Judas Horse_ An FBI Special Agent Ana Grey Mystery - April Smith [113]
The scene in the kitchen could not be more domestic. Every box of cereal in the pantry has been taken out and lined up on the counter, and Megan and I are mixing lurid rainbows of flakes and chips and marshmallow bits like kids at a sundae bar. It’s either Armageddon or a sleepover. Stone has been studying the fish report in the newspaper, as usual.
“‘Yesterday five hundred and twelve chinook salmon moved through the fish ladders in an hour,’” he reads. “That’s the highest count all summer. Having fun undercover, Ana Grey?”
I give him a grimace. I spent a sleepless night on the couch guarded by Mr. Terminate, who stayed awake doing coke, an AK-47 across his knees. But this morning, he and Mountain Man were gone.
“I’m glad we’ve all come clean,” Stone says. “So we can trade war stories. I remember one time undercover on the beach in northern California with a dozen naked hippies, all tripping on acid, entwined in a mound like a bunch of seals, like something dumped out of the sea. And here we are, right back to it.” He fingers the Colt in the holster. “Just like the old days, minus the pussy—no offense.”
“I was there, darlin’,” Megan deadpans.
Stone laughs as Sara comes downstairs wearing flannel drawstring pants and a lingerie top without a bra, still all soft focus from sleep.
“Where’s Slammer? Did he already eat?”
Dick Stone informs her that Slammer has left.
“Left where?”
“Left the farm. He’s gone. Just took off. Said he couldn’t take it here anymore. Because I’m a prick, evidently.”
“What?” Sara is disbelieving. “He wouldn’t just split like that. Without telling me? Darcy, did you see him go?”
I shake my head. “First I’ve heard of it.”
Sara flushes pink. “What did you do to him?”
“Nothing. Left of his own free will.”
Megan: “He walked out wearing his backpack. Check his room; you’ll see it’s gone.”
“I don’t believe you. What is going on?”
“Well,” says Megan, “for one thing, Darcy here is a fed.”
“A what?”
“She’s a cop. A spy. It’s a brand-new day, Sara,” Stone announces.
Sara’s look goes blank and her delicate face shuts down.
Unreachable.
“I’m with the FBI and I’ve been working undercover to infiltrate FAN. This is what it really looks like when your cover has been blown,” I say, waving a spoon toward the collection of fluorescent cereal boxes with cartoon characters flying spaceships and riding tricycles.
The gesture takes in the superior look on Dick Stone’s face, Megan’s “I knew it all along” coolness, the hazelnut trees, lost animals, and, just beyond the cottonwood trees, hopefully, a hostage rescue team assembled from three states.
Her eyelids flutter.
“Did my parents send you?”
Ignoring Dick Stone’s chuckle, I say, “No, Sara, I was sent by the U.S. government to destroy a terrorist cell. These people have broken the law and they are going to jail. When the time comes, do what I tell you, and you will be safe with me.”
The chuckle again. He’s enjoying this.
“What about Slammer?”
Stone touches her wrist. “Don’t let it break your heart.”
“He wouldn’t leave me. We’re friends.”
“He’ll show up again. You know how he is.”
The girl still can’t make sense of it. “Slammer just left—on foot?”
“John and his buddy gave him a ride.”
“Where to?”
“The bus station.”
My gut tightens. The fact that Stone has disclosed Slammer left with the goons is ominous. Maybe Slammer became too rebellious, too much of an obstacle, like me. “The bus station” could mean the Dumpster at the shooting range. Alerted by the sound of heavy tires on gravel, we watch as McCord’s Silverado turns into the driveway. Sara runs toward the door.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Sterling’s here. He’s got the wraps for Geronimo’s leg.”
“What happened to Geronimo?”
“He banged his leg against the rail yesterday. It’s all swollen.”
“Go,” says Megan with a tired wave. “Take care of the baby.” Her eyes have reddened and