Page 85 of A Future To Remember

I smirked but then shook my head. Still too uptight to talk.

“Why’d you take Eggy back?” she asked, stepping close to stroke his head again.

“I needed something to do with my hands.”

“I don’t follow?”

“You’re not the only one who wanted to punch someone.”

“Ah. Well, then, I’m glad you walked out. Raining down some violence wouldn’t get us any further along. Best to save that energy for the motherfuckers who deserve it.”

Oscar came out of the office and stopped in front of us. “Sarah’s sorry for calling you a murderer.”

I grunted. “Really?”

“No. Not really,” he conceded.

“We still got something out of it,” Candice said. “We have probable first names, and we might be able to whittle out a last name from the tattoo artist who did Wade’s or Wally’s ink.”

I pointed to the pickup. “Let’s roll.”

As we walked toward the truck, Oscar wiggled his phone. “I sent a message this morning to D.C. There’s an analyst I’ve heard of there who used to be assigned to tracking Three Percenters. He got reassigned last year…for obvious reasons.”

Candice scoffed. “Quelle surprise.”

“Anyway,” Oscar continued, “I have a call in to him. I’m hoping he still has access to the data and can help us track down who these brothers are.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” I cautioned. The Bureau had been all but gutted in recent months. Many of the best agents had been fired, demoted, or reassigned to more unsavory posts in less-populated areas. I knew so many guys who were absolutely miserable and thinking of hanging it up. Much like I had, but for far different reasons.

Our Bureau in Austin had been growing in recent years, given our success rate for solving cases, but the allocation of resources that we used to be able to count on had been severely trimmed back. And yet, Director Gaston always made sure the more dangerous politicized waters that had seeped into all corners of the FBI were kept largely at bay.

“We gotta catch a break one of these days,” Oscar replied, and when I looked at him, I realized that the junior agent had been holding on to hope even more than I had.

I forced a half smile and said, “You’re right, buddy. We’re due.”

For the next three hours, we logged a hundred and ninety miles while also managing to avoid any awkward games of I Spy.

At last, we pulled into the worn and weathered parking lot of Hornby’s Tattoo Parlor. It didn’t regale me with welcoming vibes, but it reasonably passed as a place of business, I supposed.

I wrapped Eggy in his blankets and followed Candice and Oscar into the shop—which took walk-in appointments, apparently.

Behind the counter sat a guy with an impressive handlebar mustache, a beard down to his mid-chest, and a bandana over what was likely a receding hairline.

“Help ya?” he asked, looking us up and down with a glint of curiosity.

Oscar whipped out his badge before I even had a chance. “Agent Oscar Hernandez with the FBI. We’d like to ask you a couple of questions about a tattoo you might’ve done.

“I do a lot of tattoos,” he grumbled.

Candice slipped the folder I had nestled between my armpit and my torso away from me, opening it to the AI sketch of the tattoo described by Gwen.

“Ever ink something like this?” she asked, laying the sketch on the counter.

The guy behind the counter leaned forward to inspect it, then his eyes flicked up to her. “Maybe,” he said, sitting back again and crossing his arms obstinately.

Candice huffed a humorless laugh and copied his stance, crossing her own arms. “See, the thing of it is, Mr.—”

“Hornby,” he supplied.