30

Bonnie Woods' POV

Penobscot County Sheriff's Office

November 4, 2019

"Welcome back, Bonnie," the receptionist said as I walked into the office.

"Thank you, Lois." It had been over two weeks since I saw her or my other coworkers at Sean's funeral service. "I got your card; it helped a lot." I'd gotten thousands of cards, and it was only last week that I'd been emotionally ready to read them. There were letters of sympathy and encouragement from friends, relatives, members of other law enforcement agencies, and other Packs. Once I started reading them, the tears started flowing and didn't stop for two days. It was the breakthrough I needed to move forward again.

Still, I'd spent almost ten days on suicide watch at the Pack House. I may have grown up as an orphan, but I knew how much my family loved me now. Sean's parents, George and Sally, had been my parents in every way but biology since my mating. The Baxter Pack had embraced me without reservation, and I was blown away by the love and support they showed me. With their help, I was finally able to return home to the memories of my previous life. It might take years before I could go through all of Sean's stuff, and I'd never forget our time together. The ache in my soul was a constant reminder of what those were-coyotes took from me.

I headed back towards my office, returning the greetings and embraces of the other Deputies on the way. It took me ten minutes to get there, but that was all right. Everyone was happy I was back, but I could see the guilt in their eyes. The one thing they felt they owed me was to bring his killer to justice, and they hadn't done that. Our meth cook and his two were-coyote accomplices were still at large despite a nationwide manhunt.

My need for justice finally pushed the thoughts of suicide aside. I wanted to be there when the bastards got caught, whether it was the FBI or a Pack that did it. The problem was that we had no solid leads to go on; we didn't even have a name for the chemist, just a photograph! And the three were-coyotes we captured across the Canadian border? Less than helpful. Adrienne did her best to work something out. Nothing could overcome the wariness their kind has towards their larger cousins. The three refused to share any information, including the locations of other were-coyote dens. Our Mediator knew the father recognized the person in the photo, but he wouldn't talk. She gave them every chance to walk away, and they wouldn't take it. The Alpha was ready to kill them all, but our Council Fixer had a better idea. He had some of our tech geniuses clone their cellphones and plant tracking devices in their phones, car, and clothing. "Let them lead us to the others," Clyde proposed. "We've got nothing to lose."

He was wrong. We lost both time and the opportunity to extract answers when the were-coyotes disabled the trackers within a day. If the dens didn't know we were coming after them over Sean's death, they did now.

"Thank God you're back," Detective Max Plunk told me as I hung up my jacket inside my office door. "The paperwork is killing me."

"You better get used to it. I hit twenty-five next year, and you're the senior detective in the room." Max had been a hard-charging patrol deputy in the day. As a detective, he still loved to mix it up more than write it up. He had a good arrest record and was the obvious choice to replace me when I retired.

"You sure you don't want to stick around for a few years? Max out your pension?"

"I've got Sean's...." I couldn't say it. I sat down at my desk, trying to pull myself together. I could do this.

"Shit, I'm sorry, Bonnie." The tear rolling down my cheek didn't escape his notice.

I wiped it away, took a deep breath, and let it out. "It's not your fault, Max. I think I'm all right, and then some little thing sets me off again. I'll be fine in a minute." I leaned back and closed my eyes, pushing my wolf back into my mind. "I had planned to work until we could both retire, but now? I don't see the point anymore."

"You're still a hell of a cop, Bonnie. We can use you around here."

"I know. Give me a minute, will you?" He nodded and closed the door as he walked out. I booted up my computer and grabbed the stuff in my inbox. Doing a quick sort, I set half of it aside for Max to do because he should have done it when I was gone. Routine reports, overtime slips, expense reports, and other 'read and sign' paperwork. If I took care of it, I'd be rewarding bad habits. I could almost hear the swearing I'd get when I plopped it back on his desk.

I was an hour into the rest of the paperwork when I heard a knock on the door. I could scent Sheriff Ty on the other side. "Come in."

Ty smiled at me as he closed the door behind him and took a seat. "How are you holding up, Bonnie?"

I had to think for a moment. "I'm all right, but I won't be for long," I replied. "The only thing keeping my wolf from giving up is the hope of revenge, and I'm pretty sure Sean's killers aren't in Penobscot County. That makes this job an impediment, not a help."

