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Part One: Sean
1
Two weeks earlier
WHEN THE AX FELL, SEAN KELLY WAS READY FOR it. He’d known it was coming ever since he woke up in his car yesterday, somewhere in far north Tucson, with a pounding headache and no idea how he got there.
He’d already cleaned most of his things out of his desk, in his cubicle of the United States Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), Tucson field office. Once upon a time, it had been the plain old Customs Service, back in the days before the Department of Homeland Security, back when the mission had been a lot clearer. He’d put all his stuff in a trash bag and it was lumped at the edge of the cubicle.
Appropriate, he thought, since my career has turned to garbage.
People had been staring at him all day, mostly silent. One of the veteran agents, a big ex-military guy named Du
His phone rang at one minute after nine a.m., summoning him to the office of the special agent in charge of the Tucson office. Sean walked unsteadily to the corner office of So
“Sit,” Weller said. Sean could tell he was barely keeping his voice under control.
Sean sat. Weller made no move to close the office door. So he wanted the whole office to know what was about to happen. He had Sean’s file centered on the desk in front of him.
“Six months ago,” Weller said, “you sat right there in that same chair and promised me this shit was through.”
No niceties, Sean thought. It was just as well. It would be over more quickly that way. He nodded.
“You were going to get straightened out. You were going to be back on track, like you were when you first came to this office.”
“Let’s get it over with,” Sean finally said.
Weller barked out something that might have been a laugh. “Over with? Oh, it’s over with, all right.” He opened the file so violently that papers flew around the desk and he had to bend over to retrieve them. “Starts simple, doesn’t it, Irish? Eighteen months ago, falling asleep in a briefing. Helms was sitting next to you and said you smelled like you’d gone swimming in Jack Daniel’s. A few weeks later, you missed the briefing altogether. We had to reschedule an operation just to bring you up to speed. Your paper went steadily downhill. You conveniently forgot to do your paper on the Meléndez operation, and he walked. The SOB had been smuggling tons of illegal assault rifles across the border for two years. We spent a year and a half building the case with ATF. And he fucking walked, Kelly! Because you ‘forgot’ to fill out the proper forms.”
“Sorry,” Sean mumbled.
“Yeah, well. January of this year. You decided to party hearty and go get shit-faced before the op at Naco. Remember that one? The sixty illegals in the back of the cattle truck? We missed them, because you weren’t where you were supposed to be. You were so out of it you drove down the wrong road and were twenty fucking miles away!” His voice continued to rise.
“So
“No, don’t ‘So
“There’s no need-” Sean began, picking up papers.
Weller crashed his fist down on the desk. Outside the open door, people were staring. “By not providing that support, you endangered the lives of other officers, Kelly. We’re damn lucky no one got killed. Never mind that Acosta got across the border. And you know what? They’re all screaming at me. Everyone from the local U.S. attorney all the way up the line to D.C. War on drugs, war on terror, interagency cooperation…all that shit. They want my head, and I’m handing them yours.”
Weller leaned back and was silent a moment.
“How bad?” Sean finally asked.
“Administrative suspension without pay, pending a termination hearing,” Weller said. “The hearing is in thirty days, but you’re done. There’s no way you won’t be ca
“I did,” Sean said.
“What, once?”
“Twice.”
Weller nodded. “Right. Now get going. You’ll get a certified letter with a notice of the perso
Sean nodded. He stood up and numbly offered his hand to Weller. Weller stared at the hand for a moment, then shook it.
“Your weapon and your creds,” Weller said.
Sean nodded again. He didn’t normally wear the gun around the office-in fact, he only carried it during actual operations-but he’d known what was coming, so he’d brought it with him this morning. He handed the SIG Sauer nine-millimeter, holstered, to Weller, then passed him the leather case with his Department of Homeland Security credentials.
Sean walked out of the office into silence. Halfway back to his cubicle, someone said, “Hey, Irish, want to hit happy hour?” He didn’t recognize the voice and didn’t care. He just felt tired.
Sean said nothing. He picked up the black trash bag with the stuff from his desk. He stopped in to say good-bye to Du
His grandfather Seamus Kelly, who’d been a beat cop in Chicago, was fond of saying, “There’s no good Irish cop worth his salt who didn’t like a good drink now and again.”
Right, Sean thought. Now and again.
He hoisted the garbage bag onto his shoulder and walked out into the high desert air of southern Arizona. He had no idea where he was going.