Warning Shot. Jenna Kernan

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      The tow truck operator cocked his head to study the vehicle’s new look with watery eyes gone yellow with jaundice. “Almost looks intentional. Like those cave paintings in France. You know?”

      Rylee flicked her gaze to the handprints and then back to the driver.

      “Like a warrior car. I might try something like it with an airbrush.”

      Rylee her held out her hand for the receipt.

      “If I were you, I’d stay off Mohawk land. Maybe stick to the casino from now on.”

      She accepted the paperwork without comment. The driver folded the pages and handed them to her. Rylee returned to her room and her laptop. It was too late to head out to the next group on her watch list. That would have to wait until tomorrow.

      Her phone chimed, alerting her to an incoming call. The screen display read Catherine Ohr, and she groaned. She couldn’t know about the car already.

      “Did you not understand the Mohawk are a sovereign nation?” said her boss.

      “On federal land.”

      “On Kowa Mohawk Nation land. When I asked you to speak to them, I meant you should make an appointment.”

      “At eight a.m., Border Patrol notified me of a runner. A single male who crossed the border on foot carrying a large navy blue duffel bag. He was believed to have been dropped off by his courier on the Canadian side. That same courier then picked him up on the US side. They were sighted on River Road. Border Patrol detained the pickup driver thirty minutes later just outside Mohawk lands. The passenger fled on foot onto the reservation, carrying the large duffel on his back.”

      “They questioned the driver?”

      “Yes. He denies picking anyone up.”

      “Name?”

      “Quinton Mondello. Oldest son of Hal Mondello.”

      “How many sons does he have?”

      “Four. Quinton runs things with his father. He’s the heir apparent, in my opinion.”

      “So, the moonshiners were carrying moonshine. Made a drop in Canada and were heading home with an empty truck.”

      “Then why run?”

      “You believe the passenger was an illegal immigrant?”

      “At the very least,” said Rylee.

      “You believe the Mondello family is engaged in human trafficking?”

      “Or they are assisting the Siming terrorist.”

      “That’s a stretch. Border Patrol saw the passenger flee?”

      Rylee’s stomach knotted. “No. They were acting on an anonymous tip who reported seeing the passenger flee prior to Border Patrol’s arrival. Border Patrol stopped a truck of similar description just outside Mohawk lands.”

      “Could have been a Mohawk carrying cigarettes from Canada. Could have been a moonshiner. Pot grower. Poacher. And their tip could have been a rival poacher, moonshiner or pot grower. Any of those individuals would have reason to flee. Hell, they have ginseng hunters up here trespassing all the time.”

      “Not in the fall.”

      Ohr made a sound like a growl that did not bode well for Rylee’s career advancement plans.

      “It could also be a suspect,” added Rylee, pushing her luck.

      “Therefore, we don’t really know if there even was a passenger.”

      “Quinton Mondello denies carrying a passenger.”

      “Of course, he does. And he may be telling the truth.”

      Rylee didn’t believe that for a minute.

      “So, you decided to follow, alone, without backup and without notifying the tribal police,” said Ohr.

      Rylee dropped her gaze to the neatly made bed and swallowed, knowing that speaking now would reveal an unwanted tremor in her voice.

      “Hockings?”

      “Border Patrol didn’t pursue.” There was that darn tremor.

      “Because they understand the law. That is also why they had to release Quinton Mondello. No evidence of wrongdoing.”

      Silence stretched.

      “Do I need to pull you?”

      “No, ma’am.”

      “I do not have time to clean up your messes, Hockings.”

      Rylee thought of the handprints on her federal vehicle and her head hung in shame.

      “Do not go on Mohawk land again for any reason.”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      Ohr hung up on her.

      Rylee needed some air. She gathered her personal weapon, wallet, shield and keys before heading out. The September night had turned cooler than she realized, and she ducked inside to grab a lined jacket. She stepped outside again and glanced about. The night had fallen like a curtain, so much blacker than her suburban neighborhood with the streetlights lining every road. Here, only the parking lot and the mini-mart across the road glowed against the consuming dark. She’d seen an ice-cream place, the kind that had a grill, on their arrival. A burger and fries with a shake would hit the spot. It wasn’t until she was driving toward her destination that she realized she had snatched the blue windbreaker that had bold white letters across the back, announcing that she was Homeland Security.

      The dash clock told her it was nearly 8:00 p.m. and she wondered how long the ice-cream joint might stay open. The answer turned out to be eight o’clock. She arrived to see the lot empty except for one familiar sheriff’s vehicle and a clear view of the solitary worker inside, cleaning the grill. Out front, sitting on the picnic table surface with his feet on the bench, was Sheriff Trace and a very young man.

      She ignored them, which wasn’t easy, as she had to walk from her vehicle to the order window.

      “Ms. Hockings,” said the sheriff.

      She nodded and glanced at the pair.

      “Who’s that?” asked the young man. The sheriff’s companion had peach fuzz on his jaw and hair shaved so short that it was impossible to know if his hair was blond or light brown and a stunned expression. There was an old crescent scar on his scalp where the hair did not grow.

      The sheriff mumbled something as she reached the order window and was greeted by a red-faced woman who said, “Just cleaned the grill. You want something to eat, have to be the fryer.”

      “All right. So...what are my choices?”

      “Fried shrimp, mozzarella sticks or French fries.”

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