“Give us five minutes, then step inside.” Zeke entered and wove through the tables toward the solitary man in the corner, his colleague following a few paces behind.

A hush fell over the bar, as if the other patrons sensed trouble, and a few edged toward the exit.

The only person who appeared oblivious to the sudden tension in the air was Hernandez. He remained slouched in his seat, angled away from the bar, and fixated on the half-filled pilsner glass in front of him.

Zeke stopped at the table and flipped open his creds. “Good evening, Mr. Hernandez.”

The man stared at the badge and ID card Zeke extended. Stiffened.

“We meet again—this time not in a parking garage.” Zeke stowed his ID.

Hernandez glared at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“That’s not what the evidence suggests.” He recited the charges and read the man his rights. “Stand up, turn around, spread your feet, and put your left hand behind your back.”

Hernandez scanned the bar, as if seeking an escape route.

The other agent edged closer, into the man’s line of sight.

A muscle in Hernandez’s cheek twitched—but he remained sitting. “You don’t have grounds to haul me in.”

“We can debate that later. Don’t add resisting arrest to the charges.”

“I want a lawyer.”

“You’re welcome to call one—or a public defender will be assigned to you. Follow the instructions I gave you. Now. Don’t make me repeat them.”

All noise in the bar ceased, and the man’s gaze flicked toward the door.

The police officer must have come inside.

Slowly Hernandez complied, and after a pat-down, Zeke cuffed him.

His colleague pulled out his cell to take a call, and after more listening than talking slid it back on his belt.

“Jones was picked up at the school ten minutes ago. It was a one-man show. He is not a happy camper.”

“I’ll bet.” Zeke directed his next comment to Hernandez. “We also have your friend Jackson Jones in custody.”

The man’s face went blank.

Either he was an excellent actor or the name was unfamiliar to him.

“I don’t know a Jackson Jones.”

“He may go by a different name on the street.” Zeke pulled out his cell and scrolled through his photos for one of the surveillance shots of Jones. Held it out.

Hernandez’s breath hitched—but he otherwise remained cool. “I don’t know him.”

That was a lie.

But they’d have plenty of time to talk about it in the hours ahead.

The agents assigned to handle transport entered and strode toward them. Zeke handed the man over and fell in beside his surveillance partner as they followed the trio out. “What’s next for us?”

“I’m done. The boss said you should call in after the arrest.”

“Meaning I’m not done.”