Secrets Uncovered Page 2

  “I’ve told you all that I know!” Avon Tucker screamed, clenching his fists so tight his knuckles paled. He looked around at all of the accusatory faces and bit down into his jaw. This was some bullshit. It had been two weeks since the shootings that had claimed his partner’s life, and he was still being interrogated as if he were the bad guy.

  The DEA, NYPD and, of course, the FBI had converged on the scene, each wanna-be-in-charge acronym vying for jurisdiction over the scene. Avon had raised his hands like a suspect, his street clothes, obligatory diamond Jesus piece and long chain not helping him make the case that he was actually an undercover Drug Enforcement Administration agent.

  Immediately following the shooting, Avon was treated like a victim. At first, he was given time to “think things over.” He was taken under the wing of the Employee Assistance Program. This was called the “get your story together” time among law enforcement officers—a week’s worth of meetings with EAP shrinks, and strict isolation from the media and the U.S. Attorney’s Office investigators. In fact, this was his first “on the record” interview regarding the incident, and everyone wanted a piece of it.

  Avon’s role as “victim” somehow blurred into “suspect” as probing, accusatory questions seemed to become the order of the day. Where was Tucker when Brubaker had been shot? Had he identified himself as a DEA agent? How long had he been undercover? Wasn’t it true he had committed violations of the undercover rule, and only Brubaker had knowledge of this? Did he blame Brubaker for the first shooting incident of his career?

  That question had struck a raw nerve with Avon. He didn’t like anyone mentioning the accident he’d been involved in that resulted in a fifteen-year-old unarmed boy dying during an early-morning drug raid, early in his career. It was a memory he couldn’t shake anytime someone brought it up. It had been a highly dangerous and high-profile drug raid on the home of a well-known drug dealer that had changed things for Avon.

  Unfortunately, the DEA’s confidential informant had provided the wrong address. When Avon’s unit rammed the door of the home and entered tactically, there was a lot of screaming and running. As they worked to clear the house, Avon and Brad Brubaker searched the back rooms to make sure everyone was accounted for. In one of the bedrooms, Avon could hear someone breathing hard in the closet. Brubaker put his fingers to his lips to indicate silence, and the two approached the closet on deft feet. Brubaker pulled back the closet door for Avon to clear, and a young boy jumped out with a black crowbar raised in his hand. Avon, in knee-jerk reaction, overreacted and let off a single shot. The boy died later that day at the hospital. There was a huge public fallout. Everyone in the city wanted Avon’s head on a platter; firing him wasn’t going to be enough. Avon was ultimately vindicated of any wrongdoing because he was able to articulate his perceived threat—the boy could’ve just as easily had a gun. But Avon’s name was forever tarnished by the incident.

  All of the people in the room now were supposed to be on his side; but the earlier shoot-the-shit atmosphere had been replaced by a harsher, more attack dog format. Now Avon sat in the hot seat and was forced to defend his honor and his actions. Had Avon set Brubaker up to die, after finding Brubaker having an affair with his wife? Did he know Joseph Barton personally? Did he want Brubaker dead because he would expose Avon for committing crimes while undercover? And finally, why didn’t he try to save Brubaker?

  Apparently “no” or “I don’t know” were not satisfactory responses to the investigators. Instead, they would simply rephrase their questions to try to trip up Avon. It was a law enforcement philosophy—the more times someone had to tell the story, the more holes they might find. And, of course, these were holes that might be filled with lies.

  Letting out a long sigh, Avon roughly rubbed his hands over his face in exasperation. It was going to be a very long day.

  “Like I said, Joseph ‘Rock’ Barton was the shooter. He was the older guy on the scene. He said that he was working for some fuckin’ body inside of this agency—the DEA!” Avon’s voice rose an octave or two, startling his fresh-out-of-law-school Federal Law Enforcement Officer’s Association—funded attorney.

  Avon couldn’t help it; his emotions were on a hair trigger. He had been shot at, betrayed and hunted while working undercover on a case that was never intended to go anywhere. And now he was suddenly a suspect in some fictional conspiracy.

