SAN YSIDRO
MONDAY, 9:10 A.M.
HARLEY TOUCHED THE TINY electronic bud in his ear and turned to Steele. “It’s Mary. We got trouble.”
“What and where?”
“Right here. FBI in raid jackets.”
Grace turned from her cell phone. She’d spent the last ten minutes assuring her boss and his boss that she meant every word of her resignation. “Excuse me,” she murmured. “I have to go.”
She hung up just as someone knocked on the door of the bus.
“FBI,” said a man’s voice. “We can do it easy or we can do it hard. Open up, Steele.”
“Do you have a warrant?” Harley shouted.
“Want us to get one?”
Harley looked at Steele.
Steele mentally categorized the visible contents of the coach. Nothing illegal. Even so…
“Put away all papers. Shut and lock every door, every drawer, every cupboard,” Steele said. “Tell everyone in the other motor coaches to do the same and not to open up for anyone without my direct order or a warrant.”
Grace stuffed everything that was out on the counter into a cupboard and slammed it shut. The traveling lock clicked, ensuring that even if the ride got bumpy, the cupboard would stay closed.
Harley talked into his spidery headset while he put away everything but food. The ops in the back of the coach shut doors with themselves on the inside. Dead bolts slammed home, leaving nothing but the salon and the kitchen in open view.
“Do you want to wait in my suite?” Steele said to Grace.
She smiled thinly. “Not a chance. I know the letter of the law. I’ll make sure they behave.”
Steele laughed softly. “I do like you, Ms. Silva.”
“Grace, and it’s becoming mutual.”
A fist banged on the door again. “Open up, Steele, or I’ll be back with warrants that will put your ass in prison.”
Harley opened the door and stood in the doorway, filling it. “Good morning, gentlemen, ma’am. ID, please.”
The request was gently stated.
And Harley looked like a mountain ready to fall all over the three agents if they didn’t act civilized.
One by one they took out ID.
Harley looked everything over. “Supervisory Special Agent Cook. Agent Gonzalez. Agent Daily. Nice raid jackets. Looks really sweet over your business suits.”
Cook pocketed his ID and started up the steps.
The other agents hung back.
Harley didn’t move.
“Get out of the way,” Cook said impatiently.
“Ambassador Steele,” Harley said without looking away from the short FBI agent. “Are we inviting them inside?”
“It will be quite crowded with three more people in here,” Steele said from behind Harley. “Is that necessary, Agent Cook? Indeed,” he added too softly for the other two agents to hear, “at this point is it even advisable?”
Cook narrowed his eyes. This wasn’t the first time he’d tangled with St. Kilda Consulting. He hadn’t learned to love them, but he’d learned they could bite.
Power was power, with or without a badge.
“Wait in the car,” Cook said to the other agents. “No point in crowding. Yet. I’ll let you know if that changes.”
“What about the others?” Gonzalez asked.
Cook glanced around the park. Agents in task force raid jackets waited in cars, blocking the exit to the park.
“Tell them to stand down. For now. When the warrants come through, let me know.”
Gonzalez didn’t say anything. She knew as well as her boss did that it was more like if than when. Even with a task-force-friendly judge, their probable cause was thin.
As in transparent.
Harley stepped aside.
Talon Cook walked inside the coach. The first thing he saw was Judge Grace Silva, Ms. No-Nonsense Nutcracker herself, in person, watching him with hawk eyes.
The cherry on the cake of this cluster.
“I’m sorry to see you here,” Cook said to her.
“I’m sure you are.” Grace’s smile was all teeth as she looked at the movie-star-handsome agent. Unfortunately he suffered from short man syndrome, which took about forty points off his considerable IQ. “Tell me, Agent Cook, just what basis in law you have for threatening Ambassador Steele with warrants and arrest in order to gain entry into his private motor home.”
“We have a warrant for the arrest of one Joseph Faroe.”
Grace didn’t even blink. “For?”
“Interfering with a task force investigation.”
She held out her hand.
“The judge hasn’t signed it yet,” Cook said. “We’re expecting it to come through at any moment.”
“And what is the basis for this purported warrant?” she asked evenly.
Cook didn’t answer.
“I thought so,” she said, glancing at Steele.
He just smiled.
“Obviously we have something you want, whatever that might be,” Grace said. “You have something we want. That’s the traditional basis for a negotiation. Have a seat, Agent Cook.”