His clasped hands in his lap, he lifted a shoulder. “What can I say? I watch a lot of movies. They always say it’s easy...flick off the safety, point, and squeeze the trigger.”
“I call ‘BS’ on that. You’ve got military training. I saw you breaking twigs when we made turns on the way here. You were leaving a trail. And I’m guessing they don’t teach that on Wall Street.”
“I think your trust issues have morphed into paranoia, Marshal Devlin.”
“That’s another thing. You have this whole...” with an open hand, she made circles in the air between the two of them, “wise-guy persona you’re portraying, but it’s a little too much. It’s not natural. You’re overcompensating for something.”
Inwardly, Patton grinned. Add intelligence to her list of attributes.
“So my original question still stands...who the hell are you, Mr. Simon Patton?”
He looked away, his lips pursed, his chest swelling. Deep horizontal lines formed on his forehead. He exhaled and stared at the gouges in the table’s splintered surface. Everything’s gone down the crapper.
“Your mouth hasn’t stopped moving since we met. What’s stopping you now from...sharing?”
Chewing on his lower lip, Patton shifted his gaze from Devlin, to her phone on the table, to the handcuffs around his wrists, to the door. In his mind, he saw a replay of the shootout. It wasn’t supposed to go down like this. After making another cycle—Devlin, her phone, his restraints, the door—he sat straight, slid his butt closer to the chair’s back and looked intently at the deputy marshal. A few beats later, he sighed. I guess it’s time to read her in.
Sitting erect and squinting at him, Devlin noted the change in his demeanor. A second ago, he was smug. He was sarcastic. He was flippant. Now the face gaping back at her showed the opposite of all those things. She frowned. Either he has a split personality, or—
“Marshal Devlin,” Patton leaned forward and fixed her with a deadpan stare. “I’m DEA.”
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
.
Chapter 12
Noah Randall
Patton scooted his chair closer to the table. “I’m working undercover for the Drug Enforcement Administration. I’ve been tasked with finding a person—high up in the Marshals Service—who’s been trafficking illegal arms to Mexican drug cartels.”
Devlin’s eyebrows shot upward before she could control them. She recovered and folded arms over her chest.
He noticed her response. “I know this is difficult for you to take in, but I assure you. My superiors have solid Intel that the traitor is in your organization.”
“What’s the Intel?”
“For weeks now, we’ve been working to stop the flow of drugs from the Juarez Cartel...into the U.S. We’ve set up sting operations and raids. All of which have come up empty. At one point, we were even able to track Escobar Juarez’s cell phone to a specific location. When agents arrived, he was gone. He was tipped off. Someone,” Patton jabbed a finger at Devlin, “high up in your agency, told him we were coming.”
“How does this point toward,” she poked her chest with her thumb, “my agency’s involvement? Where’s the proof?”
Patton held out his arms as wide as they could go before the chains stopped him. “Do you think I’m going to carry that around with me?” He pumped a hand toward her. “Trust me. The people above me have all the evidence...and it leads to someone in the Marshals Service.”
Devlin was stoic.
“Oh, that’s right. I forgot. Trust isn’t your strong suit, is it? How about this? About a month ago, we intercepted a shipment of small arms—AR15 rifles, nine-millimeter pistols, and magazines and ammunition for both. The tech gurus at the DEA followed the money trail to a couple of cutout buyers. They said their contact person was,” Patton hesitated, “a United States Marshal.”
“What was the name of the marshal?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Why?” Devlin shot back, showing him her palms. “You want me to trust you, but yet you won’t—”
“I can’t tell you, because I wasn’t read in on that information.”
Devlin stood and resumed her spot near the window, peering at the woodlands, her mind overflowing with questions. Is he telling the truth? Is there a traitor in our ranks? Cupping an elbow, she rubbed her forehead with her free hand.
“Look, I know this is a lot for you to process right now. One of your own is dirty. People are shooting at you. And your partner was kill—”
“Don’t,” Devlin whirled around and took a step toward Patton, “don’t you dare go there.”
He leaned away and showed surrendering hands. “Too soon...I get it.” He nodded. “My apologies, Marshal Devlin.”
“And will you stop calling me that? I’m a deputy marshal...deputy marshal.”
“I’m sorry. I assumed those terms were interchangeable.”
“They’re not.” After a minute of glaring at the floor, at nothing specific, she wandered back to the table. “All right, Patton,” she let out a heavy breath, “even if I were to believe you—which I don’t—how was the DEA planning to find this crooked marshal?”
He cleared his throat. “Well, first of all...in the spirit of full disclosure...my name isn’t really Simon Patton.”
Devlin arched her eyebrows.
“I’m Special Agent Noah Randall.”
She shot out a puff of air. “I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised. You’ve been lying to me from the beginning.”
“Not,” Randall lifted a finger, “lying...necessary subterfuge. Working undercover requires a scant amount of truth, and much subterfuge.”
Devlin rolled her eyes. “Whatever...what was the plan?”
“I assumed the role of Simon Patton who—as I’m sure you know—embezzled money from the company he worked for and fled the country. I was to get myself arrested in Mexico and claim I had high-level information on illegal weapons coming out of the States. I was to tell what I knew in exchange for a lesser sentence.”
She turned her head and partially closed an eye at him. “How was that going to find the traitor?”
“The United States Marshals Service handles all prisoner exchanges with for—”
“Foreign countries...I know. I’m a deputy marshal. Get to the part that
