Rising Hope by Edie James

8

By the timeSarah pulled the spiffy borrowed sports car into the impressive modern garage of the beach mansion the DEA set her up in, her feet were killing her. Because of the stunt Ulrich pulled with the tracker, getting the deal done took longer than usual. Not that she minded. The failed attempt to track her suggested the cartel intended to keep doing business with her. They wouldn’t bother to vet her otherwise.

They’d simply kill her.

She checked the panel for the security system and headed upstairs to the main level, kicking off her heels the second she reached the landing. Despite the pile of paperwork ahead of her, she paused to drink in the wall-to-wall view of the Pacific. The décor matched the exterior: all hard, modern edges. Not her favorite style, but the minimalist look certainly allowed Nature to take center stage.

The house might be ridiculous, but the views were breathtaking. A shabby chic cottage along a deserted patch of coastline would be more her style, but she wouldn’t complain about the endless ocean views. No way she’d ever have anything like them on her government salary. She couldn’t even afford a single car garage in this neighborhood.

Not that she’d try. Besides being out of reach financially, the neighborhood had no life. In the few months she’d been there, she realized she was the only full-time resident on the block. All those hotel-sized homes, uninhabited except for a few golden weeks a year.

Nope. Even if she hit the lottery, she’d take a pass on this place. Too big. Too sterile. Too lonely.

Well that last one she couldn’t blame on the house. She was lonely everywhere. Renouncing the criminal life five years ago left her without friends or family. Not a bad thing, considering the road both groups travelled, but she’d expected to make new friends and forge a family of her own.

What she hadn’t realized was that no one she worked with wanted to have anything to do with a former criminal. Most were civil. Some even complimented her on her field skills, but no one asked her to hang out in their off hours.

No problem. Once free of the DEA, she’d find a way to have a real life.

The sunset faded, overwhelmed by the coming dark. She rubbed her tired eyes. Better get to it. The sooner she banged out her report, the sooner she could get to bed.

She tossed a bag of popcorn in the microwave and settled on the couch next to the window with the best view, her laptop next to her. Couples strolled along the beach below the cliffs, arm in arm, soaking in the natural majesty. Their contentment was so palpable it hurt.

She looked away. She wanted a life that held the possibility of love.

And she would. Soon.

But first, she needed to get her head around this strange op.

Wenmark’s sudden disappearance ate at her. Losing agents wasn’t unusual, especially on a long mission. People, or family members, fell ill. Agents got made—or there was strong concern that they had been. And people got injured. Or killed.

But they didn’t disappear.

As Peaches, she tried to send a silly bouquet of chocolate chip cookies, but he wasn’t registered at any of the local hospitals. Nor did he answer his personal cell phone.

She had no hard evidence that anything was amiss. Just a roiling in her gut that wouldn’t quit.

So she’d done some checking, and quickly ran into walls. While she had access to several law-enforcement-related databases, she had no access to Coast Guard records. Basically, if the info she wanted wasn’t in a law-enforcement database, she was out of luck. Which meant she couldn’t follow up on the pilot’s disappearance.

But she knew someone who could. So a couple days ago, she’d reached out to the only person in the DEA she trusted. She wiped her hands on a napkin and checked her email.

Grayson Ames, fellow agent and now upper-level supervisor, wanted out of the agency, too. He’d been a hard-charging undercover agent back in the day, but now he had a wife and infant son to think about.

And like her, he trusted no one.

Gray was the agent who saw a spark in her. He instigated her plea deal with the DEA. Unlike the others, he didn’t shun her because of her background. Quite the opposite. He thought it gave her an edge, and he believed in her.

He just didn’t believe in trusting their higher-ups. “It wouldn’t be hard for someone to use you as a patsy,” he’d warned her more than once over the years. “Watch your back.”

Yeah. About that. She wriggled her shoulders, trying to loosen the tension. Her intuition was screaming now.

Stomach aching, she scanned his brief message. On the surface, it was nothing but a chatty update, a friend sharing family news. It was his sign off that mattered.

TTYL.

Talk To You Later.

Code for her to log into an online gaming site where they could leave each other messages. It wasn’t the most sophisticated way to share potentially dangerous info, but neither of them were super-skilled computer experts. It was a simple system, and so far, they saw no signs that their conversations had been monitored.

But since Grayson moved up the agency ladder, they hadn’t used it much. He wasn’t in her division anymore, so they weren’t working the same cases.

She logged into the game, using her confidential alias. The message from Silver Fox was brief.

No info available on your pilot. This smells bad. Stay sharp.

Mouth hanging open, she stared at the message. The news wasn’t exactly a surprise, but in the back of her mind, she figured she was overreacting.

Clearly not.

“If it smells like tuna, it’s probably tuna,” her conman father used to say.

Her dad was wrong about a great many things, but he read people better than anyone she’d ever met.

No way an op like this had to be so complicated. Too many disparate teams with no inter-team communication. It made no sense. Unless someone involved had things to hide.

Appendicitis or not, why Wenmark disappeared was a mystery for sure, but at least now she could stop second guessing herself. Gray wouldn’t encourage her to keep digging if he didn’t think something was strange.

She set the popcorn aside and stared out at the dark landscape. The beach was deserted now, only the ruffled whites of the breaking waves separating the black water from the equally dark shore. If she could clear her mind, she might see the pattern. There was always a pattern.

Only she didn’t know enough about the players to make any educated guesses.

But people on social media might. DEA agents, and young, studly aviators probably didn’t log onto Facebook or Instagram or Twitter much, but they’d have wives and girlfriends and family who would. Fingers shaking, she grabbed her laptop again and searched the main social media sites for mentions of the pilot.

Nothing.

The lack of posts didn’t make her feel any better. Depending on how high up the food chain this strange op ran, the info could have been scrubbed. It wouldn’t take a high-level cyber jockey ten minutes.

She logged off and closed her laptop. What was her next move?

Grayson would do more digging if she asked, but she didn’t want to involve him any further, if at all possible. So how could she access info on the missing pilot?

She couldn’t risk querying her superiors directly. Cartels the size of Tambov Roka had enough cash to buy off senators, let alone underpaid DEA and NSA supervisors. She stared out at the darkness, trying to find a thread to tug. No way she could start from the top. Gray was her only safe contact. She’d have to continue digging from the bottom. What happened to those men?

Wenmark’s smile, all goofy sincerity and shy confidence in his piloting skills, flashed through her mind. Her stomach ached. She wasn’t due for another pickup for another three or four days. Would her new pilot, the boy scout, still be flying?

She’d only known him a few hours, but she liked the guy. Not that she’d let the man know it.

If life had taught her anything, it was to never show your hand.