Full Disclosure (A Nice Guys Novel Book 2) Page 14

  Besides, the guys he usually ended up with were cute, smaller-framed, and kind of preppy. They generally had office jobs, and could be talked into relationships. They most definitely didn’t have dimples, tattoos, rocking asses, or hard bodies that could overpower him.

  His oldest sister, Sheila, had always been his career counselor. She kept him focused, and he knew the real reason she stayed on him, but her message was still right. She cautioned him that the wrong guys could be a dangerous distraction and cause him to lose focus on his goals. Mitch fell in both those categories. No more games. Cody needed to get that man out of his life and his head back in the game.

  Forcing himself, he pushed away from the counter and stood up straight. He ignored the jackhammer pounding in his skull and willed his stomach and body to cooperate. Grabbing his phone off the bed, he padded to the bathroom and called Mason first.

  “Hello,” his brother answered.

  “I’m running behind, but I’m on my way.” Cody could hear the wind blowing. He had no idea what was going on with the weather, but they had planned to herd cattle today. Move them from one pasture to another.

  “We got this, man. We’re just getting saddled up.” Mason sounded laid-back as usual, even with all the work he took responsibility for at the farm.

  “Nah, I need the exercise and mental break. Are you heading out to the back pasture?” Cody asked, turning on the hot water in the shower.

  “Yeah. Call Jorge before you get here. He’ll get you saddled up. Come around the east side. We’re moving them west,” Mason said.

  “All right.” Cody hung up the phone and stepped into the shower spray, hoping it washed away his hangover as easily as it did the dried come from his first attempt at phone sex.

  Chapter 20

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Mitch asked as FBI security not only stopped him, but escorted him under almost physical force to a back room. Weapons had even been drawn as the group of eight to ten agents moved him through the facility. If he wasn’t so pissed off, Mitch might have sworn he was in a Twilight Zone remake mash-up of the Stepford Wives, except incredibly well-mannered and beautiful women were replaced with Mr. Smith from The Matrix.

  “Sir, you’re to remain calm while we verify your credentials,” Mr. Smith number one ordered, which pissed Mitch off even more. To add insult to injury, why the fuck was everyone calling him a sir?

  “I’m not a ‘sir’ to you, Smith. I’m Deputy US Marshal Mitch Knox, here at the request of Director Carpenter. You already took my damn weapon, why the fuck am I going in here?” He’d stopped outside the room and swore he’d been to prisons that were nicer. He gave his best self-righteous act and all he got in return for that expression of indignation was a small shove from the back.

  Mitch flipped around, fighting mad, prepared to take them all on, only to have the door shut in his face. Two Smith’s stood right inside the door. Both kept their eyes on him, and Mitch kicked the door in one hard burst. The smirk he got in return made him swear when he got out, he would kick that guy’s ass.

  “Do you treat all invited guest this way?” Mitch yelled, fighting the need to punch something. Instead, he began pacing. Fucking FBI asshats.

  “Only ones that walk through the front doors packing,” the cocky Smith said, arching a brow.

  “I told you idiots, Agent Tyler Connors’s son had an accident. I’ve been assigned to work a case with him,” Mitch replied through gritted teeth.

  “And as soon as that’s verified, we will take you directly to Director Carpenter’s office where he can explain the importance of credentials when you come in here armed.” Now Mitch really wanted to punch the condescending bastard. He could tell they thought he was absolutely crazy. Not only had they relieved him of his weapons, but also his badge. Stupid motherfuckers. And all Mitch could do was stand directly in front of them, take on their stance, and scowl just like them. It gave him pleasure to see he was taller and had more bulk than the condescending one.

  He studied the idiot in front of him as though under a microscope. The FBI projected a persona of cool, calm, and collected. He’d never seen them ever break that façade, and they always followed the rules. They weren’t given the free rein to work that his agency had. They all seriously had the same Mr. Smith wardrobe, which had to be tough to deal with. How could Washington DC men’s suit stores possibly carry that many dark suits, crisp white shirts, and blue ties? What happened when a shortage caused one of them to wear a red tie? He supposed mass hysteria would surely ensue.