  Avon closed his eyes and placed his palms flat on the table. In an unnervingly calm voice, he continued, “Again, Barton walked over to Brad Brubaker. He pulled his weapon out and said these exact words, ‘You can’t be that stupid... . Your backup is not coming. They hired me for one last cleaner job ... but it wasn’t for who you thought. Did you think the government would laud you for being a traitor? Did you think they would promote you, trust you and respect you after you threw your own partner to the wolves—betraying him, lying on him, committing murders and putting them on your partner? Did you really think they would kill another federal agent to get him out of your way? Couldn’t you see that while you thought Tucker’s case was all one big red herring, you were being duped?’ Then he shot Brubaker in his head.” Avon looked up at the ceiling, as if recalling the entire scene from some distant place in his mind. He wanted to finish his recount of the events with his own personal opinion that the traitorous rat bastard deserved to have his head blown off, but he refrained himself from doing so, knowing those types of statements would make him look like he wanted his partner dead.

  “Do you wanna take a break? Um... I think my client needs a break,” Avon’s pimply-faced Georgetown-graduate lawyer stammered, sounding just like one of those clichéd television series attorneys. No one in the room paid him any mind. “Okay ... may-maybe not.” The attorney shrank back down onto his seat.

  The DEA interrogators who surrounded Avon turned quiet; it was a tactic Avon recognized. Silence usually unnerved guilty suspects, making them feel the need to fill up the silence with words, which would inevitably cause a slipup. Avon was silent too. He was trying to read them. Were they appeased? Were they still suspicious? The tension in the room was stifling. Some of the interrogators’ faces had looked as if Avon had just announced that he had a terminal illness, while others looked less surprised and more suspicious.

  A tall, square-shouldered white man broke from the group and walked over and placed one leg on the edge of the table, where Avon sat. The man leaned in so close— Avon could smell stale coffee on the man’s breath. “And you didn’t attempt to save your fellow agent’s life?” the man asked again, his bulldog jaw shaking with emphasis as he spat the words in Avon’s face.

  Avon slammed his hand on the small, wobbly silver table, causing the man to quickly remove his leg and stand erect. Avon jutted his pointer finger toward the beefy man. He was tired of the accusatory tone of this whole circus.

  “Are you listening to what I am saying? Brubaker tried to have me killed. He left me undercover with some of the most dangerous drug dealers in New York, and then he went and fucked my wife—just for the hell of it! Somebody paid Barton to kill him, and then Barton turned the gun on himself! But it wasn’t me! This entire fuckin’ movie-like conspiracy is much bigger than me. I shouldn’t be the one explaining it all. Somebody should be explaining to me why I was thrown in the thick of a fuckin’ government cluster fuck, and why my case agent was a crooked motherfucker who was probably working for you! Not only could I have been killed, but a lot of innocent people died because of this little fucked-up game you’re running here!” Avon barked back, the muscles cording in the chocolate skin of his neck. They had finally penetrated his resolve.

  The interrogators eased back and softened their tones. Another tactic. Now they’d play nice guy and try to get some type of admission, if not a confession. They’d never seen any guilty person speak with so much conviction.

  “Agent Tucker, we know this is hard. We just need the facts. Tell us one more time where you stood. What about the girl?” the lone female of th
e bunch chimed in, her eyes soft and placating.

  Avon’s face softened when he pictured Candy’s face in his mind’s eye. He had been thinking about her nonstop. He wondered where she had gone and if she was in any danger. Avon rested his elbows on the table and placed his bald head in his hands. He had to admit, as young as Candy was, she had done something to his heart. He had tried to tell himself that the night they shared together was purely a result of finding out his wife and partner were playing house during his absence, but Avon admitted to himself that he really had feelings for Candy. After the night they’d shared, he could not stop thinking about her. He felt sick, crazy even. Candy was a young girl, and he was a married man; yet she was a recurring thought.

  Everyone in the room seemed to be suspended in time waiting for Tucker to answer the question. Avon opened his mouth to tell them the story again. He would pick and choose what he told them about Candy.