That wasn't what he wanted to hear, but it was the truth. "How can I help?"

"I'm putting in my retirement papers with the State today," I told him. "With accumulated vacation, overtime, and sick leave, I'll be done by the end of March. I come back to work on the last day, and I'm gone."

"What then?"

"That depends on whether the first part of my plan works," I replied. "Carlisle's time on the DEA task force is up in a few weeks. I want to replace him."

"The DEA doesn't need supervisors," Ty said.

"Then don't make me one. Promote Max to my spot and make me a Detective again. I don't mind. A pay cut won't affect my retirement because I'm not beating last year's pay again. This cook? The Cartel? I need access to the statewide and nationwide resources the DEA has to track these guys down."

Ty shook his head. "You've got a conflict of interest with this case, Bonnie. The DEA and FBI won't let you participate in the investigation. If we catch these guys, the lawyers would be all over it."

"Then I don't work THAT case, at least not directly. The Cartel New Generation Jalisco is running drugs here. Cooks are still making batches of meth. Mules are still transporting drugs, and dealers are still selling them. I can go after the drug trade while unofficially keeping up on the ambush investigation and making contacts nationally."

"Why not let them do their thing? He's on the FBI Top Ten list. They can't stay hidden forever."

I knew better. "Those three might already be in Mexico or Canada. If they don't get any leads in the next few weeks, the investigation will wind down until it's one guy in the Portland office running down crap from the tip line. Another couple of weeks and the Council will have one Enforcer working it in his spare time. You know how it is, Ty. The only one who won't ever give up is me. Do it for me."

He didn't look convinced. "I'm going to have a hard time selling that to them."

"I've got a few contacts of my own who might help with that. Look, both guys on loan to the DEA are human because we don't like being away from our mates that long. These guys operate statewide and regionally. I'm good with travel. Hell, I think it would be EASIER for me to work out of a Federal building than staying here. Everything in Bangor makes me think of him, and I need to focus on the job." Drugs were such an issue in the county that we kept two detectives working with the DEA full-time.

He leaned back, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I think I can cash in a few favors if this is what you want, Bonnie. It helps that it's only for a few months because you'll be on a short leash. If you start causing problems, I'll yank you back here so fast your head will spin."

"I'll behave, Sheriff." I had to. I needed the information I'd only get in that office.

"Don't worry about your rank. I'll make Max a temporary supervisor until you retire, so don't worry about your pay. You'll square the DEA rotation with your Alpha?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

He got up and held out his hand. "It won't be the same without you around, Bonnie. You're a great cop and a better person. Don't lose that looking for revenge. It would be one more thing those bastards take from you if you let them."

"I'll do my best." Would it work? I had no idea.

Ch. 22

Bonnie Woods' POV

US Drug Enforcement Agency Resident Office

Portland, Maine

The Sheriff and some of my other friends pulled strings for me, and I was assigned to Portland to work directly with the Feds. You see, there was more than one DEA out there. Our county Sheriff typically assigned rotational deputies to the Maine Drug Enforcement Agency, which was run out of the Maine Department of Public Safety just like the State Police. They had eight districts, all in single counties or groups of two counties. Penobscot and Piscataquis Counties were in District Five, and I'd done a rotation with them eight years ago. These MDEA Districts brought together elements of the State Police, Sheriffs, and Police Departments to fight drug crime in their areas. We were more effective than regular patrol because we focused on drugs full-time.

The fun part was that as a werewolf, I could smell the drugs too. It wasn't something we could admit to, and it sure as hell wasn't admissible in court, but it helped us a lot. An "odor of drugs" was probable cause to search. I didn't want to get a reputation for that, so I did if I could use any other excuse. I'd busted a few meth labs, busted a bunch of dealers, and even intercepted a shipment along I-95 during that time. It earned me a commendation when I returned to my Department.