  Right then, Mitch formulated a plan. During the duration of this assignment, he’d make these men’s lives crazy. First Connors wouldn’t let him meet the family, and now he’d been detained, all because of how he looked. His scowl grew fiercer and his hands balled into fists as they were tucked tight in his crossed arms. He held the stare of the arrogant one who wasn’t giving an inch.

  Minutes ticked by. He knew the routine. They didn’t believe a word he said, but he didn’t budge. He was getting under their skin. He could see the tick in the egotistic one’s jaw. Mitch had years of interrogation training. He was special teams in the Marshals Service. Cocky Smith’s tick didn’t bother Mitch one bit. It actually gave him away. Mitch was getting to him, so he took a step closer. As close as he could without touching the guy.

  “Spray tan or tanning bed?” Mitch asked, keeping his stance. “Natural never gets that orange.” He guessed he hit close to the mark, because in the next moment, Mitch went sailing backward. The guy was on him. Not necessarily throwing punches, but the chest bumps meant business.

  “Keep your fucking mouth shut,” Cocky Smith cautioned.

  “Or what?” Mitch chest bumped him back. If need be, he could take this guy, no problem. The poor Smith kid at the door tried his best to separate the two. It wasn’t working.

  “Or I’ll shut it for you.”

  “Like to see you try, fake-n-bake.” Mitch let the pounding happen. He never put his hands on the guy, but did give as good as he got in attempts to block the blows. He was an expert at stopping a punch, and in the process, giving a swift elbow to the gut. Besides, he knew how this was going to play out, and he shouldn’t have egged the guy on, but as the other agents were pulling him off, they found his third weapon. The one they missed in the pat down. Stupid fucks could have been dead if he’d been a bad guy. So much for the FBI rules and procedures bullshit they were so fast to shove in his face.

  “Let him go!” A booming voice broke up the scuffle. He recognized it as Director Carpenter’s. And when he realized neither Cocky Smith, nor any agent in front of him was going after his third weapon, his demeanor changed. He smirked and blew a kiss at the supercilious one that started the brawl as he shoved past the group.

  “He’s Deputy Marshal Knox, here on my invitation and will be treated as a guest and colleague for the length of the time he’s here,” Director Carpenter instructed. Mitch didn’t get to see the director’s facial expression because he immediately went and stood directly behind the man and proceeded to shoot both middle fingers at all the Smith’s in front of him.

  “Knock it off, Knox. I know exactly what you’re doing,” the director barked, never looking back at Mitch. “Everyone in this room, as a matter-of-fact everyone in this entire building, better get along. No bullshit.” His voice echoed in the otherwise silent room. Director Carpenter took a step back before he spun on his heel and headed straight out of the prison area.

  “What about my weapons and badge?” Mitch asked, following after the director.

  “You’ll get them later. I want a briefing on what you found. Connors called. I missed the call, so I didn’t get a chance to let anyone know you were arriving alone. They were just following protocol for anyone who would walk inside this building armed,” the director said, leading him through a maze of halls until they reached the back elevator he’d used yesterday. Mitch guessed they were in about the center of the building.

  “I didn’t take the tim
e to show you around yesterday. Administrative offices are on the fourth floor. You’ll have access to the entire building. My secretary—sorry, assistant—has your access cards and ID badge. We usually put more thought into what we wear around here than that.” He pointed to Kreed’s I don’t cuddle…but I’ll hold you tight while I fuck you T-shirt that he now wore. “You’ll have to find a suit coat to wear. It’s part of the dress code.”

  The director walked straight to the elevator that just opened, bypassing all the people who stood waiting for its arrival. Apparently, they knew this one wasn’t for them. He stared at the group as no one else entered the elevator with the two of them and the doors slid shut.

