It was the reason he was looking through this particular window in this particular apartment on this particular evening. He didn’t know how to live any other way, something his trio of ex-wives had never known how to deal with.
Relax wasn’t a word in John Foster’s dictionary.
Neither was surrender.
As a Chief Deputy, Foster led a small team that had a damn good reputation as a direct consequence of the work they’d done for the DOJ. He insisted on the highest of standards; he expected his two guys to maintain peak physical fitness, never smoke and carry two handguns with them at all times, including off duty. Hits had been ordered on Federal Marshals in the past and Foster knew there wasn’t an agent in the Service who could ever be certain their name wasn’t on a similar list. The Marshal issue sidearm is a Glock 22 or 23 handgun, a dependable modern pistol with seventeen rounds in the magazine, but that was Foster’s back up. He was old school and liked the old school weapons. He carried a Smith and Wesson.44 six shooter in a shoulder holster that was more field cannon than handgun, but it matched his personality to a tee. If people were guns, Foster would be the.44 Magnum; seasoned, resilient, tough as a cactus in the desert and just as prickly. The younger Marshals preferred the semi-automatics, citing the increased quantity of ammunition and rate of fire as the reason why, but Foster couldn’t be swayed. 44 Magnums didn’t jam and also packed some serious firepower; he was fairly sure he could put down a charging rhino with the handgun if he had to.
Turning from the shutters, he opened a bottle of water and took a sip. Staying hydrated in the field was important, although too much fluid intake meant bathroom breaks and moments of vulnerability. Given his days in the military and on long patrols, Foster had it down to a science. He could sip on water all day and only have to use the bathroom once in the evening, a skill which was especially vital for witness protection. Turning his back for just one instant was an opportunity for someone to get to the target. Foster knew the kind of people they were dealing with on this particular operation.
They were the type who would only need seconds to get the job done.
The 3rd floor Central Park-facing apartment he was standing in had been hired out by the DOJ. He looked at the four other people in the room with him, each keeping themselves occupied. Two of them were his men, US Deputy Marshals Jack Carson and Jared Barlow. Carson was sitting at the kitchen table facing Foster, Barlow across the room to the left and opening up a brown bag of fast food he’d just picked up from down the street. Both of them had a shoulder holster holding a Glock and a pancake holster on their right hip carrying a Heckler and Koch USP and two spare clips.
Foster had worked with Carson for five years and Barlow for four. Being together much of the time meant he’d got to know the two men as if they were family; he knew them inside out. Like any family, they shared some similarities and many differences. Both men were in their early thirties and now unmarried, both were dark-featured, handsome guys and both were pretty damn good at what they did. However, their temperaments were polar opposites, just like the positive and negative signs on a battery. Carson was a light-hearted guy, never slow to crack a joke or a smile, able to lighten the mood on any occasion no matter how serious. Barlow had a much sourer disposition and complained like a landlord with late rent, but Foster didn’t suffer fools. He wouldn’t have had him around unless he could get shit done which is why he was on his team.
Nevertheless, Foster had pulled Barlow to one side about a month ago and told him his attitude needed to change; interestingly, the talk seemed to have had an effect. On this operation he’d been much better, even making a few jokes which had been followed by periods of complete silence, Foster and Carson staring at him, stunned. The jokes hadn’t been funny but hell, for him it was a start.
The trio had either chased down on their own or assisted on 998 warrants and had protected 17 State witnesses from some of the most dangerous people not only in the United States, but also from abroad. Many of the people the Marshals service guarded were involved in the drug trade in some capacity, and the cartels they were betraying would go to hideously violent lengths to ensure their silence. Foster, Carson and Barlow were all in impressive physical shape; they knew how each other thought and how they would each react to a situation, like an NFL quarterback who could pass a ball to his wide receivers without even looking. Hesitation equalled death in their world. Foster couldn’t work with someone he couldn’t totally rely on. For that reason alone, he’d let Barlow complain as he so often liked to do before he’d sorted out his act. He’d stick with a guy he could trust implicitly over someone he didn’t know well ten times out of ten, even if the guy in question could be a pain in the ass.
As the thought crossed his mind, he flicked his eyes over to the third member of his group. She was female, twenty seven years old, with black hair, brown eyes and tanned light brown skin. She was carrying one handgun, not two.
Her name was Deputy Marshal Alice Vargas.
On operations like this, Foster, Carson and Barlow always worked as a three and none of them felt any real empathy towards the newcomer. When he’d been presented with this case, Foster had flat out refused to take on an extra Marshal; to work on a job of this nature you needed to know and trust the team beside you one hundred per cent. One mistake or lapse in judgement could get everyone killed and none of them felt like being saddled with extra weight, especially a hundred and eighteen pound inexperienced woman still in her twenties.
After doing some digging around, Foster had discovered she was also fresh out of the Marshals Academy, which he really wasn’t happy with; not on a task like this. It’s too soon for her, he told his superior, Deputy Supervisor James Dalton. He’d been vehement in his opposition. Many people would have viewed Foster’s attitude as abrasive and unnecessarily hostile but he’d spent his entire adult life either in the army being shot at or chasing down some of the most wanted criminals in the country. It didn’t encourage the warm and fuzzy approach and he sure as hell wasn’t going to risk people’s lives by sparing this girl’s feelings. Trust and experience were like solid gold in these parts.
Hurt feelings could recover. Hurt physical bodies, not so much.
He’d aired his concerns and displeasure at Vargas joining his team when he’d been assigned the case but he’d been told bluntly to shut up and put up. Given the person they were protecting, Dalton felt a female presence was mandatory and ordered Foster to deal with it and ask no further questions.
He shifted his gaze from Vargas and looked over at the last member of the group. She was a seven year old girl named Jennifer who was sitting at the table playing with Carson and Vargas, her feet hanging down from the chair and swinging as she concentrated. Spending prolonged time with some witnesses was like having a tooth gradually pulled, but Foster had spent the last eight days with the girl and had been surprised to find it wasn’t the chore he expected. Some people were born more resilient than others and despite being a kid, the girl certainly had that strength of spirit in spades. She didn’t whine, she didn’t complain and she’d adjusted to her new situation quickly. She was only upset occasionally, and that was where Vargas stepped in, comforting her and distracting her, calming the child down.