Page 28

W ASHINGTON , D.C.

C arolan and Fields had been at White Wolf Combat almost the entire night. The amount of red tape and paperwork the shooting had created was record-breaking—even by government standards.

Baltimore PD secured the scene while agents from headquarters and the FBI’s Baltimore Field Office were brought in to conduct the investigation.

There were plenty of familiar faces. Even Agent Kennedy had shown up in a sign of solidarity and support, tracking down coffees for them and sitting for a while making small talk.

As far as Carolan was concerned, it was an absolutely justifiable use of lethal force.

The final decision, however, would come down to the FBI’s Shooting Incident Review Group.

Unfortunately for Fields, they wouldn’t be meeting again until September.

Carolan couldn’t wait that long. He needed her with him on the street, not behind a desk on administrative leave.

The key was their boss, Gallo. He could push her through, but not without airtight, unassailable evidence that she had been in the right.

Carolan had a gut feeling that evidence was sitting right at the crime scene, just waiting to be uncovered, and he had leaned on the Baltimore Field Office to find it for him.

In order to preserve the integrity of the investigation, however, anything they were able to come up with couldn’t go to him, the partner of the shooter and a key witness to the event, it had to go to their supervisor. That was fine with Carolan.

After driving Fields home and making sure that she was stable and okay to be on her own, Carolan had returned to his house, crawled into bed with his wife, and fallen instantly asleep.

When his phone starting vibrating on the nightstand, he was positive he’d only been out for a few minutes. In reality, he’d been asleep for six solid hours.

He could tell by the caller ID that it was Gallo.

“Carolan,” he said, activating the call.

“In my entire career at the Bureau, that’s the cleanest shooting I’ve ever seen,” his boss stated.

Carolan’s hope that in addition to the security cameras on the outside of White Wolf Combat, the interior cameras—especially the one in Weber’s office—had been running and recording had paid off.

“How’s she doing?” Gallo continued.

“Good. It’s not her first rodeo.”

“Any psychological or emotional issues? Shock? PTSD?”

“With all due respect, I’m not a shrink,” Carolan replied.

“But you are her supervisor, as well as her partner. If I okay her to return to the field, am I going to regret it?”

“I don’t think so. No.”

“Okay, just to cover my ass, I want one of the Bureau psychologists to sign off. My assistant has got her an appointment at ten o’clock this morning.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Carolan. “I’ll make sure she’s there.”

“You should pick her up in a limo and buy her the best breakfast in town on your way,” Gallo stated. “If not for her shooting skills, that piece of shit Weber might have killed you both.”

Carolan didn’t disagree. After thanking his boss again, he hung up, placed a call to Fields, and filled her in.

As her vehicle was still sitting in the garage back at headquarters, he drove to her place and picked her up.

“Here you go,” he said, handing her a large coffee as she got into the car, plus a bag with her favorite bacon, egg, and Gouda sandwich.

“What’s all this?” she asked. “I normally get us coffee.”

“It was Gallo’s idea. He said that since you saved my life, the least I could do was buy you breakfast.”

“He’s right,” Fields said. “And by the way, you’re welcome.”

“By the way,” Carolan responded, “look at your cup.”

Fields looked down and read aloud what had been written in black Sharpie. “Thank you. Love, Boss.”

“Awwww, I’m going to frame this and hang it in our beautiful new office.”

“Over my dead body. That thing is not coming in the building. I didn’t put in decades of hard work just so you could blow up my reputation with a to-go cup.”

“You should have thought of that ahead of time,” she replied, peeling off the lid and blowing on the coffee. “Besides, it’ll be good for people to see a different side of the angry, old ‘Bear.’ Maybe they’ll start calling you the sugar bear.”

“Good God, no. I’m telling you right now. If that happens, I’m putting a bullet in you and then one in myself.”

Fields grinned. “Whatever you say, Sugar Bear.”

Carolan knew, that for at least the next twenty-four hours, he was going to have to be a good sport and take it. Gallo was right. She had very likely saved both of their lives.

“You sure you’re okay with getting back in the saddle right away?” he asked, changing the subject.

“I’ve got to be honest. After you dropped me off at home, I opened a bottle of Merlot and polished it off by myself.”

“Understandable.”

“Then I opened a second.”

Carolan winced at hearing that.

“But instead of drinking it,” she continued, “I put the cork back in, stuck it in the fridge, and went to bed.”

“How are you feeling today?”

“A little hungover, but grateful for my bacon, egg, and cheese breakfast.”

Carolan smiled. “The hangover’s a given. You drink some of the shittiest wine I’ve ever seen. What I’m talking about, though, is the shooting. How do you feel about that?”

“To be honest, I’m angry. I mean really pissed-off. That motherfucker was going to shoot us.”

“Yes, he was.”

“We were just asking him questions. It was a fucking knock-and-talk. That’s it. He didn’t have to pull a gun on us. That motherfucker.”

Carolan knew her well enough to know that the depth of her anger was often measured in “motherfuckers.” Like the rest of her swearing, he had given up trying to move her off that one a long time ago as well.

She was putting things together in her mind, processing, and so he remained quiet and let her keep going.

“I wouldn’t have even seen his damn tattoo if he hadn’t reached for that hand cannon out of his desk drawer.

But by then, he’d already made up his mind.

Rather than waiting for us to leave, rather than just playing stupid for a few minutes more, he made a choice.

That motherfucker decided he was going to murder two federal agents in cold blood. For what?”

He waited for her to look at him, indicating that she wanted a response, but when she didn’t, he didn’t offer one.

“So he must have known our guy—the one in the morgue with the same tattoo, right? Weber must have figured that we knew a lot more than we were letting on; that we weren’t going to let him walk out of there a free man. He felt cornered, right? Like there was no way out.”

This time she did look at him and Carolan nodded. “Obviously, the tattoo triggered him. And I think you’re probably correct. I think Weber believed we had something pretty serious on him and he was going back inside, maybe to never come out again.”

“But all of that over a tattoo? He didn’t even ask us why we were interested in it. That just doesn’t make sense.”

“Unless,” said Carolan, “that tattoo is tied to something so big that the minute the law shows up asking about it, you know it’s game over. You’re going down.”

“Something big like the attack outside the Vice President’s Residence.”

Once more, Carolan nodded.

“So what’s the plan?” Fields asked.

“I’m working on a possible lead for us,” he replied. “But first, I need you to answer my question. Are you okay, mentally?”

“One hundred percent,” she answered without hesitation. “And I would do it again. If someone pulls a gun on me, or you, we’re not going to sit in a sharing circle and talk about it. That person is going down.”

“Which is all I needed to hear,” said Carolan.