  “My boss, Director Young, is going to sit in on our briefing. Connors has about an hour before he reports in. We’ll see if he makes it in time for the meeting.” Mitch knew that Director Young was as high as it went in the FBI. Senator Greyson would surely be dialing him directly, wanting answers.

  He just continued to follow as he left the elevator and weaved his way through the few cubicles at the front of the office. Like everywhere else in this building, the offices were sterile and cold. No matter how many people they passed, no one spoke a word or even bothered to look his way.

  What the hell was everyone’s problem?

  “These are my offices.” The director pointed to a bank of offices in the corner. An older woman, dressed in a severe, formal business suit sat out front, her only acknowledgement of their arrival was a lift of the eyes.

  “Gladys, meet Deputy Marshal Knox.” She nodded and did manage a look at him, but that was about all he got.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” he said, trying for nice.

  “Here’s your code. It allows access to every floor in this building. If it’s forgotten, please report to bureau security on the first floor. They will assist you. Please memorize the number and return this page to me before you leave this building today,” she said, handing him a sheet of paper with directions on how to work the keypad in the elevator along with the four-digit number.

  “This is your badge. You’ll be asked to present it every time you enter the building. Since you carry a weapon, you’ll have to have it logged and go through the formal procedures every time you enter,” she said crisply.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he tried again. Who knew if Gladys here would be his go-to assistant during the duration of his assignment.

  “This is the bureau’s policy on the dress code. I understand this is a delicate situation, but as long as you are in this building, you’ll need to cover up the tattoos and no vulgar or obscene clothing.” She glanced at his T-shirt, then lifted her perfectly arched brows as her eyes caught his. “Director Young doesn’t give on that breach. And what you’re wearing right now, Deputy Marshal Knox, is completely inappropriate for most situations.”

  She stood and went to a door behind her. Several suit jackets and ties hung in the closet. Mitch said nothing to this. He understood most agencies frowned on profanity on T-shirts and didn’t allow their agents to have tattoos, but never in all his years working for the Marshals Service had he been asked to cover himself up.

  “I’ll guess this is about your size,” she said, pulling a jacket from the closet. He didn’t reach out and take the suit jacket because he could already feel the fabric sucking his will to live.

  “Wear the coat, Knox. It’s not an option while you’re in this part of the building,” Director Carpenter ordered as he walked away from the desk heading toward the back of the building. Reluctantly he took the jacket, sliding the restrictive fabric on as he followed behind, quickening his steps to catch up. Director Carpenter rapped his knuckles on a big oak door and walked straight in to what Mitch assumed was the big guy’s office. Mitch looked around and, to his surprise, the office was bigger than his entire apartment in Pineville, Louisiana. It may have actually encompassed the entire side of the fourth floor of the FBI building.

  Director Young, the biggest dog of the FBI, sat behind his ultra-clean desk, motioning them in while ending a phone call. There was a large desk and credenza area, but also a small conference table that sat about eight people. Directly beside that, a sitting area. Two long sofas and several matching upholstered chairs sat around a large coffee table. Again, for about the thousandth time in the last two days, the opulence of how this bureau ran itself overwhelmed him.

  Mitch followed Director Carpenter’s lead and took a seat in front of the desk. “Sorry about that. That was agent Connors,” Director Young said while standing and extending a hand across his desk. He was shorter than Mitch had imagined. He stood to shake the man’s hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Deputy Marshal Knox. Thank you for taking on this case. Director Skinner’s waiting on the other line to be conferenced in.” There was no pause on Young’s end. He punched a couple of numbers on the phone. “Tom, you here with us?

  “Yes, I’m here,” Director Skinner acknowledged.

  “Director Carpenter as well as Deputy Marshal Knox are also here. Special Agent Tyler Connors has had a family emergency. He should be available later this evening. Knox and Connors just returned from Kentucky, from what I understand.” Director Young quickly got everyone caught up.

