Trust Fall Read online

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  Watch for more at Alex Ander’s site.

  Trust Fall

  Jessica Devlin - U.S. Marshal

  Action & Adventure (Book #1)

  By Alex Ander

  .

  Trust Fall

  Jessica Devlin – U.S. Marshal

  Action & Adventure

  .

  This story proudly

  Made in the U.S.A.

  Copyright ©2019 Jason A. Burley

  All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be published in a newspaper, magazine or electronically via the Internet.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to real events or locations or actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  “Virtually every federal law enforcement initiative involves the Marshals Service. If a federal criminal jumps bail, violates parole, or escapes from prison, tracking him down and recapturing him is your responsibility. When an order is issued by a federal court, it's your job to see the order is carried out. You're protecting the courts, judges, attorneys and witnesses, and overseeing dozens of tasks essential to the functioning of the justice service. This all adds up to a heavy burden of responsibility.”

  — Former President Ronald Reagan

  Speaking at the U.S. Marshals Service

  National Conference

  .

  Chapter 1

  Not Forgotten

  25 april—12:21 p.m.

  alexandria, virginia

  “...Gone,” in full uniform, standing before a flag-draped casket, the Alexandria Police Department’s Chief of Police folded hands in front of his body and bowed his head, “but not forgotten.”

  Seventy-five feet away, a firing party of seven uniformed officers—lined up from shortest to tallest—stood on the side of a slight incline.

  Firing Commander: “Ready...Aim...Fire!”

  Seven M14 rifles discharged.

  Facing the Police Chief from across the width of the coffin, wearing a black dress, black nylons, and black high heels—her father holding an umbrella over her head—Jessica Devlin felt relief from the spindly arms gripping her right leg. She glanced down.

  With both hands pressed against her ears, Cassandra looked up at her mother. “It hurts.”

  Devlin scooped up the four-year-old. Hugging her child, stroking the little girl’s hair, “It’s okay, babe,” she gazed beyond the far end of the casket, at a white marble headstone flanked by two, neatly trimmed evergreen shrubs. She squinted at the inscription: In Loving memory of Jonathon J. Devlin. A devoted husband and loving father, he gave everything for his God, his family, and his country.

  Commander: “Ready...”

  With a light mist tapping at the protective covering above her head, Devlin brought Cassandra’s face to her chest. “It’ll be over soon, Cassie.”

  “Aim...”

  Struggling to tamp down the emotional mass in her throat, Devlin clutched her girl and put her lips to the top of Cassandra’s soft, wispy hair.

  “Fire!”

  The girl flinched.

  Devlin squeezed her offspring.

  Cassandra’s tiny fingers crumpled her mother’s dress, as she drew closer to her remaining parent. “Mommy, are you going away?”

  “Ready...”

  Pressure built behind Devlin’s eyes, as she recalled what she had said on that day. Daddy had to go away for a little while. But you’ll see him again. The death of her husband had shaken her to the core. A devout Catholic, never missing Sunday Mass, Devlin had lost her faith—her trust—in a benevolent god. She had spoken those words to her daughter to bring comfort, but her mind had questioned their value, their validity. She remembered thinking to herself: How could a loving god take such a good man from me?

  Devlin cradled Cassandra. “I promise you, Cassie. I’m not going anywhere. I will always come home to you. It may—”

  “Aim...”

  She shut her eyes, held firm to the one in her care, and braced for the final volley.

  “Fire!”

  Seven reports broke through the light rain.

  “It may not be when you want me to, but I will always come home to you.” She kissed her child’s head. “I love you.”

  Standing next to the firing party, an officer raised a bugle to his mouth and played the long, first note of “Taps.”

  Devlin’s face twisted. Her breaths became erratic. Her shoulders rocked.

  On her left, her father gave her a one-armed hug.

  Unable to maintain the strong facade any longer, she cried into Cassandra’s hair, her mind showing her images of her late husband. Why? Why did you leave me? What am I going to do without you? She felt Cassandra squirm. And what about Cassie? She’s going to need a father. She’s going to need you, Jon.

  The bugler held the final note before letting the instrument go silent.

  The rain grew in intensity, pelting the black umbrella protecting Devlin and her daughter.

  The widow sniffed. Damn it, Jon. How could you do this to us? She envisioned her husband lying in a hospital bed—I.V. tubes taped to the backs of his bruised hands, machines beeping, oxygen coursing through the large tube attached to the mask covering his face. He was fighting for his life as bravely as he had fought the criminal who had shot him. Devlin knew her feelings were irrational, even cruel. To believe this was somehow Jonathon’s fault was insane; however, the sudden cutting short of a young life would be enough to drive anyone to the edge of insanity.

  Devlin glimpsed the flowers on the casket, the hanging flag, and the grave marker. Her eyes settled on the vessel that held her husband’s body and where his face would be inside. I love you, Jon. Cassie and I will never forget you.