It was all low-key and local stuff. The real action was with the Federal Drug Enforcement Administration, headquartered in Boston for the New England region. They had four 'levels' of office; the next level was a District Office in Manchester, New Hampshire. Maine had the third level, a Resident Office in Portland, and the lowest level, a Post of Duty office in Bangor. The latter was an office for an agent to be exiled to, where he would interface with Maine DEA and local law enforcement. The critical investigations and cases were run out of Portland. My experience and desire to get away from Bangor led me to the cubicle I was warming my skinny ass in.

"Bonnie! Jack! See the boss," Special Agent Lee Peng said as he walked to our corner. After he accidentally blew his undercover alias, Lee's bosses exiled him here from the San Francisco office. Maine was as far from the Chinese mob as they could put him while remaining in the Continental US.

"What now," I said as Trooper Jack Penbroke left his adjacent cubicle.

"Probably a typo in our last report or something," he whispered back. We headed for the corner office of Resident Agent-In-Charge Allison St. James. RAIC St. James was the kind of leader I hated; she'd risen within the DEA ranks without ever getting her fingers dirty. She spent half her career at DEA Headquarters in Washington and got assigned to the Maine office to get the ticket-punch she needed to go for Director level. Maine wasn't the glamour assignment of the DEA by any stretch. Postings in Central and South America, the southern border with Mexico, Florida, Los Angeles, San Francisco, New York? Those were the places for hard-chargers to make their careers. Maine was a tranquil backwater in the river of drugs, meaning St. James couldn't fuck things up too bad here.

Half of the office had gathered in the conference room adjacent to her office. I took a seat on the far side from where the RAIC stood with a man around thirty years in age. He didn't belong in a suit; his biceps were as big as my thighs, I could see tattoos poking out on his neck and wrists, and he had a badge hanging around his thick neck.

I didn't need an introduction to know he'd done work undercover with bikers.

RAIC St. James called the meeting to order. "This is FBI Special Agent Nathaniel Bibus of the New York office. They're all yours."

The big biker commanded the room easily. "Thank you. As some of you have noticed, drug manufacturing and distribution patterns in the Northeast have changed in the past five years. Cocaine is fading, meth is making a resurgence, and fentanyl is killing people left and right." No kidding; fake pills and spiked heroin were leaving bodies all over the state. In two years, Fentanyl poisoning could be the leading cause of death for young adults. "And what group is driving the change?"

"The Cartel," I answered. "Detective Sergeant Bonnie Woods, Penobscot Sheriff's Department. The Cartel Jalisco New Generation, or CJNC, is now moving to control the entire pipeline. It's not just getting it across the border and selling it to distributors."

"Correct. As the Cartel moves in, the bikers are losing their slice of the pie, and they don't like it. A decade ago, biker gangs like the Hell's Angels controlled the Meth and Heroin trades. The CNGJ has started manufacturing and distributing Meth, Cocaine, Oxycontin, and Ecscaty, undercutting the biker gangs at the retail level. The Hell's Angels, Outlaws, Iron Horsemen, and smaller clubs are all losing money, and they can't survive without it. What do you think will happen if this keeps going?"

That was an easy one. "Dan Pembrooke, Maine State Police. They either take on the cartel or each other. It could kick off a war either way."

And either way, it would get bloody. "What are we hearing from our informants, Agent Bibus?"

"Not much. As you know, getting agents into these Clubs is incredibly difficult and dangerous. After the hammer the DEA and ATF brought down on the Hell's Angels, the other Clubs have gotten smarter. They've been hiring private detectives to do background checks on prospects, forcing prospects to kill or commit felonies to get in, and making them take drugs while the Club watches." Undercover agents had rules to follow, and making you do them was used to ferret out cops. "They are getting harder to monitor as well. The clubs have used burner phones, message couriers, and avoiding the Internet to evade our warrants. With no one on the inside and no effective surveillance outside, we're running blind. Our Agencies know few details about their current plans. All we have are rumors that the biker gangs are exploring a truce to band together against the Cartel. Imagine if the Hell's Angels, Outlaws, Saracens, Iron Horsemen, and Exiles combined forces? This whole situation could explode if they take on the most violent cartel in the world. We need to get people close to them, and fast, so we can be ready for what comes next."

Shit, that wasn't going to be easy. "Do we have any active agents within the Maine chapters?"

"Nothing Federal," Allison replied.

