Warning Shot. Jenna Kernan

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      “Rylee Hockings, Department of Homeland Security.” She retrieved her business card case from her blazer and offered him a card, leaning forward instead of stepping closer. There was something other than his vocabulary that urged her to keep her distance. She listened to that voice instead of the one that wondered if he were single. But her traitorous eyes dropped to his bare hands and the left one, which held no wedding band.

      He nodded, not looking at her card.

      “Didn’t expect to find you on the job today, Sheriff.”

      “More calls on weekends and holidays. Just the way of the world.”

      He’d have trouble responding without his car, she thought.

      “What can I do you for?”

      “Just an introduction. Courtesy visit.”

      “Uh-huh,” he said, his expression turning skeptical. “So, you plan on treating me like I’m still a marine?”

      “Excuse me?”

      “Muscles are required, intelligence not essential,” he said, choosing one of the tired jokes members of the army often leveled at the marines.

      “So you were army, then.” She knew that much from the jibe toward her family’s branch of the military.

      “Once.” He smiled and her heart jumped as if hit with a jolt of electricity. The smile and those eyes and jaw and, holy smokes, she was in trouble. She forced a scowl.

      “You know, you should always run a check of your equipment before you lock up.”

      “You a newbie, reading manuals, going by the book?”

      She was and the assumption was insulting.

      “Why do you ask?”

      “You still have that new car smell.”

      Her scowl was no longer forced. What did that even mean? “I’m not the one locked out of my unit.”

      “It isn’t even locked. The alarm is just on and I didn’t want to set it off again.”

      Again. How often did he do this? she wondered. “I’ll be doing some investigating in your county.”

      “What kind of investigating?”

      She smiled. “Nice to meet you, Sheriff.”

      “You want an escort?”

      “From a sheriff careless enough to leave his keys and—” she glanced through the windshield to verify her suspicion “—his phone in his unit? Thank you but I’ll manage.”

      She turned to go. New car smell. She growled and marched away.

      “You got a Slim Jim in your vehicle, Hockings?” he called after her.

      “I do, but I wouldn’t want to chance damaging yours. Maybe try Triple A.”

      “Where you headed?”

      “Kowa Nation,” she said and then wished she hadn’t.

      “Hey!”

      Rylee turned back. Throwing her arms out in exasperation. “What?”

      “They know you’re coming?”

      “Where’s the fun in that?”

      “Agent Hockings, I advise you to call the tribal leadership and make a formal request to visit.”

      She cast him the kind of wave that she knew was dismissive. Those damn blue eyes narrowed. They were still enthralling. As blue as the waters of the Caribbean.

      Rylee straightened her shoulders and kept going. When she reached the front of the building, she heard the sheriff’s car alarm blare and then cut short.

      From her official vehicle, Rylee logged in to the laptop affixed to the dash and checked out the sheriff’s official records. Sheriff Axel Trace had been taken into state custody at thirteen and listed as orphaned. She gazed at the entry. There was a hole there big enough to drive a truck through. No birth record or school records. His paper trail, as they used to call it, began with the entry by the sheriff of this very county when he took custody of the lad. Axel’s parents were listed as deceased, but no names for her to search. No cause of their deaths or circumstances, no guardians noted, no relatives. Just record of Axel’s temporary placement with Kurt Rogers, the county sheriff at the time. The placement lasted five years until Axel enlisted out of high school. Rylee scanned and clicked and scanned some more. Impressed didn’t quite cover it. There were plenty of records now, and all exemplary. She’d read them more carefully later. But on a fast pass, the man had distinguished himself in the US Army as an MP and reaching the rank of captain in Iraq. She scanned his records and noted his transfer to Hanau, Germany.

      “Oh, no,” she said.

      Captain Axel Trace had broken up a brawl in a bar that had resulted in the death of two servicemen. She would read all the details later. For now, she skimmed and noted that Trace had been attacked and engaged with appropriate use of force.

      “And two months later, you chose discharge rather than reenlistment.” She wondered if the incident had been the cause of his decision to leave the service and his prospects behind.

      He seemed to have had a great opportunity for advancement and she wondered why he had instead elected discharge and returned to his home county to run for sheriff, replacing the man who had held the position until retirement six years ago. It seemed an odd choice.

      Perhaps it was just her ambition talking, but the sheriff could have done a lot better than this frozen Klondike Bar of a county. The entire northern border was Canada and, other than the St. Lawrence River, she saw nothing but trees and more trees. She didn’t understand why anyone with his training would allow himself to get stuck in a crappy, freezing county where you reached the highest possible position at thirty. Sheriff Trace had no family up here, none anywhere according to his records. And now he had nowhere to go but sideways and no increase in salary unless the good people of the county wanted their taxes raised.

      Meanwhile, Rylee had nothing but advancement in her sights. Her plans included filling in that blank spot in her résumé under field experience. Eliminating the possible terrorist threats up here was a good start. She wasn’t fooled that this was a great opportunity. This county had been tagged by the DHS analysts as the least likely spot for the crossing. But that didn’t make it impossible. This morning she had gotten her break. Her initial assignment was to speak to four groups who might be connected with the terrorist organization calling itself Siming’s Army. Just initial interviews, but it was a start. But en route, Border Patrol called her to report an illegal crossing: a single male who was carrying a canvas duffel bag. The contents of that bag were her objective. Until she knew otherwise, she’d act as if the contents of the bag was the object for which her entire department hunted. They had abandoned pursuit when the target entered onto Mohawk land. She had a chance now, a possible break in the search for the entry point of this threat.

      Her attempt to reach her boss, Catherine Ohr, ended in a voice mail message, and she had yet to hear СКАЧАТЬ