Page 8 of Blade’s Edge (L.A.S.T. Defense #1)

Emi

Most of the comments are encouraging.

“Developers are always corrupt.”

“The Empress is ugly as sin.”

“Austin don’t need another big-ass hotel. We need affordable housing!”

But a not-insignificant percentage demand we “leave poor Eugene alone.”

Like I’m going to listen to anonymous keyboard warriors whining about a corrupt land developer getting his ass handed to him.

Then there are the outright threats. Comment after comment telling me to die in a fire, go fuck myself, or watch my back.

I should stop scrolling. It’s not doing my sanity any good. But this is part of the job. Before the next installment of the series, I need to understand public opinion.

By the fourth page of comments, the tone has shifted entirely.

“That prissy bitch doesn’t know a real man when she sees one. Maybe I’ll go down to Channel 5 and show her.”

“I should drop Emmylou’s naked body off Reckless Ridge after I rip her to shreds with my dick.”

“Watch your back, cunt. Your gonna be bent over the garbage bin begging for my cock behind News 5. I’ll be their at 7.“

Oh, the urge to reply and correct his usage of your and their.

My desk phone rings before I can read any further, and I close my internet browser. Enough of that for today.

“Emi? You have visitors waiting for you.” Channel 5’s receptionist, Nia, sounds distracted. Worried, even. She’s usually so calm.

I check my calendar. “There’s nothing on my schedule. I blocked off this whole afternoon to work on the Eugene Fowler story. Who’s here? Did you get their names?”

She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Um…they say they’re with the FBI. Agents Van and Spooner. They had badges and everything.”

“Yes!” I can’t help doing a little dance in my chair.

This is exactly what I was hoping for. I already had a call with Austin PD this morning.

They’re supposed to get back to me before the end of the day with an update on their investigation of Consolidated Investment Group—though I don’t think they’ll tell me much.

They can’t if they expect to make a strong case against CIG and Fowler.

“Um…Emi?” Nia asks. “Are you okay? I put them in Conference Room B. They’re waiting for you.”

Shit. She wasn’t ready for my level of excitement. “Sorry. Yes. Get the agents some coffee or tea and let them know I’ll be there in two shakes. I need to see if Nelson’s free to sit in.”

My boss isn’t in his office, so I’m on my own. Probably better that way. He’d spend the whole meeting focused on the couple dozen death threats I’ve received in the past two days. I’m not the story. Consolidated Investment Group’s corruption is the story.

I breeze into the conference room with my tablet tucked under my arm. “Gentlemen. I’m Emmylou Marsh.”

The two men rise almost in tandem to shake my hand. They’re both on the short side. Five-eight, five-nine at most. Spooner is a broad guy, but Van’s a little softer. Meeker too. Yet he’s the one who speaks first.

“A pleasure, Ms. Marsh. I’m Special Agent Michael Van. That’s my partner, Harlan Spooner. We’d like to ask you a few questions about Eugene Fowler and Consolidated Investment Group.”

With one of my polished smiles, I sink into a chair across from them. “Of course. Anything to help the FBI.”

Spooner leans back in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of his face like he’s contemplating the mysteries of the universe. Van pulls a small notebook from his jacket pocket and clicks his pen.

“Ms. Marsh,” Van says, his voice even. Measured. “Your coverage of Eugene Fowler and his company came to our office’s attention. If what you reported is true?—”

Frustration prickles along my spine. “Now hold on just a minute, Agent Van. If my reports are true? I have evidence. Some of my sources are confidential, but others were very willing to talk on camera.”

Van frowns and glances down at his notebook.

“Like Alan Trowing? One of Austin’s building inspectors?

We tried to interview him this morning, but at 10:00 a.m. yesterday, he called his supervisor and resigned.

His mobile phone is off, and his neighbor saw him put a suitcase into his car and drive away around noon. ”

I don’t react—years of practice let me keep my cool in the most outrageous of circumstances—but why would Trowing run?

He gave me permission to use his name. He sent me photo evidence of Fowler’s bribes.

