The Trap (Agent Dallas 3) Read Free Page A

waiting with a small carry-on bag. The analyst was thin everywhere, even his hair, and had a protruding brow. He looked older than forty, even without his glasses. “I told you he’d be waiting.” Luke opened the door and climbed out of the plane to stretch his legs.
    Aaron shuffled over. “Thanks for the lift. I hate flying commercial.”
    As they walked to the Cessna, Aaron said, “I’ve been analyzing data and looking at targets, and I know what we should hit next.”
    “I’m listening.”
    “Prison supply trucks. It’s time to take the fight to the ground.”

Chapter 3
    Thursday, Oct. 2, 11:37 a.m., Washington DC
    Dallas rolled out of bed, checked the time, and cursed. Last night, her second flight had been delayed, and she hadn’t made it back until a couple of hours ago. Now she only had a few minutes to get downtown before Agent Drager texted her about their meetup. She pulled on yoga pants and a long-sleeve T-shirt, brushed her teeth, and headed out. She would grab coffee later.
    The Acura she’d leased was parked in the basement of the rental complex in Georgetown near the university, so she trotted toward the stairs. At the last minute, she changed her mind and headed for the nearby bus stop. She hated driving in DC, and finding a place to park was a nightmare! Phoenix traffic was bad, but at least it moved, and the city’s grid was easy to navigate. DC was a mess of diagonal streets, crowded roundabouts, and main arteries that stopped and started elsewhere. But the bus and metro system were both great, and the city was amazingly clean. Yet the air smelled a little dank, like the slow-moving river that cut through it.
    Twenty minutes later, she climbed off at the intersection of M and 7th, and blinked in the bright warm sun. Fall was late again this year. Thirsty and irritated, she walked three blocks to a coffee shop, ordered a cup to go, and waited for Drager’s text.
    Finally, it came:
Go into Midtown Cleaners, walk behind the counter, and enter the red door.
    Another few minutes, and she stood outside the dry cleaner business, one of many on the first floor of a red-brick building. Out of habit, she had glanced around while she walked, but no one had followed her. And why would they? She didn’t know anyone in DC, except a few people from Justice Reform Now. The legitimate organization was national and had thousands of members, many of whom were here in the capital. The clandestine nature of their meeting was to be sure no one from either activist group ever saw her with Drager. She’d been involved with JRN since she’d moved to DC, so some locals knew her now.
    Inside, the smell of hot chemicals assaulted her, and dozens of suits and dresses hung on a room-sized conveyor system. Did people really still dry-clean their clothes? A middle-aged woman behind the counter greeted her. Dallas nodded, rounded the counter, and walked toward the red door at the end of the short hall.
What was this place?
    Down a flight of concrete stairs, another door opened into a little cafe with booths along the sidewalls, and a short counter-service in the back. Only five customers, all men, three in dark suits and two older guys at a table in golf shirts. Did the bureau run this place?
    Drager, in the last booth, waved her over. Under sagging skin, a thick nose, and weary eyes, his once-handsome face could still be seen.
    “Hey, what is this place?” she asked, scooting into the booth. The previous time, they’d met in a backroom display of the National Art Gallery. They’d had little to discuss then, and she suspected the point of the meeting had been to build trust. She still didn’t have much to report.
    “It’s a private café run by a retired agent.” One corner of Drager’s mouth turned up. “He worked undercover most of his career and likes the clandestine stuff too.”
    An old guy in a black T-shirt and white apron shuffled up to the table. “Hey, pretty lady, you’re a sight for sore