  Their rotors thumping, three helicopters approached the ceremony, flying in a ‘V’ formation.

  Breaking into her thoughts, the sudden, rhythmic droning grew to a crescendo before fading away. Devlin swallowed, and the simple act seized her throat. Seeing the world around her through a blurry haze, she took a half step backward. The back of her knee touched cold metal. Collapsing, more than sitting, she landed on a folding chair while clinging to her little one.

  Moments later, the other mourners claimed their seats.

  Two officers removed the flag from the coffin. After folding the American symbol of freedom in half—twice, lengthwise—the men made thirteen fold
s, creating the shape of a triangle. Only the flag’s blue field and white stars were visible. One officer handed the standard to the Police Chief.

  The Chief approached Devlin, went to one knee, and held the patriotic emblem in front of her. “On behalf of the...”

  Gaping at the small stars, hearing nothing after the man’s first four words, her eyes shedding tears, she accepted the gesture of gratitude.

  ∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞

  .

  Chapter 2

  Mom Vibe

  Two years later...

  1 may—8:49 p.m.

  colonial heights, virginia

  Normally busy during the day, this intersection in Colonial Heights became desolate at night. A couple of low-rent, high-rise housing structures—across the street from each other—took up two corners while an all-night liquor store and a check-cashing establishment sat on the remaining two.

  The traffic signal faithfully did its job, cycling from green to yellow to red, even though very few cars passed beneath. People who knew the area and valued their lives found alternate routes to get to their destination.

  Those who were forced to call this area home, due to poverty, low-paying jobs, a single income, or some other factor, stayed inside behind door locks, door chains, deadbolts, bars on the windows, and whatever other security devices they could afford to employ.

  The young, the strong, the fearless made this stretch of Virginia their playground, many of them major contributors to the criminal activities—illegal drugs, prostitution, gambling—plaguing the community. Drinking beer and smoking cigarettes, men loitered, waiting to pounce on anyone who foolishly entered this district. In short skirts, high heels, and revealing tops, their hair done up, women patrolled the sidewalks looking for their next twenty-dollar ‘John.’

  Its muffler rumbling, an older model, rusted out, four-door Chevy stopped at the curb near one of the housing units. The driver leaned over the console and rolled down the passenger window. An overhead streetlight lit up his gaunt cheeks, dark goatee, and bushy eyebrows.

  A woman wearing a black leather jacket, blue-and-white-striped miniskirt, black knee boots, and black fishnet stockings sauntered up to the car.

  Eyeing her attire and athletic figure, he smiled, “Hey there,” and gunned the engine a couple times, partly to impress her, but mostly to keep the car from stalling.

  The five-ten woman, easily six foot tall in her high-heeled boots, bent over and leaned on the Chevy’s passenger door. “What can I do for you?” She quickly scanned both ends of the street.

  “Well, that depends.” The man stroked his goatee while admiring her looks—straight, medium-length raven black hair; dark brown eyes; petite, slim nose; full lips; slender lines along her jaw. “What’s the going rate?”

  “Fifty. Anything out of the ordinary will cost you extra.”

  “Kind of high, isn’t it?”

  “I’m new here...and fresher than the competition.” Looking away, the woman lifted a shoulder. “Take it or leave it.”

  Goatee gave her another once-over. “But you’re also older and...”

  She flicked her eyes his way.

  “...you’ve,” he twirled a finger at her, “got this whole...mom vibe going on.”

  The woman pivoted her head toward him.

  “But,” he slowly nodded at the cleavage protruding from between her jacket’s lapels, “I like it.”

  A sleek, red Cadillac convertible—top down, music blasting into the open air—rolled by and parked two spaces ahead of the rusted Chevy. Four Latino men in jeans and muscle shirts hopped out and swaggered toward the apartment building. Each man exchanged hand slaps and chest bumps with others he knew.

  The woman turned her attention toward the scene.

  Afraid of losing her, Goatee dug out a fifty-dollar bill and dropped the note onto the passenger seat. “There’s your fifty.” He added a ‘Jackson’ along with demands for additional sex acts.

  Squinting at the four Latinos, she watched them walk through the front door of the structure.

  “So what do you say? That’s seventy bucks.”

  “Yeah,” fishing around inside her jacket, “you’re not getting any of those things from me,” she faced him and held out a bi-fold.

  He glimpsed her badge—a five-pointed, silver star inside a silver circle—before shutting his eyes and letting out a low groan.

  “United States Deputy Marshal.” She stowed the credentials. “Since I don’t have time to bust you, you should consider this your lucky day.” She smacked the door twice and jerked her thumb. “Beat it, scumbag.”

  Not giving the federal agent the chance to change her mind, the man spun the steering wheel and stepped on the gas pedal. Its muffler spewing noise pollution, the Chevy peeled away from the curb.

