Graham put his arms up in mock arrest. Westcott leaned against his agency vehicle, hands in his pockets, feet crossed.
“We didn’t come here to fight, Sin,” Graham said. “We just wanted to pay our respects.”
Sin pulled her gun belt from her saddlebag and straddled her bike. “Consider them paid, now leave me alone.”
He placed his hands on her handlebars and stared at her. “Agent, we need to talk.”
“Here? Now? Are you kidding me?” Sin kick-started her bike and twisted the throttle a few times, drowning out any further words.
Graham tried to yell over the rumble of her bike, but Sin twisted the throttle further, increasing the decibels. Squeezing the clutch, she shifted into first and rolled the bike forward. To avoid getting run over, Graham jumped out of the way of Sin’s bike. From the corner of her eye, she saw Westcott pull his handgun. The sound of a shot rang out over the sound of her exhaust causing Graham to pull his weapon and twist towards Westcott.
Westcott stood―gripping his gun hand with his other, his pistol on the pavement by his feet―afraid to move.
“Where did that shot come from?” Graham yelled.
“How the hell do I know,” Westcott yelled back, twisting his head around like a paranoid owl. “Somewhere from behind me. I was just standing here when my gun was shot out of my damn hand.”
Sin shut off her bike and sat on the saddle aiming her Colt at Westcott.
Westcott’s anger amplified as his fear subsided. He pointed toward Sin and stomped in her direction. “Arrest her, goddamn it!”
Sin fired one round at Westcott’s feet, stopping him cold.
“Are you out of your fucking mind!” he screamed.
Graham twisted back in Sin’s direction, aiming his gun at her. “Lower your weapon, Agent. Now!”
Sin shook her head. “Do you really think I wouldn’t have back up?”
Graham looked confused. “Why would you need back up at your father’s funeral?”
“I knew you would show up,” she said. “You’ve been incessant in your calls and texts. Hell, you even knocked on my door.”
“So, why haven’t you answered me or checked in?”
“Because I don’t trust either of you.” Sin eyeballed both men. “The two of you sent me on a suicide mission. Neither of you expected me to live―but I did.” She slowly swung her leg off her bike and drew her other gun, one aimed at each man. “That’s bad news for one of you or both of you. I just haven’t figured out which.”
Graham holstered his gun and put his hands out, trying to make peace. “What are you talking about?”
“You think we’re involved?” Westcott sounded indignant.
Sin rolled her eyes, guns still pointed at each man. “You’re quick for a shit-for-brains politician.”
Westcott ignored her comment and bent down to pick up his pistol. Sin pulled the trigger on her Colt, the bullet striking the shell-rock inches from his extended fingers.
Westcott jumped back, lost his balance, and ended up with his ass on the pavement. “God fucking damn it! Are you insane? That just cost you your career.”
Sin holstered one revolver, reached into her saddlebag, and threw her badge and credentials at Westcott. “You can take these and shove them up your ass. This was your idea, remember. I never wanted to come back.”
Graham eyed the badge and ID and addressed Sin. “May I?”
She nodded.
He picked them up and went to hand them back to her.
“Keep them,” Sin said.
Graham placed them in his jacket pocket.
“What the hell are you doing, Frank?” Westcott roared.
“Shut the hell up, Folsom,” Graham said, eyes still on Sin. “She’s been down here doing our dirty work while we’ve been safe in D.C. I’d like to know why she thinks we are involved as well a few other things.”
Sin answered his question with one of her own. “Have you located the mole?”
Graham shook his head. “No, every time we get close, the lead disappears.”
“What about you?” Sin asked waving her gun at Westcott.
“We’re on the same damn team,” he scowled. “If Frank doesn’t have any answers, neither do I.”
“Then this topic of conversation just ended,” Sin said.
Graham huffed a deep breath. “You’re not making this easy, Sin.”
“Good, that wasn’t my intention. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have people expecting me for lunch.”
“We’re not done yet,” Westcott said.
Sin could see a sly grin creep up his face. It reminded her of the way poison oak creeps along the trunk of a tree. She stared a hole through Westcott. “Frank do me a favor and pick up his gun,” she finally said.
He did and went to hand it back to Westcott.
“I’ll take that,” Sin said.
“That’s my gun!” Westcott yelled.
“Stop acting like a whiny baby,” Sin said, taking the gun from Frank. “I wouldn’t trust a pussy like you with a fucking butter knife, never mind a loaded gun.” She removed the magazine and tossed it to Westcott.
“I have back up ammo,” he smirked.
Sin pulled her other revolver, both aimed in his direction. “And I have ten reasons why you will holster your sidearm. Is that clear enough?”
Westcott’s indignation increased with the redness of his complexion. “Tell her, Frank,” he said, holstering his gun.
Sin acted as if she were Annie Oakley and spun her revolvers back into her holster. “Tell me what?” she said straddling her bike.
“We have eleven dead civilians—eleven prominent civilians—scattered across the states and Europe.”
Sin shrugged. “It looks like you have some work to do.”
Graham pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket. “They were all murdered with in a one week time frame in a very organized strike.”
Sin lowered her sunglasses and took the envelope from Graham.
He pointed to the envelope in her hands. “We have visual confirmation of these individuals entering the cities where the victims resided.” He nodded toward the envelope. “Open it.”
She did. Inside were pictures of each member of her unit. She flipped through the pictures and handed them back to him. “Am I supposed to know these people? I’ve never seen them before.”
“Bullshit.” Westcott pointed at her. “They are all members of