I fire up my tablet. “I have a signed statement from Mr. Trowing and copies of an email chain with his supervisor. He knew what he was doing when he admitted to taking money from Fowler and his boss agreed Trowing could take six weeks of leave—with pay—before he resigned for having the guts to come forward and admit what he’d done. ”

I turn the device around so the agents can see the email on screen. Spooner holds out his hand, but I shake my head.

“Sorry, gentlemen. This is as close as you get without a warrant.”

“Ms. Marsh, you don’t want to run afoul of the FBI,” Spooner grits out.

My smile falters for a split second before I plaster it back in place.

“I’m not legally required to divulge my sources,” I say, keeping my voice steady.

“The Empress Hotel project was controversial from the start. You’ve clearly watched my first two reports.

Bribes, shady land deals, and illegal demolitions are only the beginning. But I think you know that.”

Van’s eyes narrow. “We know the third installment of your report runs tonight. Tell us what bombshell you’re delivering next.”

My breath catches in my throat. This is my biggest scoop yet.

At least twenty-five percent of the construction workers on the Empress project aren’t union members.

They’re criminals with ties to the Cordova Cartel and the Ricci Syndicate in Chicago.

“Sorry, gentlemen. You’ll have to tune in like everyone else. ”

“You’re not this naive, Ms. Marsh.” Spooner’s voice is as thick and smooth as velvet wrapped around a blade. “One of your sources is missing. And your target is the kind of guy who makes problems disappear. Permanently.”

The weight of his words settles over me.

My stomach twists, but it’s not in fear.

It’s because I know how important this story is.

I can’t stop now. Not until I find something that stops Fowler from moving onto another city and starting his criminal enterprise right back up again.

Austin deserves better than empty promises.

“If you’re asking me to back down, Agent Spooner, you’re wasting your time. The people of this city count on me to report the news. So that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

After a long pause, Van leans forward. His eyes bore into me like he’s searching my soul. “Just remember, Emmylou. Sometimes the truth doesn’t set you free. Sometimes…it makes you a target.”

He’s not wrong. But the truth is all I have.

It’s another two hours before Van and Spooner finally give up. They have no legal right to force me to drop the story, and if I let myself be swayed by some nasty comments and social media threats…well…I wouldn’t be able to call myself a reporter.

Nelson is waiting for me outside my office door. “We need to talk.” There’s enough gravel in his tone to pave a country road. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen him this serious.

“I know, I know. I should have had Nia page you when the FBI showed up. But she said you were at a big meeting with the network and?—”

“The FBI?” He shakes his head. “Jesus, Emi. I should shelve tonight’s segment right now.” He thrusts his tablet at me, and I peer at the email on screen.

Ms. Marsh,

You have no business calling yourself a reporter. Your latest takedown piece on Eugene Fowler is the last straw. Walk away, or you might find yourself unable to report on anything ever again.

The message is unsigned—of course—and I shake my head. “Typical.”

“This doesn’t phase you at all?” Nelson asks. “It’s a fucking death threat, and you’re looking at it like it’s a recipe for sugar cookies!”

“I worked in Los Angeles for six years. Threats like this? They were as common as cornbread.” I lean a hip against my desk.

“I’ll forward the email to the FBI, but you can’t pull my next segment.

Journalism 101. If someone’s trying to intimidate me into backing down, I’m onto something big.

So quit hollerin’ down the rain and let me do my job. ”

Nelson sighs, the sound of a man who knows when he’s met his match. “Fine. But I’m going to hire security to escort you to and from your car. Is your building safe? Is there somewhere else you can stay until the story’s done?”

“I am not turning tail. And you absolutely will not get me a bodyguard. Folks who send messages like this are all hat and no cattle. If they were serious about taking me out, they wouldn’t talk about it first, they’d just do it.”

Pushing to my feet, I check my watch. “Tonight’s segment airs in an hour.

I need to get to make-up so I can do the intro live.

I should be good for another two segments next week.

Monday and Tuesday. After that, these idiots will fade into obscurity again.

Well, all except for Eugene Fowler. He should be in federal custody by then.

” My lips curve into a small smile. “Can’t wait to report on that . ”