Our Maine DEA Liaison, Charles Rogers, shook his head too. "We have nothing either."

"We have to do what we can with what we have," Agent Bibus said. "Hangarounds, bike shops, biker bars? It's not like having a guy in Church, but it's better than nothing. It's a chance to plant some bugs, some trackers, and maybe overhear something they shouldn't be talking about in public."

"I'll do it," I said. "Point me in the direction of a biker bar. I'll get a job as a waitress or something."

Allison wasn't convinced. "You were on the newscasts just a few weeks ago during your husband's funeral. You are too easy to recognize."

"Only in central Maine," I argued. "I was in full uniform with my hair in a bun. Trust me; I can change my appearance enough for this to work. If you're worried, put me undercover in another state. I'm flexible."

"I can't give you jurisdiction outside Maine," Allison said.

In the end, four of us volunteered to go undercover in biker hangouts to gather intelligence. My assignment was the Full Throttle Nightclub near the Portsmouth Navy Shipyard. The low-end strip joint was right across the river from New Hampshire and a popular biker hangout in the offseason. It was the kind of place you could get a private dance from a 'struggling college student' AND her mother! The strip club was a dive bar with an elevated stage down the middle, pool tables in the back, and booths along the side where people could have private conversations. It even had a decent buffet for the after-work crowd.

One of the bouncers ran a prostitution ring with some of the dancers and got caught. Facing a loss of his liquor license and business, the owner was willing to play ball when the local police and DEA asked for his cooperation. Not only did he agree to take me on as a waitress, but I'd also be the server for the bikers when they came in. Our tech people planted three dozen listening devices in the club, along with a relay station in the owner's office. They also forwarded the video feed from the security cameras to our team so they could keep an eye on me and the assholes I was investigating.

Our team rented two rooms in a seedy hotel nearby, and I stayed in one of them. We rotated agents and officers through the adjoining room. I'd whisper into my necklace with the microphone the table numbers where the outlaw bikers sat, and our people would record everything they said. Since we had the owner's permission and a warrant to surveil the biker gangs, it was legal with conditions. I had to confirm at least one biker from one of the outlaw clubs at the table before we could listen in.

Before this, I'd visited the beauty salon, getting my long red hair blown out in big curls and adding some green highlights at the end. An excess of makeup, some temporary tattoos, a leather skirt, and a Full Throttle T-shirt tied under my braless breasts, and I fit right in with the rest of the staff. Anyone who looked at me would think I was serving because I was divorced and didn't have the money for a boob job yet. I went in under the name Destiny Falls.

The strip club was considered a neutral territory by the local clubs. The owner didn't allow them to wear their club cuts, and the bouncers used metal detectors to check everyone at the door, but it didn't stop the occasional fight. The T-shirts they wore often had the club symbol on them, and the clothes didn't hide the tattoos, scars, and attitudes the different groups brought to the table.

I couldn't carry in the revealing clothes I wore while serving, but I kept a pistol and shotgun hidden under the bar along with my badge. Every night after bar close, I'd meet with the agents in my room and go over what we learned.

Working a strip club wasn't easy, but the bouncers were big and watched for people taking advantage of the girls. My ass got grabbed or smacked a dozen times a night, but I would warn them off or let the bouncers educate them on the rules. I could understand why. Even though I was in my late forties, my workouts kept me looking good. My legs and ass were my best feature, and some patrons had a thing for tall, long-legged redheads.

I saw plenty of small-time drug buys, watched the bouncers break up fights, got propositioned for sex, and picked out the girls who were making money on their backs after hours. The small-time stuff wasn't our focus.

Tonight was Friday, and the place filled up with bikers, shipyard workers, and punks. I was making my way back from the booth where I'd delivered another round of beers for some members of the Iron Horsemen when a guy grabbed me around the waist and pulled me into his side. Somehow, I didn't spill the empty bottles on my tray as the welder's other hand grabbed my left thigh. "Stop now, or you'll spend the night in the hospital," I warned him. I looked around to see the bouncers were busy with another drunk.

"Calm down, bitch! I've got the money, and you're mine tonight."

His left hand was inching up my legs under my skirt. "Go any higher, and you'll find out my price is more than you're willing to pay."