Corruption (3 page)

Bushy gray brows knitted together over Walter’s eyes. “Wrong? Why would anything be wrong?”

The
pitter-pat
of Lucky’s heart shifted into overdrive. “Then what’s this about?”

“Lucky. It’s nearly November. Since October of last year you’ve trained Bo and worked with him on several cases.
It’s standard policy to ask for your input. It’s past time for his annual review.”

Annual review?
Lucky peeled his white-knuckled fingers from padded leather chair arms. Annual review. Walter wanted to talk job performance, not kick Bo out of the
department because of a complaint of fraternization against policy. Sure, in Lucky’s mind, he and Bo were already involved when Richmond
“Lucky” Lucklighter bit the dust and Simon “Lucky” Harrison came on board, meaning an existing relationship
loophole. However, he wasn’t ready to test the waters of exactly how the top brass viewed two male agents warming the sheets together. They
didn’t always agree with Lucky’s opinions.

“Now, in areas of attendance and on matters of procedure, I’ve awarded him high ratings, and he turns in immaculate reports.”
Walter raised a single brow, one side of his mouth crooking upward.
You might learn a thing or two from him
remained unspoken. Lucky heard the jibe
in his head anyway, and in Walter’s distinct Bostonian accent. Lucky turned in thorough reports, complete but rambling, loaded with opinions and
commentary in the footnotes. Furthermore, he always considered spell check wrong because of the few times he’d trusted the program and wound up
with embarrassing words for his efforts.

He weighed his response. Walter probably expected cut-downs and criticism, Lucky’s trademarks. When he didn’t answer quickly enough,
Walter huffed out a sigh. “Please don’t tell me the two of you have had a falling out.”

Brown hair streaked with gold, fanned out against a pillowcase, low moans filling the room, peppered by pleas of “harder,”
“oh yeah,” and “right there.” Breathy little whines growing more and more insistent, followed by a guttural
“Aaahhhh!” of completion.
Nope, no fall outs on the Lucky/Bo front. Not that Lucky planned to share intimate details.

“He’s not too much of an asshole,” Lucky allowed, chasing back images of a naked Bo stretched out on the bed, the roundness
of his bubble butt clearly on display.
He’s
got
a perfect asshole though.

“Oh? That’s certainly an improvement over the last review we discussed. Though I must admit you were right. Vinson didn’t
last.”

Vinson? Oh yeah, the gung ho super-cop wanna-be who’d cut and run after a mere thirteen months on the job. One of many trainees who came and left
again before anyone got the chance to know them.

If Lucky gave a glowing review, Walter wouldn’t buy it. And after only a year on the job, the latest addition to Walter’s team
hadn’t yet passed the learning curve.

Honesty. Not Lucky’s strong suit. Too little, and Walter would call him out. Too much, and Walter wouldn’t believe. Walter smelled
bullshit. Somehow Lucky always managed to make up convincing tales on the fly for drug lords, but not his boss.

“Let me make this easier.” Walter dropped his professional demeanor and adopted an air of favorite uncle. Time and again he’d
used the ploy to get suspects to fess up. “Where do you see Bo has need of improvement?”

Narrowing down the question helped. “He gets too close to the subject sometimes, can’t separate himself from the role he plays, and
trusts too easily.”

“He’ll learn discernment with experience and further training. As for the other…”

“The other?”

“He shows a lot of promise undercover and his ability to fit in, immerse himself, is an asset we hope to further develop.”

Lucky considered Bo’s forgetting their assignment to play pharmacist on their last shared case a liability. He’d had to keep reminding
the man who they worked for. “What do you mean ‘develop’?”

“As you’re fully aware, the biggest problem with undercover operations is to remain undetected, not give yourself away. One flinch, one
nervous blink, could put a man’s life at risk.”

Yes, Lucky was fully aware. A dedication page on the Southeastern Narcotics Bureau’s website memorialized the men and women who’d died
while serving. He’d rather die himself than find Bo’s name there. “And?”

“Based on what you and others have reported, and what I’ve seen with my own eyes, I believe Bo has what it takes to go deep undercover
and remain unscathed. Which brings me to our next topic. Budget cuts.”

“Budget cuts?” Lucky scowled. Surely Walter wouldn’t praise Bo with one breath and lay him off with the next.

