Jim Cobb had been an FBI agent for nearly four years, the whole time stuck down here in Miami, following different suspects as part of the SOG, or Special Operations Group. What sounded like a great assignment had turned into the most monotonous, mind-numbing task ever invented. All he did, with a squad of other agents, was follow people. No arrests. No investigation. Just surveillance. Following people running errands, meeting other mopes and mainly going about their lives-while he wasted his. Now he was doing the same thing. Watching this guy who just gave a missile to the main suspect, Bernie Dashett, while everyone else got to kick ass and take names.

Cobb heard over the radio that the deal had just gone down. He knew the arrest team would be over here in the next few minutes and decided he needed to do something to make a name for himself. He could see the guy who’d handed off the missile, wandering in and out of a small, detached garage. If he pulled up nice and easy to the street, he could cut across the yard and get the drop on the man before he even knew anyone was on the property.

As Cobb watched the man move around, he couldn’t resist the urge to jump in and make the arrest. His bosses might be so impressed they’d bump him over to counterterrorism or some other high-profile assignment. He’d have to come up with a reason why he’d acted alone. He thought about it and decided that he could always say it looked like the man was about to drive away. That’s why he’d made the arrest without backup.

Cobb checked the black belly bag that held his Glock model 23. He unzipped it and checked the compact.40-caliber pistol. He pulled a set of handcuffs off the car’s brake release, where he always stored two sets. Putting the car in drive, he eased off the curve and slowly headed right for the house. He could feel his heart rate climb. This was only his fourth actual arrest where the defendant hadn’t surrendered at the U.S. Marshals’ office at the courthouse.

He parked the car casually without squealing the tires or turning on his blue light. That was a little disappointing, but he knew he had to keep it calm. He stepped out of the car and then up the slight slope of the side yard to the carport. His hand was shaking as he unzipped his pouch and slowly drew his Glock. He kept his eyes on the door to the garage and started to creep toward it.

Just as he got to the door, he heard someone say, “Excuse me, can I help you?”

Cobb spun to see the man he had been watching standing at the rear of the garage. He must have walked out the other side while Cobb made his way over.

Cobb raised his gun and placed the sights at the center mass of the man, right at his chest. “FBI, on the ground.” The man looked stunned, so Cobb added, “Now!”

The man complied, falling straight to the hard cement floor of the carport with his arms naturally splaying out. Cobb knew he just had to wait till the troops arrived. He was gonna be a star.

By the time Tasker and the others arrived at the house in Naranja, an FBI agent already had the homeowner in custody.

Tasker walked up to the little detached garage. “What’s the scoop?” he asked the lone FBI man standing next to a cuffed man on the ground.

“I’m Cobb, FBI. Didn’t want to risk this guy giving us the slip, so I nabbed him.”

“You sure he gave Dashett the package?”

“Saw it myself. Into the bed of the truck.”

Tasker nodded. He turned to the man on his stomach with his hands secured behind his back and asked, “What’s your name?”

The man was obviously angry. “Daniel Wells.”

“Okay, Dan…”

“The name is Daniel.”

Tasker shrugged. “Okay, Daniel, you wanna tell us what’s going on?”

“I think you need to tell me.” His face changed different shades of red as he spoke.

Cobb said, “We don’t have to tell you shit.”

Veins popped out in the man’s head. “I tell ya, I got nothing to do with this. You’ve got the wrong man.”

Cobb snickered. “Yeah, I heard that before. But at least you admit something is goin’ on.”

Wells, in cuffs, twisted his head toward Tasker, apparently looking for a more reasonable person. “This is wrong. This man says I gave someone a missile. I’ve never even seen a missile.”

Cobb answered before Tasker could say anything. “It doesn’t matter if you ever saw a missile or not. I have. Today, about twenty minutes ago. You fucking gave it to the redneck in the exterminating truck.”

“Bernie Dashett? I didn’t give him a missile.” His face was now into stages of purple and he looked close to the edge.

Now Tasker squatted next to the man. “Catch your breath there, Daniel.” He patted him on the back. “Why was Bernie Dashett over here?”

Before he could explain, a blond woman with a little girl in her arms and a boy about six came out of the house.

“What’s going on?” She looked to Wells on the ground.

Cobb, the FBI agent barked, “Shut up or you’ll be in cuffs, too.”

She stared at him.

He added, “And your kids will go to Child Services.”

Tasker saw Camy and Sutter arriving. “Let’s calm down and we’ll sort this mess out.”

Cobb said, “Nothing to sort out. I saw the exchange, and this guy”-he kicked Wells in the leg-“is listed as an associate to a domestic terror group.”

Tasker nodded. If the man on the ground was a terrorist and they’d gotten a missile from him, they were doing all right.

Tasker asked the young FBI agent, “How do you know about the terror link?”

“I called the address into our office while I waited for the deal. They came up with his name and then a photo of him at some white supremacist summit at a restaurant.”

Tasker looked at the FBI man, then down at the handcuffed prisoner. Cobb added, “Besides, he’s under arrest. Let’s get him to the Marshals and sort this out after we eat.”

Jimmy Lail bopped up from his souped-up Honda and said, “All right, dawg.” Camy gave Tasker a hug and he started to feel pretty good until he noticed the sobbing wife and kids by the back door, watching the still-protesting Wells being dragged to a waiting FBI vehicle.

The phone kept ringing even after Bill Tasker woke up, making him realize it wasn’t a dream. He reached across to the nightstand and fumbled with the receiver.

“Hello.” He sounded like an old frog with throat cancer.

“Long night?” asked a female.

“Kinda.” He waited to identify the voice, then realized it had to be his ex-wife, Donna. “What’s up? The girls okay?”

“Just making sure you remembered I was dropping them off about six.”

“Can’t wait.”

“How’s everything with you?”

Tasker wanted to make a comment about her recent reversal on their relationship, but let it slide. “Good, good. Made a big case yesterday. I bought an air-to-air missile.”

Donna said, “Wow, that is big. I saw in the Post that the FBI bought one, too. Are there that many floating around?”

“Where’d the FBI do it?”

“ Cutler Ridge.”

The FBI had started their normal bullshit again.

Tasker joined Sutter in a booth at the Denny’s on Thirty-sixth Street. Sutter always tried to eat in the city. It gave him a sense of security to be in his town, or at least that is what he said. Tasker just figured he liked the half-priced meals.

“You see the news?” asked Tasker.

Sutter, his eyes still at half-mast, said calmly, “Big deal. They stole the credit, what else is new?”

“Doesn’t it piss you off?”

“Did they frame you for any crime?”

“No.”

“Did any of them shoot me?”

“No.”

“Then we’re doing better than our last case with them.” He sipped his coffee. “I’m more interested in that fine little ATF girl, Camilla Parker Bowles.”