Page 9 of Tied Over

“Is your supplier big? Do they move a lot of product?”

He nodded.

“Who is it?”

“No, man, I can’t give up my supplier.”

“Well, you’re gonna have to so Crouse here can turn that over to Narcotics, get them busted, and then step in as them and bring down Burian Petrov.”

He looked at Crouse. “Is that your plan? To bust my guy and then pose as them to get Petrov?”

“Yessir,” he answered.

Washington shook his head. “I can’t do that. They know my family.”

I sighed deeply. “What family?”

“My mother and sister.”

I looked at Crouse. “He does this, everybody goes into WITSEC.”

“Petrov killed a federal agent. He gets the needle for that, and yes, your guy goes into protective custody.”

“Actually, Petrov gets life in prison for that in the great state of Illinois,” I reminded him. “But okay, I’ll call my boss and we’ll collect everyone. Do you have people coming?”

Crouse waggled his eyebrows at me.

I turned to Clark.

“I hate him,” she told me.

I pointed over my right shoulder, and she understood that the line formed behind me.

Washington was released from the hospital, and I took custody of him, then waited on SOG to move him to the marshal offices in a caravan of black SUVs and squad cars that looked like the president was visiting. Upstairs, I took him to the large conference room, and we waited for the seats to fill up.

Miro Jones, director of Custodial WITSEC—which took care of all persons under the age of eighteen—leaned in, smiling at me. “You hungry? I’m ordering food.”

“I’m hungry,” Washington chimed in.

“I’m getting Mexican. You want some carne asada tacos?”

“Yes, please,” he nearly whined.

“I’ll get you sides too,” Miro promised, then looked at me. “You want your regular ulcer-inducing burrito?”

I smirked at him. “Really? That’s what you’re going with when your guy gets death on a plate from that other place?”

“Death on a plate,” he muttered under his breath.

“And yes, I want my burrito, and I want extra salsa verde.”

He was mumbling about intestinal damage when he closed the door.

“What’s gonna happen now?” Washington asked me.

“Well, first another marshal is gonna come in here and ask you a lot of questions and do a lot of typing, and after an hour of that, we’ll be joined by detectives from Narcotics and you will spill your guts to them. Then as soon as that’s done, the FBI agents will come and talk to you, and tomorrow at this time, you, your mother, your sister—”

“And my dog, Greta—”