“Look at it as less of a budget cut and more of bureau restructuring,” Walter clarified.

“Can you be more specific?” At one time Lucky’d lived in hopes of being fired. Now, with a job instead of a sentence, he
wasn’t sure any more about leaving. Not that he’d share that information with Walter.

“We’re going to be working more in cooperation with other divisions. Due to this arrangement, entities such as the Northeastern
Narcotics Bureau will combine forces with us for greater effect. Policies will change as we adapt best practices and consolidate expertise bases.
We’ll also occasionally host law enforcement officers and even members of the Drug Enforcement Administration, and assist with cases outside our
normal area of expertise.

“There seems to be a desperate need for deep undercover operatives. In fact, as we speak, Bo is in training.”

Deep undercover. Weeks and months spent in someone else’s life. Should Lucky be thrilled with his trainee’s progress or appalled that
his lover might soon be in the line of fire? He’d already witnessed firsthand how the lines between agent and alias blurred. And what training
did Bo possibly need beside what Lucky provided? “What do you know about the trainer?”

Walter leaned forward, elbows on his desk. “He spent fifteen years with the New York Police Department before beginning work with the DEA, and
he’s acted as a consultant to the Food and Drug Administrations and the Northeastern Narcotics Bureau. Plus, he has a theater
background.”

A bunch of guys prancing around in tights quoting dead poets. What did theater have to do with undercover work? “What’s he
teaching?”

“For this week’s sessions, consider him an undercover ops coach.”

Wait! What?
“Did you say ‘coach’?” Lucky forced his slack jaw upward, closing his mouth with a sharp click of teeth.

“Yes, Lucky, a coach. The DEA has had great success with him. Surely you’ve heard of Jameson O’Donoghue.”

“No, can’t say that I have.” Heard? No. Seen? Only in about a zillion articles, normally entitled something along the lines
of “Better Warriors for the War on Drugs.” Like the tried and true methods didn’t work. Well, since the war hadn’t
yet been won, maybe the articles made a point, but none of Lucky’s battles had ended in defeat. Not yet anyway.

“I had the pleasure of meeting Jameson a few years ago. He’s quite impressive. Bo’s spending his days in seminars.”

Before Walter had given up on trying to teach an old dog new tricks, he’d sent Lucky to seminars. Seminars, places to drink lots of free coffee,
eat free donuts, and tune out while some man or woman in a business suit with zero practical experience tried to explain how to do a better job.
“To be flat honest, Walter, I never learned much at the seminars you sent me to. All I did was sit in a conference room, listening to some guy
drone on and on.”

Walter’s smile didn’t have to appear so indulgent. “This particular seminar is more interactive. At a basic level, I suppose
you might call them acting classes.”

Bo? An actor? Well, he did seem to rein in anger when Lucky would be livid. “Why him? Why now?” Lucky took in the stiffening set of
Walter’s shoulders, the steepled fingers. Walter may not have realized it, but he gave things away. Any moment now, he’d suggest
something Lucky wouldn’t like.

“I predict great things for Bo. In our conversations, he’s expressed an interest in continuing with the SNB after his probationary
period ends. I must say I’m all for the idea.”

Yeah, Bo’d mentioned staying on. Lucky would deal with ducking department rules on a long-term basis when they got there.

Behind glass lenses, Walter’s eyes took on a fervent gleam. “From what Jameson’s told me, we may have picked ourselves a
winner the day Mr. Schollenberger darkened our door.”

At least Lucky had, though he still wasn’t quite ready to admit his feelings publicly. A memory replayed itself of one of the last afternoons he
and Bo’d spent together.

“Can I get you a cup of tea?”

Bo lay on the couch, nursing a headache.
His pained grimace eased into a fleeting smile. “That’d be nice.”

After delivery of a cup of warm chamomile, a run to CVS for more ibuprofen, a few forehead kisses to “make it better,” a backrub, a
serving of veggie soup, and a blow job, Bo told Lucky, “I’m feeling much better now.”

Lucky’d nearly choked the first time he’d uttered the L word, and
asshole
wasn't much of an endearment, though Bo'd never batted
an eye. But Bo had fallen asleep that night despite Lucky checking on him every five minutes. He knew Lucky loved him even without a dozen “I
love yous” a day, right?

