Blood in the Ozarks

31. Miss Agent

Honestly, I didn't think I had the authority to remove someone from county jail. That would require a lot of phone calls and paperwork. And since my supervisor was not answering his damn cellphone, those options were off the table anyway.

But it wasn't like I was helping someone escape from Alcatraz. This was a county jail run by an overly enthusiastic middle-aged woman who was in way over her head.

After dismounting from Ortega's bike, I redid my ponytail. Smoothing the flyways back, I let out a long stream of air and straightened my spine. Then I marched into the Sheriff's Department like they weren't worth my goddamn time.

A deputy welcomed me at the front desk with a cheery smile and the same southern accent as the rest of the locals.

"Agent Ross, hi," he greeted. "how can I help ya?"

"Oh good, you know who I am. So you don't even need to see my badge." I took out my ID regardless and held up the credentials to emphasize the authority I was trying to pull.

"I'm here to get Thomas Ortega," I informed him, pocketing my badge.

The corners of his mouth fell. "I'm sorry, Miss Ross. I'm afraid we aren't authorized to release him."

They were going to make me use my agent voice. The tone of voice I reserve for interrogations and unruly crime scenes. The listen-to-me-or-go-to-federal-prison voice. As Yvonne would say, it was time for me to be Miss Agent.

"You can call me Agent Ross. And I don't care if you aren't authorized to release him. I am telling you the FBI is stepping in and his custody needs to be handed over right now."

"But, but we were told not to let you take him."

"That's great. I will put that in my report to the bureau. A deputy wouldn't allow a federal agent custody of an inmate. What was your name again? I need to have it correct for my report. I'd also like your badge number with it."

The young deputy stuttered, not finding one single word to reply with.

I glanced at his name tag. "Walters. OK then Deputy Walters, I'm going to need you to bring me Thomas Ortega as well as his personal effects. Can you do that for me?"

Fear straightened Deputy Walters's spine as he gave a vigorous nod. "Yes, ma'am."

Then he grabbed a set of keys off the back wall and rushed out the side door, leaving me alone in the front office.

I peered over the desk checking out what the deputy had been working on. I don't know what I was hoping to see--emails, an arrest log, a giant red flyer warning about fiends. But the only thing on the computer screen was his FaceSpace page where he was wishing grandma a happy birthday. And the visible note on his desk was a reminder to pick up dry cleaning. Neither option enticed me to search more.

Hiding my disappointment, I straightened and waited for the deputy's return. A few minutes later the deputy came back with Ortega in tow.

The prisoner was grinning like an idiot. A big beaming smile directed straight at me.

"Ross, my hero," Ortega proclaimed.

I cut him a look of warning not to say anything else.

Deputy Walters went back around to his desk and rustled around until he came up with a form on a clipboard.

"Can you sign here to show we transferred custody over to you?"

I glared at the deputy and plucked the pen from the clipboard. Official or not he'd brought me Ortega, signing my name didn't make a difference at this point.

Once I'd added my signature to the form, the deputy handed over a bag containing everything they'd stripped from Ortega when he got there. Bag in hand, I was ready to escort Ortega out of there.

A dramatic cough prompted me to face my new charge.

Ortega raised his cuffed hands and waved his fingers at me with a grin.

"Uncuff him," I huffed at the ceiling. It was all I could do to keep myself from yelling at the deputy who rushed over to unlock Ortega's hands.

The bag they handed me with Ortega's personal items was more hefty than I'd assumed it would be. The oversized Ziploc held the normal leather jacket, wallet, and cell phone, but along with those items was a handgun, a revolver, extra ammo, two sheath knives, a pocket knife, and a partridge in a pear tree. Ortega had been loaded down with enough heat to cause a metal detector to spontaneously combust.

"Was all of this really on you?" I questioned him.

He nodded then wiggled his eyebrows. "Wanna see where it all goes?"

"Just go."

I prodded him out the door and to the parking lot. The quicker we left, the better our odds at not being stopped.

"Did you call KT?" he asked over his shoulder as we made our way out.

"I did call her, but she couldn't be here until Wednesday."

"And you told her you were going to break me out instead?"

I didn't say anything and kept walking.

"Ross, you rebel. But you know if she gets here on Wednesday and I'm not in a cell she's gonna be pissed."

I sighed. "I'll send her an email."

"Just what she'd want, written proof of our crimes."

Ortega laughed back at me as he pushed through the final glass door. But his amusement was cut short the second he saw how I'd gotten to the jail.

"Frankie!" Ortega bellowed with the same sincerity used for greeting an old friend. He practically sprinted toward the bike and began rubbing the seat.

I handed him the bag of arms and he immediately started putting all the pieces back into place on his body, concealing everything like some kind of back-alley magician.

"Dammit," Ortega cursed at the empty bag. "They kept my aconite."

He forcefully balled up the plastic bag and shoved it in the trash can by the entrance.

"They probably thought the aconite was some kind of drug. Now it's sitting in a storage locker next to a pound of cocaine."

Ortega fished his keys out of his pocket then paused. He eyed the key in his hand then aimed a knowing smile at me.

"Aw, Ross. Your deviancy warms my heart."

"Just get on," I urged him.

First, he inspected the wires I'd yanked out. Shaking his head, he rearranged them and reconnected the ignition. A hint of pride fell across his lips as he worked. His eyes peeked up to catch mine, but he didn't say anything further about my auto theft.

Once Ortega was satisfied with the mechanics, he hopped on the seat and settled forward leaving space for me.

I climbed on after him and gripped his middle, prepping for the sudden jolt of leaving the stability of being stationary. Now was not the time to overthink what I was doing. Whether that be riding on the back of Ortega's bike again, or that I had broken him out of jail moments ago.

"Where are we headed?" he asked over his shoulder.

"The Shed."

Ortega shrugged, then turned on the ignition. "Odd time to want a drink, Ross, but shots are on me."