  A loud knock, echoing through the door, interrupted his thoughts. Avon’s shoulders went from tense to relaxed; the knocking was a welcome distraction from the line of questioning. Everyone else turned toward the thick metal door as well, unsure of what course of action to take. The female interrogator stood up in a law enforcement stance—her legs were shoulder width apart; her hands up and at the ready, like she needed to be prepared for Armageddon.

  One of the DEA interrogators stalked over to the door and snatched it back like he was ready to chew out whoever was interrupting their show. The man standing behind the door walked into the room—it was like Moses parting the Red Sea to reach the Promised Land. Time seemed to stand still.

  “There will be no more questions, unless we are the ones asking them,” Grayson Stokes announced firmly, his voice raspy like his throat was covered with phlegm.

  Avon’s lawyer shot up from his seat; all of his papers flopped all over the floor, as he forgot they were on his lap. “Wait a minute, my client—” he interjected.

  “Shut it!” Stokes snapped, pointing a curved finger at the attorney. The attorney snapped his mouth shut; it was as if the man had put him under some sort of spell. All of the agents in the room reacted as if they were a group of teens who had just gotten busted at an underage drinking party.

  “If you ever want to earn a paycheck from the United States government again, I suggest you get the fuck out of here,” the old man hissed, pointing a yellow fingernail. Immediately taking the man for an authority figure, the rank-and-file agents all began to scatter.

  “Everybody leave,” the man demanded, gazing at the attorney and the few brave investigators lingering in the room. They silently cleared out, though many of the faces looked none too pleased.

  “Wait a minute here. He works for the DEA and we have the—” one of the bolder DEA agents dared to challenge. However, the icy stare and stone-faced grill he received from Stokes had him taking three steps backward toward the door.

  Stokes’s Men in Black—looking escorts waited for the attorney to gather his papers before ushering him out of the room. Talk about walking clichés.

  “Are you going to be all right?” Avon’s lawyer turned and asked from the doorway.

  “Didn’t I say get the fuck out of here!” the old man barked. His chest suddenly erupted and he exploded into a fit of coughing. His escorts each grabbed one of the attorney’s arms and shoved him through the door.

  Avon started to stand up too, but the man clapped one of his liver-spotted hands on Avon’s shoulder.

  “Not you, Agent Tucker ... or should I just call you Avon?” the old man asked, forcing Avon back down onto the chair. The metal door slammed shut with a ring of finality.

  “Look, I don’t know where you’re from, or what you want, but I know I have the right to an attorney,” Avon demanded, starting to stand up again.

  The dark shade—wearing escorts moved in closer.

  Avon slumped back on the chair. “I am not under arrest... or am I? If I am, I need to hear my Miranda warnings, now,” Avon snapped.

  Stokes let out a sarcastic snort. With his hazy, silvery, medicine-dilated pupils trained on Avon’s face, the man sized him up.

  “You’re right. You’re not under arrest and you do have certain rights, under certain laws. But at what cost would you exercise your right to leave?” he grumbled, reaching into the left side of his suit.

  Instinctively, Avon went to his waist. He found nothing there, of course. The old man chuckled, and then another fit of coughing.

  “Did you think I was reaching for a gun, Agent Tucker?” the man asked. “I have something far more valuable to you,” he corrected, flicking two glossy 8x10 photographs on the table in front of Avon.

  The photographs floated onto the table and slid perfectly into place in front of Avon; it was like a special magic trick. Avon sucked in his breath. He felt like someone had kicked him in the chest. He stared down, unable to peel his eyes away from them. He was experiencing changes in his body chemistry that he couldn’t explain—sweat seemed to pop up on his forehead, like unwanted dandelions on a fresh green lawn, and his breathing felt labored. His ears began ringing and he lifted his hand to his chest. He felt like someone had sucked all of the air out of the room. Avon snapped his head up from the pictures. It was as if someone had pulled it up abruptly with an invisible string. His eyes hooded over and he set his jaw squarely.

  “Who the fuck are you? And what the fuck do you want?”

  Avon gritted his teeth, eyeing Stokes evilly. The man remained silent as he placed another picture down on the table. It was a picture of Avon and Candy leaving Kings County Hospital together on the night her friend Shana had died. Avon’s heart jerked in his chest, and he couldn’t stop staring at all of the pictures now. Obviously, this old bastard had been watching him very closely.