“Yes,” Walter continued, derailing Lucky’s side trip into domestic bliss. “Jameson likens Bo to a younger version
of himself. And since the man is considered an expert in the field of deep undercover operations, that’s high praise indeed.”

The buttoned-down pencil pusher probably had never actually been on the inside, never had a drug lord offering good money to make him disappear. Had never
watched friends living on the wrong side of the law go down. He’d likely been a desk jockey at NYPD and only a consultant at the DEA.

“Bo’s learning a thing or two. That’s good
.
”
But what’s it got do with me?
Although
acting…Hmmm… Bo decked out as a leather-clad biker, spread-eagled against a wall while Lucky did a little frisking.
Oh, yeah, baby, go on… resist arrest
. Unlike some folks he’d met over the years, Lucky wasn’t afraid to pat down
strategic places. And Bo had some pretty impressive strategic places.

“In fact, tomorrow afternoon you and I are invited to sit in on a class to evaluate for ourselves the possible benefits. Bo’s in the
pilot program along with a few new hires and agents from other divisions. Based on how much they take away from the specialized training, we may make the
classes mandatory.”

Oh fuck. He said
mandatory.
Sitting in a conference room while some failed actor demonstrated how to walk while balancing a book on his head. Oh,
hell no. “Why me?”

“Because you’re my number one undercover agent. Jameson requested someone with real life experience to share their stories.”

Standing up in front of a bunch of sneering little college-educated slackers and let them laugh at him wasn’t going to happen. No fucking way.
“Thanks, boss, but I’ve got a lot to do this week.”

“I merely said I’d bring you. I’d never commit you to address the class without asking you first.”

Damn. Walter knew Lucky too well. “I’ll go, I’ll sit, I’ll listen, I’ll drink coffee. That’s
all I’m promising.”

“Fair enough. However, there’s one more thing.”

Prickles gathered on the back of Lucky’s neck. “What?”

“In the past when we’ve staged undercover maneuvers, I’ve coordinated and chosen someone from my group for the supervisory
role. In light of some recent failures…”

Yeah, Lucky’d heard rumors about two agents from the Northwest going over to the other side. It hadn’t happened in the South for a
while.

Walter grimaced and hastened to add, “In other divisions, mind you.” A note of pride tinged his words. At one time, the department
betting pool gave ten to one odds of Lucky returning to a life of crime. It was worth staying on the straight and narrow to watch the self-righteous
bastards lose money to Walter, who always had Lucky’s back.

“We’ll also be restructuring our methods of operations,” Walter continued. “Each case will have an agent, a
supervisor, one or more operators, and monitoring as necessary. It’s been suggested that I train additional personnel to act as case
agent.”

The disappointment spreading across Walter’s face effectively cut off any smart-assed answers from Lucky. Whatever the higher powers chose to
shove down Lucky’s gullet wasn’t leaving a pleasant taste in Walter’s mouth either.

“Who’ll be coordinating, then?”

“For the time being, until we train proper resources, myself or Jameson.”

Lucky nearly growled. No matter how much experience the fuckwad may have had up in Northeastern territory, he didn’t know his ass from Atlanta
down here in the South. “He’s been moved here?”

“He’s on loan as part of our new cooperative efforts.”

Maybe the bastard fucked up at his last job, and they transferred him because he knew too much. In Lucky’s experience, the DEA looked down their
noses at the SNB, referring to them as “wannabees”. “Who have you tagged for supervising?”

“You and Art, for now. It seems other agencies are backlogged and can’t spare senior personnel, although they are sending junior agents
here for training.”

Streets of Atlanta, New York, Tucson. Drugs thrived in them all.

Walter inhaled a long breath and huffed it out. “We’re about to embark on the biggest case to land on my desk in years.”

“Oh?”

“The woman from last night admitted to using a substance called ‘bath salts’ on the street. You’re familiar with
the product.” A statement, not a question.

Of course. The recent secretary type losing her mind wasn’t Lucky’s first encounter with the shit. “Synthetic drug
undetectable by drug dogs and most standard drug tests. Causes violent behavior and hallucinations. Makes people see aliens and demons. Most states dealt
with the problem by making it a control one substance.” On a scale of one to five, control ones were the most dangerous of drugs, illegal, and
with no accepted medical use in the US.