  “Yes, Sir,” Mitch responded and tugged at the uncomfortable suit jacket he’d been given.

  “Senator Greyson wasn’t pleased with the interview he received,” Director Young started right in, his tone changed, becoming a little harder.

  “Knox, we need you to play a little more diplomatically when dealing with members of Congress,” Director Skinner said.

  “Sir, I’m not unsympathetic to the senator’s plight, but the meeting and interview were bullshit. Two and two never equal five, even if you’re in Congress,” Mitch said. He could hear his own director sighing, but Director Carpenter was the first to reply.

  “And what is it exactly that doesn’t equal up for you?”

  “I’m afraid none of this is. Connors feels like we should tread lightly here, and he’s probably right. He clearly understands this bureau more than I do.” Mitch gestured wildly with his hand, waving it around the room and then down the suit jacket he’d been forced to wear.

  “Just talk, Knox,” Director Skinner pressed.

  “My gut says that we didn’t need to waste our time in Kentucky. Our first viable lead was right here, and no one wants to see it. Look, the Greyson kid’s a straight A student. He’s well-mannered and well-behaved. He’s Ivy League, wants his own political career someday, and he’s openly gay, but yet still very respectful of his father’s political views on the matter. Now, all of a sudden, in a matter of a few minutes, he becomes this unmanageable rebel and ducks out on his security detail to find himself kidnapped? He’s not sixteen years old. He’s a sophomore in college with no history of defiance. That tells me someone on the inside helped this ‘accident’ along.” Mitch raised his two fingers, making air quotes, stressing the word accident.

  “That was my initial conclusion too. I’ve met the kid a few times, know the family,” Director Skinner added, backing Mitch up. It shocked him a little, but since he’d already gone against what he, Connors, and Kreed had decided and gone off half-cocked, pointing fingers without proof, he needed Skinner on his side.

  “I called in some favors and got a full list of the security detail on the Greysons for the past six months. We dug a little deeper and nothing’s obvious,” Mitch said, sitting forward in the seat.

  “Your information’s reliable?” Director Young questioned.

  “Yes, sir, it is, so we’re in this holding phase. The kid’s gotta wake up, or we need time to find out who on the inside had motive.” Mitch sat back, let the weight of that information settle and then ran his hand through his hair as he thought about what more he should say.

  “My concern, and what makes me toss this out with nothing more than my gut to go on, is that if that kid wakes and the person or persons responsible for this is there with him, then we might lose our chance
of getting him to talk. Fear will hold his tongue, and out of all of the victims, he’s the only one that might be able to lead us in a solid direction.” Mitch ran a hand over the stubble on his chin. He could feel himself growing impatient with the silence in the room.

  “Then we change the detail,” Director Skinner said reasonably.

  “Greyson’s against it.” Director Carpenter stared directly at Mitch. “We thought there should be a change when the accident happened.”

  “He’s not thinking clearly. I’ll take care of it,” Director Young stated.

  “I’d like every Secret Service agent assigned to the Greysons to stay in town so they can be interviewed.” Mitch decided to throw that out there since he was already on a roll.

  “Agreed,” Director Young said as he picked up the phone, dialing a number while Director Skinner stayed on speaker. After a second, the phone was answered and Young turned casual and cordial again.

  “Don, it’s Hank, how busy are you right now?” Director Young asked. So his first name was Hank. Who knew? And “Don” had to be Don Smethsad, the head of Homeland Security.

  “Hang tight, I’m on my way over,” Director Young disconnected the call. “I’m going to talk to Don. See if we can find an easy solution to all this. Carpenter, come with me. Knox, you’ll be shown the facility. If everything goes well with Smethsad, we’ll begin interviews with Secret Service tomorrow.” Director Young stood, speaking to everyone at once.

  “Keep me updated, gentlemen,” Director Skinner instructed, before he disconnected the call.

  “Knox, get Agent Connors caught up when you talk to him again.” Young gave him a nod and headed toward the door.