Restricted MC (The Nighthawks MC Book 14) Page 9

  “Okay,” said Warren. “I’ll ask my GATE teacher.” GATE, a gifted and talented program, helped Warren’s bright brain stay working on advanced problems, despite his youth.

  “Good,” said Saber. “So, what do you want to do today?”

  “Homework first,” said Warren.

  “You’re six. You have homework?” Saber was stunned.

  The girls laughed. “We have projects, Dad,” said Dina. “I’ve decided on keyboard, and Sondra’s starting with the recorder, like Warren.”

  “Musical notes,” said Warren. “Learning those first, and then Sondra and I will pick another instrument.”

  “Good,” said Saber.

  “Plus, we’ve all got to do our moving-around,” said Sondra. “We’re starting with the Yang Short Form of tai chi, then we can go into martial arts, cross-country running, basketball, or whatever.”

  “I’ve got to go slow,” said Dina. “My pain is a lot lower today. Some days, it sucks.”

  Saber stroked the side where he had been shot, and nodded ruefully. “I get that,” he said.

  “So, we’ll get started,” said Dina. “You can watch,” she said, helpfully.

  “I leave for ten days, and everything has changed,” said Saber.

  “You gotta quit taking off, Dad,” said Warren. “Your job is super-cool, but you miss a lot.”

  “I can see that,” said Saber.

  He listened to really bad recorder playing, did the Yang Short Form with the kids, took the dogs for another walk, made sure the kids did their chores, folded more laundry and put it away, and showed Warren how to make tandoori chicken in parchment paper pouches in the toaster oven.

  Sigrun arrived home first, hot and sweaty, and took a shower, then they ate. Wraith arrived partway through dinner, and she was quiet most of the raucous meal. The kids helped Sigrun to clean up, and they watched a comedy about a snail village. Wraith sent Dina and Sondra off to shower, and Saber made Warren take a much-hated bath. They met in the hallway for hugs, and all three went to their pods for the night.

  Saber went to his recliner after the kids were in their pods, put his feet up, covered himself with a light blanket, and scratched Roxie’s head while the cat rumbled in her chest, spreadeagled on the arm of the chair. He fell asleep, and didn’t wake up until Warren poked him.

  “Dad, you’re working too hard. Can you make breakfast for us?”

  Saber was actually frightened by his ability to sleep so deeply. He stood, stretched, and made a single cheese, mushroom, and bell pepper omelette. He divided it among the kids with some watermelon slices, and also served orange juice.

  Sigrun toddled out. Saber kissed Sigrun, and said, “Why didn’t you wake me up and take me to bed?”

  “Because, love, we wouldn’t have slept,” she whispered into his ear.

  Saber groaned, kissed her again more forcefully, and said, “Shower. Omelet fixings are still out.”

  He toddled off to take a shower, and found Wraith in there. She soaped him down, he soaped her back, and he slid his fingers inside her until she squirmed. She stroked him until he came, washed them both off again, and left the shower. He turned the water to cool to wake himself, and got out.

  He dried himself off, braided his hair into a short braid, put on lotion, underwear, black shorts, socks, and a blue T-shirt. He watched Sigrun go out to walk the dogs and Wraith send the children off to school. He ate his omelet, cleaned up, and kissed Wraith. He sent her off to work, brushed his teeth, kissed Sigrun goodbye, and went out to work out with Skuld.

  Skuld had a mix of people from various law enforcement agencies in her class. Saber chatted with some of them, introduced himself to the rest, stretched out, hugged Skuld, and then spent nearly an hour throwing people, getting thrown, and defended himself against wooden knives and joh sticks. Then he took his bruises and sweat in for another shower. He met Skuld after her shower, and asked if he could talk to her.

  “What’s up?” she asked, as they both sucked down water.

  “I miss stuff,” he said. “I go away for ten days, and all three kids have taken up musical instruments and have learned the Yang long form.”

  “So,” said Skuld. “Options?”

  “Stay and keep missing segments of their lives. Quit ATF and do… something, but I don’t want to work for my wife, although I’d love working with Bannon and Gregory. Hearing Wraith’s voice in my head all day would make it weird at home. Maybe do something for the Nighthawks.”

