Secret Vows. Rochelle AlersЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Chapter 1

      Phoenix, Arizona

      The intercom on Greer Evans’s desk buzzed softly. Unconsciously she reached for the receiver, while at the same time her gaze was fixed on the internal report she’d spent the past hour perusing. “Evans,” she said in her usual greeting.

      “The director would like you to come to his office.”

      Her eyes shifted to the telephone display. She and the others assigned to the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives’ Phoenix, Arizona, field office attended biweekly meetings in the director’s office where they were brought up-to-date on regional operations. It wasn’t often she was singularly summoned.

      “When, Miss Kelly?” she asked the woman who monitored everyone and everything going on at the site.

      “He wants to see you now.”

      “I’m on my way.”

      Greer hung up, coming to her feet and exiting the cubicle where she had spent countless hours since being reassigned to the southwest region. The adjustment hadn’t been an easy one for her. The first thing she’d had to get used to was living in the desert. The dry heat, smog and occasional monsoon were a far cry from the change of seasons she’d experienced in Chicago and Washington, D.C. During the summer months she went directly from the air-conditioned office to the air-conditioned car and then drove to her artificially cooled one-bedroom furnished apartment with picturesque mountain views.

      Plus she had to adjust to sitting at a desk. At first it had been difficult but, as the months passed, Greer had come to look forward to not going undercover; she was content to spend the rest of her professional career office-bound until it came time for her to collect her government pension. Why, she mused, was she thinking about retiring when that wouldn’t become a reality for at least another thirty years? At thirty-two, it should be the last thing on her mind.

      Greer didn’t want to become cynical about her chosen career path because, after all, her mother had warned her of the pitfalls of undercover work. Her parents had met when both were recruits at the Quantico training facility. Her mother had joined the FBI, and her father had chosen the DEA. Then there was her twin brother. He’d followed in the family tradition of law enforcement when he also had joined the FBI.

      She knew her mother, a retired FBI forensic technician, was uneasy each time Greer was selected for an undercover assignment, but she’d sworn an oath to uphold the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and those dealing in the sale and transportation of illegal explosives and firearms were enemies. She barely glanced at Sheila Kelly sitting in an alcove outside the field director’s office as she pushed open the door and walked in, realizing Roland wasn’t alone.

      “You wanted to see me, Roland?”

      Roland Peña’s head popped up. “Yes.” Rays of sunlight coming through windows bathed him in a halo of gold. Smiling, he rose to his feet, indicating the chair facing a sofa. “Please sit down.”

      Pushing off a worn leather sofa was a tall pale man in an ill-fitting black suit. Her gaze shifted from the stranger to the man whom she’d grown to respect—unlike her former supervisor who wasn’t above using his power to intimidate his subordinates. Roland was soft-spoken, approachable and well liked by everyone in the regional office.

      Her supervisor walked over to the sofa and sat down. “I’d like you to meet special agent Bradley Plimpton. He’s the assistant director of the Seattle Field Division.”

      Greer nodded. “Special Agent Plimpton,” she said in acknowledgment. Once she was seated, he sat back down on the couch, one ankle propped on the opposing knee.

      Bradley’s coal-black eyes narrowed. Greer didn’t know why, but there was something about the man’s emaciated appearance, black suit and straight raven hair brushed off his forehead that reminded her of caricatures of undertakers.

      “I’m sorry to spring this on you without warning, Evans. Your supervisor just approved your transfer to my division.”

      She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath as she mentally repeated his last statement. What was Bradley talking about? She hadn’t spoken to Roland about a transfer. Not once since she’d come to Arizona had Greer mentioned to anyone that she didn’t want to live in the desert, that she preferred to see an actual change of seasons. Yet, if she was going to be transferred to the Seattle Field Division, then that meant she would become part of the ATF’s largest geographic division in the country. This transfer could have her living and working anywhere in Washington, Idaho, Alaska, Hawaii, Guam or Oregon.

      “Why?”

      “We need you to go undercover in Mission Grove.”

      Greer leaned forward, the motion seemingly robotic. “Mission Grove?” she repeated.

      “Yes, Agent Evans. Mission Grove,” Bradley said, placing both feet on the floor. Clasping his hands together, he sandwiched them between his knees. “We know you spent your childhood summers there with your aunt and uncle. We also know that you still keep in contact with your uncle even though your mother’s sister passed away three years ago.”

      “What does that have to do with me going undercover in Mission Grove, Agent Plimpton?” she asked when he paused and stared at the floor.

      A beat passed before Plimpton raised his head. “One of our agents was shot near the Mexico-Arizona border during a confrontation with drug smugglers. He managed to kill one of them, and when we recovered their weapons, we were able to trace them back to a man living in the Hood River Valley.”

      “Did you interrogate him?” Greer asked, her voice barely a whisper.

      “We couldn’t.”

      “And why not?” She’d asked yet another question.

      “We couldn’t because he died four years ago. What we did find out was that he’d had a break-in at his home the year before he passed away, yet reported nothing missing. We figured whoever broke into his house wasn’t looking to steal money or valuables but his identity. When I ran his name through the federal firearms database, I discovered hundreds of semiautomatic pistols and assault rifles purchased from gun shops in Vancouver, L.A., and as far east as Texas and Tennessee. We also traced at least a half dozen pistols used by several Seattle gangs back to a gun shop burglary in the Hood River Valley. There have also been a string of similar break-ins ranging from Portland to Mission Grove. Whoever is spearheading this operation has probably amassed an enormous arsenal, selling these illegal firearms to drug dealers. The DEA is dealing with the drug problem, but the sale of illegal firearms falls under our jurisdiction. We’ve selected you to identify the person or persons behind this because you’re familiar with the region.”

      “What I don’t understand,” Greer said, “is why break into someone’s home to steal their personal information? Why not do it electronically? Cybercriminals do it every day.”

      Plimpton shifted slightly when his right hand twitched noticeably. “The man wasn’t online. Whoever stole his identity must have known the victim personally.”

      She knew the states that didn’t require a permit to purchase firearms, although many required licenses needed to carry a concealed firearm. Oregon was one of those states. But if someone was buying guns legally, afterward reselling them to those who couldn’t pass background checks, then that had raised a red flag with the ATF.

      Greer listened intently when briefed about her new assignment. She would become a waitress at Stella’s. Her uncle, former Special Forces Robert “Bobby”