Immune (The Rho Agenda #2)(13)

Mark's heart ached at the thought of all that Heather had recently been through. As badly as he wanted to protect her, to make her feel safe, this was something that was beyond him. Since they had found the Second Ship, her premonitions had been uncannily accurate. The thought that these dreams might be another premonition scared the crap out of him.

Ignoring the sudden chill that had crept into the room with Jennifer, Mark resumed his seat in his father's chair. But it was a long while before he regained his former concentration.





11


"Sergeant Pino?" The redheaded FBI man wound his way through the metal-legged tables in the Pueblo Diner, careful to avoid brushing his dark slacks against the table edges, as if he feared what Rosita might have missed with the wipe-down rag.

Sergeant Jim “Tall Bear” Pino leaned back from the counter, ignoring the proffered hand. His eyes swept over the federal agent in a manner that communicated his annoyance. The agent wore shiny black shoes, somewhat dulled by a thin coating of parking lot dust, dark suit pants, but no jacket. His white shirt had sleeves rolled up to the elbows, intended to show he was willing to get his hands dirty. Tall Bear had seen the type before. An *.

"My name is Special Agent Sullivan," the agent said, awkwardly withdrawing his hand and sliding onto a stool at the counter next to Tall Bear.

Tall Bear took a sip of coffee, noting that it was well past time for Rosita to brew a new pot, the dark contents having taken on the awful burnt flavor so adored by all those white yuppies in their latte joints.

"That's nice."

Agent Sullivan's fake smile melted from his face. "I want to ask you some questions."

"Fire away."

"Can we go somewhere more private?"

Tall Bear glanced around the nearly empty diner, shrugged, then reached into his pocket for change. Tossing seventy-five cents on the counter, he led the way out the door, his worn cowboy boots leaving clear imprints in the dust of the parking lot.

Walking around the side of the diner, Tall Bear stopped by his battered Jeep Cherokee squad car. He reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a small can of Copenhagen. Tapping it twice against his wrist to settle the tobacco, he twisted off the lid and was rewarded with the familiar pungent smell.

Only when he had finished packing a large pinch firmly into his cheek did he glance up at the FBI man. The sight of the fading wrinkle of repulsion on Agent Sullivan's face gave Tall Bear his first enjoyable moment of the day.

"Well, here we are," Tall Bear said, indicating that the empty dirt parking lot was as private as it was going to get.

Agent Sullivan's eyes acquired an angry glint. "Fine. I'll get started then."

"Please do."

"I'm here to find out what you were doing at the murder scene on Highway 502 before the proper authorities arrived."

Tall Bear adjusted the brim of his hat, enjoying the fact that the New Mexico sun had already brought a sheen of sweat to the face and neck of the federal agent. The tribal policeman had been anticipating a visit like this since the night of the murders.

The only odd thing was that he hadn't already been visited by New Mexico state authorities. If there was one thing that pissed off the New Mexico attorney general's office, it was tribal policemen getting involved with anything on public highways, even if they passed through tribal lands.

Tall Bear spat a thin jet of tobacco between his teeth, hitting the dust close enough to Agent Sullivan's feet to cause the man to glance down. A splatter check.

"Just looking for survivors."

"You know you're required to wait for official permission before getting involved in a crime scene outside your jurisdiction."

"I thought it was an accident scene."

Agent Sullivan frowned, wiping sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. Already, twin damp spots darkened the white shirt at his underarms.

"You didn't call when you saw the murder victims?"

"I told you. I was looking for survivors."

"They had their heads cut off."

"Yeah. But there might have been others."

"Bullshit. You should have made a call as soon as you saw what went down."

"Look, I'm just a tribal cop. We don't get the big-city training."

Agent Sullivan's Irish face had taken on a shade of red too deep to be attributable solely to the high desert sun. He leaned in close.

"Don't f*ck with me, Sergeant Pino. This case is under federal jurisdiction, and if I want to, I can get a search warrant that will let me tear your tribal police station apart, along with your house."

Tall Bear spit again, this time sending the brown stream much closer to the FBI agent's foot. "You mean my hogan."

Agent Sullivan nodded. "One way or another, you will cooperate."

As the agent turned and walked angrily away, Sergeant Pino called after him. "Bring a four-wheel drive. It's a ways back on the res."





12


Vice President Gordon didn’t like Garfield Kromly. The old CIA trainer was a uniquely dislikable man, which was precisely the reason why Kromly had been put in charge of new field operatives instead of rising through the ranks. Unlike the military, the CIA had a place for people who would rise no higher than their current station. Kromly might suck at kissing ass, but he was very, very good at everything else.