  “I can say right now that I’d love to work with you,” said Skuld. “Law enforcement should not lose your skills.”

  “Hmm,” said Saber, sucking down more water.

  “You’re a complete, motherfucking idiot,” said Skuld.

  “What?” said Saber.

  “I saw that giant bruise where someone shot your vest. That jacket, I take it.” Saber nodded. “How long till you get shot again? And again? And again? You have three kids at home, dumbass. You’re not the only agent to get out of undercover when you acquired children.” Saber grimaced at his own stupidity. Skuld continued. “It’s a young ones’ game. I’m absolutely certain that you could still work for the alphabet agency of your choice as a trainer. I suggest keeping with ATF and train the next generation. You can even keep all your identities, and introduce these baby agents around as friends, family; other links in the chain, even as what they really are, trainees.”

  “Well, fuck if you aren’t making sense,” said Saber.

  “I was wondering when your head was going to pop out of your ass.” Skuld ignored his withering glare. “Get the fuck out of here and go talk to Ghost Boss.”

  “On it,” said Saber. He slid his water container into his pocket, hugged her, and walked away.

  Ghost Boss’ real name was Special Agent in Charge Ricardo Santiago, who hated the name Ricky. He went by his middle name, Paolo. Everyone just called him Paul. He was new, in the Vegas field office, a plum assignment, for less than five months after his predecessor was promoted to New York. He was intelligent, charming, and ruthless at getting the job done, and in building cases that stood up in court. He wore a simple button-down shirt and slacks, unless he had to talk to the higher-ups, then he put on a tie and a suit jacket in less than a minute flat.

  They called him Ghost Boss because he would ghost in, make sure everything was nailed down, and ghost back out. He didn’t step on toes or make people feel stupid for no reason. But if one of his agents fucked up a case, he came down like a ton of bricks on that agent.

  Saber motioned that he wanted to talk. Ghost Boss was in blue —blue shirt, blue slacks, a blue tie with little gold dots hung up on the rack with a blue suit coat. It set off his blue eyes and brown hair.

  “Big meeting?” asked Saber, eying the suit jacket and tie.

  “Already over with. Took down an explosives expert named Volfan, working up the chain from your bust.”

  Saber whistled. Volfan was from Eastern Europe, some speculated he might be from Serbia. He liked blowing things up. It was a big bust.

  “So, you figured out your position is untenable,” said Ghost Boss, never one for small talk or idle chitchat.

  Saber nearly started, but he’d been trained better than that. “Yes, sir,” he said.

  “Trainer or quitting?” asked Ghost Boss. “You’re not the riding-a-desk type.”

  “Training, and several side jobs. Handling may or may not be a full-time job.”

  Ghost Boss assessed him through narrowed eyes. “Skuld,” he guessed. “Maybe some side work with Gregory and Bannon’s firm. Don’t see you working directly under your wife. Build up worry, strangeness, possible eventual resentments.”

  “Right on all counts,” said Saber.

  “Okay then,” said Ghost Boss.

  Ghost Boss pulled something out of the bottom of his inbox, and slid it over to Saber. It was a move to handler, including permission for side jobs with specific agencies, including working with Skuld and High Desert Security a
nd Protection. Saber took his time, read it while Ghost Boss attacked his inbox with his usual efficiency. Ten minutes later, Saber took a pen out of his boss’ pen cup, signed it, and handed it back.

  In response, Ghost Boss handed him three files. “Usually, I let handlers pick their team, but that’s just stupid here. I have three who want deep undercover, chafing at the bit. I sent them all for specialized training in undercover ops, just to keep them occupied until your head popped out of your ass.” Saber gave his boss a level stare. Ghost Boss ignored it. “Your contacts with Skuld, High Desert’s training, and your Harley people will be invaluable to them. Use all your resources wisely. Now, get the hell out of my office. I’ll expect a detailed report about all three of them and your operations once a week, unless things are dicey, then every damn minute if you need to. I’ll still bring you in on small jobs if needed, but I’ll try to stay more local. Still need your expertise and your identities from time to time. Now, get the fuck out of here and go get your people.”