  The woman made her way toward the apartment building’s front door. “This is Devlin. I have a visual on Mendoza. All tac teams have a ‘go.’ I repeat...all teams move in!”

  Moments later, two black SUVs squealed around the corner and skidded to a halt, blocking the Cadillac’s escape. Eight doors flew open, and eight men rushed toward Devlin; seven were outfitted with tactical gear. The eighth man was dressed in blue jeans and a dark-colored windbreaker, POLICE U.S. MARSHAL emblazoned on the jacket. He carried a bulletproof vest.

  Devlin turned away from the assaulters and held her arms straight out behind her.

  The man in jeans threaded the vest’s two openings up her arms and over her shoulders.

  “Thanks, Hawk.” She drew a forty-five caliber Colt 1911 handgun from a hip holster under her leather jacket before securing the newly added protective garment.

  Blake Hawkins—six foot tall, African-American, closely cropped dark hair, chiseled jaw, and muscular frame—drew his Glock 22. “Fifty bucks, huh?”

  The two of them hurried toward the building.

  “I thought that was a good price.” She shrugged. “I don’t know. You think my rates are steep?”

  He shook his head, “Not at all,” before grabbing the front door’s vertical handle. “In fact they might be low for an,” pulling open the glass entry point, he hesitated, “older woman with a mom vibe going on.”

  Hearing him repeat what the ‘John’ had said to her a moment ago, the twenty-nine-year-old woman pulled up short and confronted Hawkins, her jaw set, one eye half closed.

  He smiled. “I know I’ll pay for that later, but,” he dipped his forehead toward her, “the look on your face right now...is worth the price.”

  She shed a half grin at her partner, the man she relied on to have her back in these situations. “You will pay for that.”

  Entering the structure, Devlin and Hawkins led the U.S. Marshals Service Special Operations Group (S.O.G.) toward the stairs. Her four-inch heels clicking off the tile flooring, she lifted a balled hand and glimpsed him. “Take one for you.”

  He gave her a fist bump. “Not if I take one for you first.”

  Six months ago, Hawkins had stepped in front of a bullet meant for Devlin. His vest had absorbed the projectile. From that moment, the two deputy marshals became close friends and started fist bumping and repeating their mantra before every potentially violent encounter.

  *******

  Having ascended two flights of stairs and crept down a third-floor hallway, the assault team stacked up outside an apartment door.

  Devlin and Hawkins stood on the opposite side of the walkway, across from the door.

  The S.O.G. team leader looked at her.

  Hearing a noise—a door closing in a hollow room—she faced the direction of the sound and glanced at an ‘EXIT’ sign at the far end of the hall before eyeing Hawkins.

  He showed her an upturned thumb.

  She nodded at the S.O.G. team leader.

  The man pounded on the door.

  Devlin raised her voice. “Raphael Mendoza, this is the U.S. Marshals Service. We have a warrant for your arrest. Open the door.” Retreating, she gestured at the agent
with a battering ram.

  The man swung the instrument, and the door burst inward. Two columns of heavily armed men flooded the dwelling, each man shouting commands:

  “U.S. Marshals.”

  “Hands.”

  “Show me your hands.”

  “Get down on your knees.”

  Guns up, Devlin and Hawkins were last to enter the living area.

  More commands came from the S.O.G. team...

  “Get down on the floor.”

  “Hands on your head.”

  “Don’t move.”

  Seconds later, at different intervals, Devlin heard shouts from different men.

  “Clear.”

  “Bedrooms are clear.”

  “Clear.”

  The S.O.G. team leader approached Devlin. “All clear, ma’am. Suspects have been secured.”

  Devlin went from room to room, identifying each handcuffed man. She faced Hawkins. “He’s not here. Mendoza’s not here.”

  Hawkins scowled at her. “What do you mean? You said you saw him.”

  “I did see him.” She ran fingers through her hair. “He got out of that Caddy right in front of me. Where did he—” she half closed an eye at her partner, her mind recalling the sound of the closing door from seconds earlier. “Someone tipped him off that we were coming.” She bolted out of the apartment and headed for the back stairs.

  “Devlin.” Hawkins followed her.

  “Bravo Team, report.”

  “All clear...no contact—over.”

  After bursting through the stairwell door, Hawkins one pace behind her, she leaned over the railing and saw Bravo Team stacked up on the first-floor landing. She tipped her head back and eyed a gray metal door with areas of missing paint that revealed rust blotches. Lifting her tight-fitting skirt, she clambered up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. “Mendoza’s on the roof.”

  *******

  With their guns at the ready and each deputy marshal spanning his/her one hundred and eighty degree arc of responsibility, Devlin and Hawkins cleared the roof, hurried to the edge, and peered over the side. She scanned the adjacent roof and spotted a door closing the last few inches. Pointing with her chin at the door, “He jumped,” she holstered her 1911 and backed away.