?”
“I didn’t. You’re just late.”
Thinking of her husband, she lifted a corner of her mouth. Thanks Curt...for making me late for being early.
*******
Seeing her employees through the bank of windows between her office and the cubicle area, Marshal Marissa Thorn stood and came out from behind her desk. She beckoned them when they made it to the door. “Come in.”
Devlin and Hawkins headed for the two chairs facing the desk.
The fifty-three-year-old woman lifted a hand. “Don’t bother sitting. This won’t take long. And you two have a flight to catch.”
Stopping short of the chairs, the deputy marshals exchanged a look.
Wearing a navy blue pantsuit, white blouse, and black high heels, Thorn leaned back against the edge of her desk, lowering her five-eight height. She clasped hands in front of her body and crossed ankles. Her thin build, smooth, dark-toned skin, and dark hair—the same length as Devlin’s—gave her the appearance of a woman in her mid-forties.
Single, never married, no children, Thorn had been with the agency for more than two decades. At this point, her years of service were equally split as a deputy marshal and a full-fledged United States Marshal. When she was the former, she had been involved in numerous high-profile arrests, many of which included criminals on the U.S. Marshals Service 15 Most Wanted Fugitives list.
After removing her black eyeglasses and stuffing them into a shirt pocket, “Late last night,” Thorn slid two manila files off her desk, leaned forward, and held out the folders, “a man was arrested in a bar in Mexico...”
Devlin and Hawkins perused the paperwork inside the tan jacket. The first thing to draw their attention was a photograph: a white male with nearly a full, dark beard, brown eyes, and a narrow face that ended with a square jaw.
“...Simon Patton...wanted on charges of embezzlement here in the States.”
Devlin eyed Thorn. “How much?”
“Over a million. I want you two to go down there and bring him back to stand trial. As we speak, marshals from our Mexico City office are working with Mexican authorities to prep him for transport.” Thorn folded her arms over her chest. “So it should be a short turnaround. Pick him up at the airport and get right back on the plane.”
Devlin closed her file. “When do we leave?”
“Your jet is waiting.” Thorn checked her watch. “I want you in the air by nine, so you better get a move on.” She stood tall and circled behind her desk. “Have a safe flight.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Devlin headed for the door.
Hawkins followed her. “Do you want us to bring you back any souvenirs while we’re down there, ma’am?”
“Just the one...Simon Patton.”
“Copy that.”
When her agents had left, Thorn sat in her chair and withdrew a cell phone from a desk drawer. Her thumbs tapped out a text message:
My best people are handling the matter we discussed. They know nothing of its sensitive nature. I’ll keep you posted on developments.
After mashing the ‘send’ icon and throwing the mobile into the drawer, the marshal watched Devlin and Hawkins disappear from sight, as they passed the last office window. She closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath, and pressed palms against her temples for several seconds.
Unable to hold her breath any longer, she blew out a gust of wind, slammed the desk drawer shut, and went to work, her fingers pecking away at the computer keyboard.
Two sentences later, biting her lower lip, she flicked her eyes toward the bank of windows, toward the last image of her people. Another long and heavy breath later, she focused on completing her report.
*******
Hawkins caught up to Devlin who had her phone to the side of her face. “I’m going to grab a few things. Meet you downstairs?”
“Hey Curt...” she nodded at her partner, “it’s me. It looks like I’m not going to be able to pick up Cassie from school.” Devlin ran fingers through her hair, stopping to scratch her scalp at the back of her head. “Give her my best and tell her I love her and...” Devlin sighed, “tell her I’m sorry I couldn’t take her to the park.” She rubbed her forehead with a thumb and middle finger. “I’ll make it up to her.” Entering her office, “If all goes as planned,” she mentally ran through a checklist of items she might need for the plane trip, “I should be home for dinner.” She looked around the work area, “Okay,” before kicking off her flats, “I have to go,” and grabbing a pair of black A.T.A.C. six-inch side zip tactical boots from 5.11 Tactical. “I love you. See you soon.” She ended the voicemail message and stepped into the first boot.
*******
two hours later
10:15 a.m.
51,000 feet above alabama...
The Gulfstream V had taken off from Ronald Reagan Airport at nine o’clock and was now cruising at 647 miles per hour. The aircraft would reach its destination by eleven-thirty, ten-thirty local time. With a fully stocked galley and able to sleep six—and carry sixteen—passengers, the G5 offered its two travelers plenty of space and amenities for the flight.
Having exchanged his suit for blue jeans, a light gray long-sleeved tactical shirt, and black tactical boots, similar to Devlin’s, Hawkins
