“He’s a good candidate for this district. Don’t you want him to be successful when he takes over?”
With a heavy sigh, I stroke Tupelo’s neck. It’s not that I want to hold CJ back. The kid’s shown decent aptitude for the job so far, though he talks too much and his endless energy is irritating as fuck.Then we have my hunch that he’s crushing on my daughter.
I shake my head to clear that thought, because it’s only a distraction from what’s underneath all of this: the idea of anyone else in charge of this region makes me feel replaceable. And hell if that doesn’t sting.
I get to work on Tupe’s front hoof. “It’s dangerous.”
“You read his file, Whittaker. Highest academy score on the tactical range they’ve seen in a decade.”
“Jesus, Scott. It’s not a shootout.”
“Take him along.” His voice has gone icy thanks to my use of his first name, which I know pisses him off. “Teach him the skills he’s going to need to handle a touchy situation like this on his own. And that’s an order.”
I remind myself that Scott’s a cog in a giant wheel and I’m not about to be his grease. Plus, he knows his leverage is shit. He can’t fire me. Not with my seniority and my good marks.
“I’ll think about it,” I reply, which is borderline disobedience, but I have final say in this and he knows it. This is still my district, and I’m ultimately responsible for itandCJ’s safety.
Scott huffs. “What’s the latest from the task force?”
My relief that we’ve moved on makes me feel slightly less stingy about sharing a few updates, mostly about the team planting a couple of bugs in that diner. They’re also working to place someone undercover, but a small community like Elk Flats is especially touchy to outsiders, so it’ll be slow going. I give him the update from the ME about the DNA from Samantha Bowen’s body, but the more I talk, the more agitated I feel. We need to crush Sons of Eden before they can grow their following, but our pace feels too slow, too cautious.
“Has that runaway teen given up any intel?” Scott interrupts.
I huff a frustrated sigh. Scott’s been watching way too much TV. “It doesn’t work like that.”
From his end comes a chime, like he’s getting an alert. Who sets calendar alerts this late on a weeknight? Telling him to get a life is on the tip of my tongue, but he barks out an order to keep him informed and ends the call.
By the time I finish barn chores, I know inviting CJ tomorrow is the right move. Doesn’t mean I have to like it, though.
I step into the feed room and use the better light to search up CJ’s number. It rings four times before he picks up.
“Officer Whittaker,” he says like he’s in a rush. “Hey.”
A staticky silence buzzes in my ears. I frown. He’s either nervous,or I’ve caught him in the middle of something. I get the distinct impression he’s not alone, either.
“Change of plans tomorrow,” I say. “I’ll pick you up at six sharp.”
“Yes, sir.”
I don’t give him a chance to pester me with questions. Not when we’ll have plenty of time for those in the truck tomorrow.
After hitchingup an empty trailer before dawn, I drive north to the horse ranch CJ’s bunking at. When I pull off the road, he’s waiting beneath the tall arch over the entrance, dressed in his uniform and matching parka, a day pack slung over one shoulder. Maybe it’s unfair of me, but I half expected the kid to be late.
He hurries to the passenger side and climbs in, bringing a gust of cold morning air into the now-warm cab. He sets his pack between his shins on the floor.
“Morning.” He buckles his seatbelt.
I pull back onto the road and accelerate. Normally I can’t shut the kid up, so when he doesn’t launch into questions about our destination or spout some random animal fact, I give him a side-eye, but he’s staring out the window.
“How’s living at the bunkhouse?”
He tucks a wild curl behind his ear and flashes me a quick glance, like he’s trying to read me. “It’s not bad. I’m looking for a place of my own though.”
I frown. “In Finn River?”
Either he didn’t hear me, or he’s ignoring my question because he reaches for a silver thermos from his backpack that’s dented and pocked from use. “I brought coffee.”
The man who trained me for this job decades ago was a crusty old timernamed Bart Sundeen. We spent two days together before he clocked out for the final time, leaving me with more questions than answers. I’m sure I was too scared of him to speak, let alone bring him coffee. He probably drank unfiltered motor oil instead.