Undercover Protector

Walters studied her and she did not flinch. Did not blink. He could look for any sign that she was as flawed and corrupt as everyone thought her brother was. He could look for any weakness, any soft spot that might be used against her or the Bureau.

He wouldn’t find them.

Walters smiled again and a chill danced down Maggie’s spine.

“What year did you graduate?”

“99-92,” she said giving the year of her graduation and the class number.

“She was top of her class in investigation and fitness,” Curtis said, leaping to her defense. She gave him a quick half smile of appreciation.

“You were a part of the hydroponics farm drug sting last year,” Walters asked.

She nodded again.

“Well, Fitzgerald. Let’s hope you can do the job.”

“Yes, sir.” She nodded.

There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that she could do this job. Even in one week, she could do this job.

FOUR HOURS LATER Maggie, Gordon and Curtis were in place, the three of them and thousands of dollars of surveillance equipment wedged into a white utility van parked at the bottom of Gomez’s street.

“You all right?” Curtis’s hand on Maggie’s shoulder felt like a ton of bricks, a million pounds of expectation.

“I’m good,” Maggie answered. “Ready.”

She had been ready for this moment for six months. Since the very moment she and her family found out Patrick had been killed—exactly two weeks before he was supposed to give testimony against Delgado.

That moment had created this moment, which she knew would create the moment Delgado either rotted away behind bars or was given the lethal injection.

These were the only possible outcomes.

She took a deep breath of the humid air in the van and held out her hand. Curtis dropped the three surveillance bugs in her palm and she slipped them into the special pocket in her khaki pants.

“How come no one asks me if I’m all right?” Gordon whined from his station in front of the monitors; his brown hair glowed red from them. “Maybe I’m a little nervous. I’m sweating my ass off and I’m starving—”

“Shut up, Gordon,” Maggie said out of habit more than anything.

Curtis leaned close, his broad sweaty face illuminated by the red and green monitors. “This guy is smart, Maggie.”

“I know.” According to the file, Gomez had spent more time undercover than she had. His investigative journalism had taken him to some pretty scary places and the man always got out alive and with the story.

“And tough,” Curtis added.

“No kidding.” Gordon whistled through his teeth. “He wouldn’t even tell the Iraqis his name until they broke his arm in four places.”

Maggie swallowed and looked down at her clenched hands. He wouldn’t even tell the Iraqis his name. She could hardly fathom that kind of pain. Or that kind of strength.

“Don’t for a minute underestimate Caleb Gomez or let your guard down.”

“I got it, Curtis.” She tried to keep her frustration to a minimum. “Let me do my job.”

She was good undercover. She had the ability to turn her real self off. Maggie Fitzgerald disappeared and instead she became an instrument, a camera. Something sharp and smart that collected all information and stayed solidly in character. It made her a highly sought after undercover agent.

She was good. Now it was time for her to be the best.

Caleb Gomez was not going to be a problem.

“Hey.” Her boss grabbed her hand where it rested on the back door of the Municipal Utilities van she had spent way too much time in already. “I don’t need to tell you what’s at stake here—”

“Curtis, I was at the briefing. Benny Delgado is after Gomez—”

“No,” Gordon interrupted. “He means what’s at stake for us.”

The two men stared at her and she tried not to roll her eyes. These two could be so damn dramatic sometimes.

“We blow this and we’re back at robberies or celebrity stalkings,” Curtis said.

“And I can’t afford the pay cut,” Gordon added. “Daddy just bought a new car.”

These guys didn’t know the half of it. Failing to bring Delgado down would result in things far more devastating than losing this plum assignment.

“So, go in there and—” Curtis started to say.

“Be nice?” She tried to joke around, to lighten the heavy air in the van.

“Well, that’s a bit of a stretch.” Curtis grinned and Maggie didn’t take offense. She often wasn’t nice—it wasn’t part of the job.

“He was going to say shake your ass. Gomez has got to be lonely—”

“Shut up, Gordon.” Curtis yelled over his shoulder. “I was going to say just try and get the job.”

Maggie nodded, opened the door and blinked in the bright California sunshine.

She stepped down from the van and the door slammed shut behind her, somehow putting a special emphasis on how alone she was at the moment. Those guys in the van weren’t going to have to look Gomez in the eye and lie to him. This case hinged on her performance.

Fine by me, she thought. She did her best work alone. Always had. Always would.

She crossed the narrow residential street to the small hatchback that was her car or rather, Margaret Warren’s car.

Margaret Warren, a single mom who wanted nothing more than to raise her son away from the crime and congestion of Los Angeles.

Margaret Warren who had recently moved to Summerland and signed up with a local housekeeping service.

Margaret Warren who knew nothing about the seedy underbelly of the largest Los Angeles crime syndicate other than what she saw on the ten o’clock news.

And she had no idea that Caleb Gomez was the key to bringing it down. That was the bait in a complicated mousetrap.