  Saber took the files, stood, and nodded. “Consider my head out of my ass,” he said, and stalked out. He didn’t see it, but Ghost Boss smiled a little smile as Saber shut the door, very quietly behind him.

  Saber cleaned out his desk, put his stuff in two grocery bags, and walked out. He slipped the grocery bags into his saddlebags, and the files into his jacket. He had a special pocket sewn into the lining for this stuff. He headed to a coffee shop nearby, and loaded up on caffeine and sugar. He read each file thoroughly, and watched short videos on his phone of his agents Ghost Boss had helpfully included on a microSD card so he could spot them, and see how they moved.

  Lieutenant Redding James was ex-military. He wore his hair long, grew a scruffy beard, and knew his way around cows and horses, so he walked like a rancher, not a jarhead. He had caramel skin, deep dark eyes, and a voice that could go from gentle to hard in a split second. He’d learned Arabic and French due to time in Africa. He would do well in many scenarios, thought Saber. He watched the man in a training exercise, and knew he’d do well.

  Lieutenant Pella “Piston” Cznero was ex-military as well, with two tours overseas. With her long brown hair, gray-green eyes, and pale skin, she looked like a Russian mail-order bride, but she was also a sharpshooter and very handy with a knife. Saber suspected she’d end up in the Valkyries someday. She was called Piston because she could run, jog, hike, climb walls, do obstacle courses, and climb and rappel all damn day. The woman was a machine. The military was horrified when she didn’t re-up and joined the ATF instead. Saber suspected some mental kinks from the war from both Redding and Piston, but he figured if he could handle Wraith’s darkness, he could handle theirs.

  The third undercover trainee was a military brat, lived all over the world, and was tough, scrappy. She hadn’t joined the military, but ATF directly. Jess Balasan was half-black, half Asian. She had straight black hair dyed crimson on the ends, tilted eyes, a flat nose, and a round face. She could also move like the wind, had a black belt in four martial arts, and had a law enforcement degree. She had been trained on a variety of weapons since she was a little girl. She’d worked as a cop, broke a huge case against a gunrunner, and had gotten into ATF. Saber decided to pick her up first.

  Saber called Kat to cover the kids coming home from school. He left messages on his wives’ phones, saying he was picking some people up out of town. He finished his chocolate caramel chunk muffin, and headed out. He took the I-15 to the 5, and made good time, with a stop for lunch in Barstow.

  As he figured, Jess Balasan was the easiest to find. She was beating the crap out of a trainer at the joint task force training lab in Oakland, California.

  Saber watched as she hooked a knee around his neck and drew him to the floor. “You touch me again, you creepazoid,” she said, “I’ll tear off your hands and stuff them down your throat.”

  “Thought you had better vocabulary than ‘creepazoid,’” said Saber.

  “Asswipe,” said Jess, rolling back and up in a blur of motion.

  “You can do better than that,” said Saber. “How about sadistic dick-melted son-of-a-bitch who forgot that training is for training, not groping?” He raised an eyebrow at the man.

  “This doesn’t concern you,” said the man, a buzz cut blonde with attitude pulsing off him, the angle lines of his face a hard mask.

  “Well,” said Saber. “It does, but I’ll stand back like you requested and let her kick your ass instead. Then, I’ll report you to every fucking person in every chain of command you’ve ever been in. I’ll bet this isn’t the first time, and when we do a little digging, your ass is in prison.”

  The man turned red, and Saber did as he promised. He stood back as Jess took him apart without leaving permanent injury in three simple steps —throat, underarm, and groin. The underarm was the hardest, because the training officer had to be reaching for her at the time.

  She stood over the groaning man and said, “Emil Fitzpatrick, I’m going to do what my boss said he would do, because I’m a world-class investigator. I suggest you simply vanish into the night so you won’t spend time in prison. There, you’ll get to know what sexual harassment really is.”

  “That’s your first assignment,” said Saber, and he pointed his chin at the showers. “Let’s get started.”

  “Good, boss,” said Jess. She turned, and made it to the showers before he could blink.

  Saber took out his phone and called Daisy Chain. “Hi, love, it’s your favorite long knife.”

