THE heavy thuds of wrapped fists hitting a punching bag echoed off the concrete block walls, as did the soft grunts of effort coming from the man abusing it. The FBI Baltimore field office gym was almost empty in the very early morning. That just meant Special Agent Zane Garrett didn’t have to deal with people watching him beat the stuffing out of a bag.
Again.
He focused on his target, using hands, feet, arms, legs, whatever combination worked as he let his body attack and his mind empty. Then, after one vicious kick, the stationary bag swung backward and a deep oomph and a hard thump interrupted Zane’s concentration.
“Garrett, what’s good, man?” Special Agent Fred Perrimore muttered wryly from where he sprawled on his ass on the mat behind the punching bag he’d been holding in place.
Zane lowered his fists and wiped the trailing sweat from his forehead with the back of his forearm. “Sorry, Freddy. I figured you were paying attention.”
“I was!” the stout, muscled black man said from the floor.
Zane offered him a grin and a hand. He helped the man to his feet.
“Need to talk about the prickly thing that crawled up your ass and died?” Perrimore asked, rubbing his hip with one hand.
“What do you mean?” Zane asked as he walked to the nearby bench and picked up his towel.
“You’ve been pissed for days, Garrett. You’d think your fifteen minutes of fame would make you friendlier, but no.”
“Don’t talk about publicity with me.” Zane had not enjoyed the continued media attention after his touchdown run with a bomb at Green Mount Cemetery last week. His snowflake of a partner had been granted a reprieve, three days off work to deal with the mental fallout. But not Zane, no, because he had used up all his comp time being blind and helpless.
“I’m just glad Grady hasn’t been here. You two would be taking each other apart in the ring,” Perrimore said with a nod to the boxing ring in the middle of the gym. He sprayed his face with his water bottle. “How the hell does he have so much damn leave time, anyway? Is he on psych eval again?”
Zane shrugged. He’d been a little on edge ever since he woke up and found a good-bye letter in bed next to him instead of his lover. Zane didn’t even know if Ty’s little mental health trip had helped him. That phone call had been two days ago, and no Ty in sight.
“He needed some time after the building fell in on us,” Zane murmured.
“Hell, Zane, I don’t doubt that. I’d be shocked if he were here. In fact, I’m shocked that you’ve been here.” Perrimore crossed his arms and focused his disapproval on Zane. “You were blind for a week. And being in that building when it came down on you and Grady? You should have taken time too. The docs would have signed off on the leave, no question.”
Zane edged up one shoulder as he punched halfheartedly at the bag, watching it waver. “I had plenty of time to sit and think when I couldn’t see. I need to be doing something, even if it is just paperwork. Mac’s not letting me go out, anyway.”
“Yeah,” Perrimore said with a firm nod. “Because you’re mean. He can’t risk the PR nightmare if you were on the streets.”
Zane didn’t think his behavior had been that bad. “You’re exaggerating.”
“You told Clancy to take her pom-poms and go home.”
Zane wrinkled his nose. “She was going on about how great What’s-His-Name from Financial Crimes is.”
“Yeah, well, you probably ought to apologize.”
“I’m not apologizing when she’s dating the guy.” Zane’s phone, sitting on the bench with his towel, began to chime. He turned to pick it up.
“They hooked up? Michelle and What’s-His-Name?”
“Yeah. Keeping it quiet, though, so keep your mouth shut,” Zane said as he looked at his phone’s display. It was a Washington, DC number, one he didn’t know.
“Why is she dating a guy from Financial Crimes?” Perrimore asked. He sounded exasperated.
Zane shrugged and hit the button to answer the call. “Special Agent Zane Garrett.”
“Garrett, Burns here,” the caller said. He didn’t offer his title, even though it was an impressive one. He didn’t even offer a hello. “I need you on a plane in less than two hours.”
Zane figured he must have looked surprised, because Perrimore frowned and pointed at the phone, mouthing, “Who is it?”
Zane shook his head. “A plane to where?”
“Chicago, but I don’t have time to explain further. There will be information in your locker,” Burns said, sounding harried and impatient.
Zane glanced at the clock high on the wall. It was almost five in the morning. Normally a call at this time would have caught Zane still in bed. “Guess it’s a good thing I’m at the office.”
“Should I tap someone else for this, Agent Garrett?” Burns asked, his customary composure somewhat lacking. “Because I’ve got less than fifteen minutes to find my man a backup, and I recall that you used to be less talkative.”
Zane frowned. There was something weird about this. “No, sir. I can leave immediately.”
“You do that, then. Take a lesson from your partner, Zane. Every minute you spend being a smartass is one minute on the other side that you’re not there for someone who’s counting on you.” He ended the call without waiting for Zane’s response.
Zane pulled the phone from his ear and looked at it as if it might lunge and snap his head off. “What the hell?” Whatever had happened had Burns more riled than Zane had ever heard him. Zane looked at Perrimore. “I gotta go.” He grabbed his towel and took off at a run for the locker room.
“Hey, what’s going on? Garrett!” Perrimore called after him.
Zane didn’t stop to answer. He could be showered and dressed and in his truck in ten minutes. BWI wasn’t far away.
Chapter 2
IT HAD been a whirlwind few hours. A single card of information—airline and flight time out of Baltimore; a time and place in Chicago—had been waiting on the top shelf of Zane’s locker, along with a ticket for a nonstop to O’Hare.
Zane had, upon occasion, worked with less information. And he knew enough about how Burns worked not to even be bothered with his methods.
He’d made it to BWI with barely enough time to change into the suit he’d had in the truck. He’d taken the time during the past two days to repack the small duffel bag he kept in the truck for when he needed a change of clothes and more than a couple of spare magazines for his Glock. He’d been able to check the duffel, along with his arsenal.