Breakaway. Rochelle Alers
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his contact on the inside?” Gavin said anxiously, asking yet another question.
The head of DEA field offices cleared his throat. “She’s the girlfriend of one of the men responsible for getting guns across the border to Mexican drug traffickers. She said there’s a contract out on Ray to bring him in dead or alive.”
“How do you gentlemen want him? Dead or alive?”
The ATF director angled his head. “We’d like to bring him alive, but without compromising the most important DoJ joint task force operation we’ve put together in years. We’ve got direct orders from the Oval Office to stop the flow of drugs and killings along the U.S.-Mexican border.”
Gavin clenched his teeth and a muscle twitched noticeably in his lean jaw. “What you’re telling me is that you’re willing to offer up Raymond Prentice as a sacrificial lamb in order to save your mission.”
A bright red flush crept up Bradley MacArthur’s face to the hairline of the mane of shockingly white hair, which had begun turning gray in his early twenties. “Special Agent Faulkner, I shouldn’t have to remind you of the oath each and every one of us took when we joined the Justice Department. If need be, I’d sacrifice my first born if it meant stopping the flow of drugs and putting those responsible for murder and trafficking behind bars for the rest of their natural lives.”
Gavin nodded. “I suppose that answers my question. When do I start and where am I going?” His voice was even, shaded in neutral tones that belied the inner torment of assuming the responsibility of rescuing or killing his own brother—Raymond Prentice.
Bradley unlaced his fingers as he stared at his agent. “We know this is not going to be easy for you. But the fact is you’re the best man for this mission. You’ll only have twenty-four hours to familiarize yourself with the operation before you head out to North Carolina.”
Resting a hand on the file folder stamped OPERATION: Top Gun, Gavin gave each man a long, penetrating look. “This is going to be my last field assignment.”
“What is it you want?” asked the ATF supervisor.
Silence filled the room as Gavin and the fastidious bureaucrat engaged in a stare down. “I want your job,” he said with a sardonic smile. Pushing back his chair, he stood, gathered the folder and inclined his head. “It’s been a pleasure.” Turning on his heels, he walked across the room, feeling the heat from the glares at his back as the four men exchanged glances.
The ATF director recovered quickly. “Why, that ballsy bastard,” he whispered under his breath. “There’s no way in hell he’ll ever get my job.”
Bradley MacArthur’s bushy brows lifted a fraction. “He may not be after your job.”
“But…but you heard what he said, Mac.”
“I heard him, Walter. However, it may be in your best interest to play nice with Faulkner, because he just may be your boss in the very near future. The man is one of the best the Bureau has seen in decades. As a former decorated Army Ranger and with several post-graduate degrees to his credit, Special Agent Faulkner could have any of our jobs at a moment’s notice.”
Gavin closed the door behind him as he winked at Claire Rossen. He walked past her desk to a room where he could sit and read the file on Raymond Prentice. He was serious when he had said he wanted out of the field. In three years he would turn forty, and by that time he knew he would be more inclined to sit behind a desk. What he didn’t want to think about was not finding his brother before the gun traffickers did.
Chapter 2
Celia inhaled a lungful of crisp mountain air wafting through the open windows of her late-model Toyota Highlander hybrid. The exterior temperature on the rear-view mirror read seventy-two degrees, sixteen degrees cooler than what it would’ve been if she’d remained in Miami. It was late May, and south Florida afternoon temperatures were already in the mid-nineties.
She’d left Palm Beach later than she’d planned, and hadn’t been able to make up the time because of a storm front that had stalled over the Southeast. There were times when the rain had come down so heavily, traffic along the interstate had been reduced to a crawl. However, the rain had stopped entirely by the time she reached Asheville, North Carolina’s city limits. The blue-gray haze hovering above the Great Smoky Mountains never failed to make her smile.
Why have I stayed away so long? she thought. The house with three bedrooms, two and a half baths built on more than two acres of lush land with panoramic mountain views had been her first big-ticket purchase once she had gained control of her trust. She’d fallen in love with the region while attending Meharry Medical College in Nashville, Tennessee, and each time she returned it was to wind down from the nonstop pace as an emergency-room critical care physician.
She was luckier than most of the students at medical school. She hadn’t been burdened with six-figure student loans because of her family’s wealth. Her great-grandfather, Samuel Claridge Cole, had established ColeDiz International, Ltd. in 1925 and it was now the biggest family-owned agribusiness in the United States.
Celia was always very low-key when it came to her wealth. She’d shared an apartment with another student in college and in medical school, and had driven an affordable car until she’d earned her medical degree. She knew she’d shocked her mother when she revealed that she did her own laundry instead of sending it out and had learned to cook rather than eat in restaurants or order takeout.
Celia and her two brothers had grown up in a household with a live-in housekeeping staff, a full-time chef, drivers and a grounds crew. When her college roommate—who had come from a poor Detroit neighborhood and was on full academic scholarship—called her spoiled and pampered, Celia took offense and refused to talk to her for a week. The stalemate ended when she asked her roommate to show her how to do laundry. Learning how to separate whites and colors segued into shopping for groceries and eventually cooking lessons. After four years, Celia and Rania Norris were not only roommates and friends, but sorority sisters.
Even her fiancé had been completely in the dark when it came to her wealth until she’d purchased an oceanfront mansion from her cousin. Nathaniel Thomas-Mitchell had designed the prize-winning showcase house as a wedding gift for his bride. But after the drowning death of their two-year-old daughter, Nathaniel and Kendra divorced. Eventually they relocated to Chicago, reconciled and remarried. Celia had bought the six-bedroom, seven-bath house, hoping she and Yale would raise their children there, and then grow old together.
She and Yale had had their first serious argument because he’d felt she hadn’t trusted him, and that she’d thought if he’d known of her wealth he would have proposed marriage because of her money. He’d admitted that he would marry her even if she were a pauper. Fortunately, she wasn’t destitute.
She was only a few miles from downtown Waynesville when she decided to stop at a supermarket in a shopping center. Not only did she need to fill the pantry and refrigerator, but she also needed cleaning products. It had been more than a year since she’d been at the house and she hated to imagine what would greet her when she arrived. There was no doubt that the house would be filled with dust and cobwebs, but hopefully nothing more. When she’d locked up the house last summer, she had emptied and cleaned the refrigerator, then unplugged it. She hadn’t had to concern herself with break-ins because she’d installed a security system that was linked directly to the sheriff’s office and fire department. Her nearest neighbor e-mailed her once a week to give her updates on the property.
Maneuvering into a parking space near the entrance to the supermarket, Celia cut off the engine and got out of her SUV. Reaching for a shopping cart, she walked into the market and was met with a rush of cool air from the air-conditioning.
Gavin stood in the supermarket produce aisle, checking the fresh herbs and vegetables in his shopping cart with what was listed on a recipe card for the Thai salad he’d planned to prepare for dinner. The recipe called for two different types of cabbage, but with more than half a dozen varieties on display, he was a little confused.
He’d