  “Saber,” said Daisy Chain. “Lucky for you, I don’t know anyone named Dirk. Talk to me.”

  “Emil Fitzpatrick, training officer, Joint Task Force Training Facility, Oakland, California. Likes to grope females that he’s training.”

  “That him groaning in the background?” asked Daisy Chain. “Good job.”

  “Not me, the person he was training. Could have fed his balls to him, but then I’d have to visit her in prison, rather than have her join my task force.”

  “So, you finally got your head out of your ass and went the trainer route,” said Daisy Chain.

  “Why does everyone keep saying that?” asked Saber.

  Daisy Chain grunted. Saber heard typing. “Found him. Bet my liquid-cooled binary lovey here that I can find six incidents of sexual harassment in… three, two, got him. How the fuck did this ball-less wonder become a trainer?”

  “My guess, a way to get rid of him, and they figured he would be training entire classes, not have women alone,” said Saber, leaning against a wall. The Ball-Less Wonder managed to get into a crouch, and directed a venomous look at Saber. Saber grinned at him.

  “Wanna track down the women so they swear out complaints?” asked Daisy Chain. “Two are near where you are in Los Angeles. Both quit, and one FBI, one DEA, both making a mint as private contractors.”

  “Basic data dump to my cell,” said Saber. “Gotta get to them before he regains the use of his limbs and speech.”

  “I’ll send out a warning, but all of them are protected now, and they all carry weapons,” said Daisy Chain. “Not disarmed like in practice.”

  “Then let’s nail his boss for fun, for letting Ball-Less Wonder work for them in any capacity,” said Saber.

  “Oh, there’s a series of them. Turns out he’s a two-star general’s nephew.”

  “I vote blowtorch, but sledgehammer could work,” said Saber, making sure his voice carried, as the man moved to a wall to stand up. Ball-Less Wonder went a little pale.

  “Or blackmail,” said Daisy Chain. “This comes to light, several people get demoted.”

  “So sad for them,” said Saber.

  “Not,” said Daisy Chain. Then, she was off the line.

  Jess strode right past the man leaning against the wall and said, “Ready to go, boss.”

  “You have wheels?” asked Saber. He raised a hand. “You kind of have to, here, but you could have taken an Uber.”

  “Harley. Got one when I found out you would be o
ur trainer.”

  “Good,” said Saber, as if trainees bought Harleys because of him every day. “Much to pack?” They turned and strode out of the training room.

  “Go bag, already packed. Took you long enough, boss.” Jess grinned at him.

  Saber sighed. “Why does everybody keep saying that?”

  Saber admired her black-and-chrome Harley. She slid her gym clothes into her saddlebag. They swung by the spotless, depressing, pay-by-the-week studio she kept close to the training center. She grabbed her go bag, checked out, and they went to the bikes.

  He forwarded the women’s info to her. “Let’s go interview us some women.”

  “Yes, boss,” said Jess.

  The first woman, Celia Greene-Jones, a digital infiltration training specialist at a bootcamp for mercenaries, pulled up all the documentation for her complaint, called in a notary public, and on camera and in writing she talked about the “special training session” or near-rape with Ball-Less Wonder and signed a new document. They took the evidence with them. The second victim, Rilla Campbell, told the identical story, and swore out a new document, and Jess swore out her own while they waited for the notary public. They took the evidence and took it to two bosses above the trainer’s boss, a deputy director in Los Angeles. They flashed their badges and got it.

  “I have two minutes,” said Deputy Director Grace Yana. “Walk with me.” Saber had Jess lay it out, and they handed over the evidence in a crisp blue folder, with an SD card of all three testimonies. “I dislike you going up this far in the chain,” said the deputy director, as the elevator doors opened.

  “We had all of this in less than three hours, even with LA traffic,” said Saber. “What has this man’s boss been doing, and what would he do to cover it up?” They all got in the elevator going down.

  “I see your point,” said the deputy director. She took the folder. “Go away. I will take care of this.” She raised a finger. “No taking care of this yourselves. He’ll be prosecuted, agents. You have my word.”

  Saber nodded, and they got out at their floor. “Thank you, Deputy Director,” he said.