  “I didn’t think you’d be interested in leaving after you saw those. Listen, Special Agent Avon Tucker... Tuck, the drug dealer, or Tucker—or whatever the fuck you want to be called these days,” the man said snidely. Moving close to Avon’s ear, he leaned over Avon’s shoulder so that Avon could smell his Ralph Lauren Safari cologne, cigar smoke on his clothes and his breath. “This should be easy. I am Grayson Stokes. I used to work with Joseph ‘Rock’ Barton. Sound familiar? I thought it would. Barton trained your little friend Candice Hardaway... or maybe you call her ‘Candy.’ See, Agent Tucker, we have a few friends in common and I need you to do something for me. It has to be you, or it wouldn’t even be worth it,” he said, moving away to see Avon’s expression and reaction.

  Avon’s face was drawn into a scowl and his jaws rocked feverishly as he ground his molars together. He didn’t like this old bastard mentioning Candy.

  “You don’t have to like it. I know you already know some things about Operation Easy In and Joseph Barton, but not nearly enough to think you know the entire story. You do what I say, and you get to see these little angel faces again,” the man proposed.

  “What do you want? I don’t know shit,” Avon said through gritted teeth, his nostrils flaring.

  “The girl... Candy... I want her, and you’re going to be the one to bring her to me,” the old man said sternly, using his head to signal one of his men to surround Avon. “Are you in? Do we have a deal, Agent Tucker?” Grayson Stokes asked, reshuffling the pictures in front of him.

  Avon Tucker was a captive audience now; and he knew no matter what his answer was, he would be making a deal with the devil.

  Chapter 2

  Going Ghost

  Three Weeks Later

  Tears drain from the corners of Candy’s eyes and she is shivering all over. For some reason she is strangely aware of the cold, wet grass under her knees as she puts pressure on them in front of the tombstone. The feeling reminds her of the cold, empty feeling she had in her heart since the death of Uncle Rock. She can’t believe he is dead. She also can’t believe that she has returned to Brooklyn after she has been warned not to come back.

  Candice doesn’t care about the potential danger of he
r return. She has never had a chance to pay her respects to her family, but she feels an overwhelming need to come see the resting place of her uncle.

  At the age of fourteen, Candice had lost her family, and she misses all of them deeply. However, she’d had her uncle Rock to comfort her after she found her entire family massacred.

  Now she kneels at Uncle Rock’s grave, painfully aware that she is alone. She is left to fend for herself. Candice pulls off the little white plastic top from the steaming hot cup of green tea and pours it slowly on the green and brown grass in front of Uncle Rock’s tombstone. “I know you must miss your daily cup of green tea,” Candice whispers, her voice shaky.

  Candice feels a rush of wind on the back of her neck, which causes the tiny hairs there to stand up. She is sure it was Uncle Rock giving her a hug. She isn’t really religious, but she starts to say a silent prayer.

  Just then she hears the faint sound of leaves crunching behind her. Alert, she places her hand into her bag and grips her Glock 22. Her heart begins to pound against her chest bone as the sound seems to get closer. Candice grips her gun more tightly.

  It is them, she is sure.

  Slowly she begins to stand up. She lets her bag stay on the ground and she lifts up her weapon out of it. With her chest heaving up and down, Candice is fully aware of the person’s presence at her back. She attempts to turn around, but it is too late. More than one person rushes her at the same time.

  She can hear a man’s muffled voice: “We told you we would find you if you ever returned.”

  “Agh!” She lets out a short-lived scream.

  Then blackness.

  “Oh shit!” Candice jumped out of her sleep and out of the bed. She whirled around on the balls of her feet, trying to get her bearings. Her body was covered in sweat and her ears were ringing. Clutching her chest, Candice flopped down on the side of the bed. She exhaled and looked at her gun on the hotel’s nightstand. The dreams were worse now than ever before. She didn’t even realize she had dozed off in the middle of the day. It had been a long, exhausting day spent buying wigs and costumes, and perfecting her disguise. Candice shook off the nightmare and walked into the hotel’s bathroom.