Necessary Action. Julie Miller

illegal arms business being run behind the bucolic tranquility of this tree-lined farming and tourist commune. Playing his part convincingly was vital to any undercover op.

      So he scooped up the army-issue duffel bag that had been taken from him and strode over to the porch, where Baldy had retreated to stand in front of his boss, Henry Fiske. Duff nodded toward the keys, wallet, gun and sheathed hunting knife lying on the gray planks, where the man with the shaved head sat in front of the railing, panting through his smug grin. Removing the weapons from his bag and identification from his pockets when the big man had patted him down and gone through his things had given Duff reason to start the fight in the first place, solidifying his tough-guy character in front of a lot of witnesses. “I’ll be taking those.”

      Baldy rose to his feet, looking ready, willing and eager to go another round with him. “I don’t think so, Sergeant Loser,” he taunted.

      He heard a few worried whispers moving through the onlookers as he and Baldy faced off. But the man on the porch, Henry Fiske, raised his hand and quieted them. “Not to worry, folks. We’re just gettin’ acquainted. Had a bit of a misunderstanding that we’ll work out.” He gestured to the uniformed man standing near the end of the porch. “Besides, we’ve got Sheriff Cobb here. So nothing bad’s gonna happen. Go back to your cars or get to shoppin’.” He tipped his nose and sniffed the air. “I smell fresh baked goods y’all aren’t going to want to miss.”

      With murmurs of approval and relief, most of the touristy types separated from the crowd and headed toward the shops on the property. But others—the men and women who lived and worked on the vast complex, perhaps—merely tightened their circle around Duff and the front of the house. Why weren’t they dispersing as ordered? What did they know that Duff didn’t?

      “You’ve got everything under control, Henry?” the sheriff asked.

      “I do.”

      “Then I’ll be headin’ back into town.” He gently elbowed the sturdy, fiftysomething blonde woman beside him. “I just drove out to get some of Phyllis’s tasty cooking. My wife doesn’t fix anything like this for dessert.”

      The woman waved off the compliment and turned to follow the tourists. “Come on, Sterling. I’ll pack a box of goodies to take with you.”

      That’s why the Hanover County sheriff hadn’t been included in the task force working this case. Either Sterling Cobb was being paid to overlook any transgressions here, or the portly man who’d refused to step in and break up a fight was afraid, incompetent or both.

      “Ain’t nobody here to back you up, Sergeant Loser,” Baldy taunted as soon as the sheriff was out of earshot. “You still want to give me trouble?”

      In real life, Duff had been an officer, not a noncom, and he bristled at the dig. But he was playing a part here on behalf of KCPD and the joint task force he was working for. His fake dossier said he’d enlisted out of high school and had seen heavy action in the Middle East, which had left him disillusioned, antisocial and a perfect fit for the homegrown mafia allegedly running arms into Kansas City.

      Like the guns that had been used to shoot up his sister’s wedding and put his grandfather in the hospital.

      Duff had to play this just right. Because he was not leaving until he had not only the job, but the trust—or at least the respect—of the people here so that he could work his way into Fiske’s inner circle. He’d need that freedom of movement around the place to gather the intel that could put Fiske and the operation he was running out of business.

      Although his mission briefing for this joint task force undercover op between KCPD, the Missouri Bureau of Investigation and the ATF hadn’t mentioned any welcome-to-the-family beat down, Duff had worked undercover enough that he knew how to think on his feet. He’d originally thought this assignment had more to do with his familiarity with the terrain of the Ozark Mountains, where he’d spent several summers camping, hunting and fishing. But he also knew how to handle himself in a fight. And if that’s what the job called for, he’d milk his tough-guy act for all it was worth.

      He stepped into Baldy’s personal space and picked up the Glock 9mm in its shoulder holster, stuffing both it and the knife inside his duffel bag. He kept his gaze focused on Baldy’s dark eyes as he retrieved the ring of keys and wallet with his false IDs and meager cash. Interesting. Baldy’s jaw twitched as though he wanted to resume the fight, but the man standing above them on the porch seemed to have his enforcer on a short leash.

      “In town you told me I had a job here at the farm if I wanted it.” He shifted his stance as Baldy spit at that promise and pushed to his feet. There had to be somebody here he could make friends with to get the inside scoop. Clearly, it wasn’t going to be Baldy. “Tell him to back off. You said you needed a man who knew something about security. I didn’t realize you offered blood sport as one of your tourist attractions.”

      “I believe you were the one to throw the first punch, Mr. Maynard.” Fiske gestured to the people waiting for the outcome of this confrontation. “We all saw it. Silas was defending himself.”

      Henry Fiske might have looked unremarkable in any other setting. He was somewhere in his fifties, with silvering sideburns growing down to his jaw and into his temples. He wore overalls and a wide-brimmed straw hat that marked him as a man who worked the land. The guy even had an indulgent smile for the platinum blonde leaning against the post beside him. The aging rodeo queen would be his wife, Abby. Despite Fiske’s friendly drawl, Duff had seen the cold expectation that his authority would not be challenged in eyes like Fiske’s before.

      So, naturally, Duff challenged it. He swung his duffel bag onto his shoulder. “I’m out of here.”

      “Don’t let the muck on my boots fool you, Mr. Maynard. I’m a businessman.” Duff kept walking. “A lot of money and traffic pass through here in the summertime, making us a target for thieves and vandals. Hanover is a big county for the sheriff to patrol, and since we’re a remote location, we’re often forced to be self-sufficient. It’s my responsibility to see the property and people here stay safe.” A mother pulled a curious toddler out of the way and the crowd parted to let him pass toward the gravel parking lot in front of the metal buildings where he’d parked his truck. “I needed to see if your skills are as good as you claim. You don’t exactly come with reputable references.”

      “The US Army isn’t a good enough reference for you?” Duff halted and turned, reminding Fiske of the forged document that was part of the identification packet the task force had put together for him to establish his undercover identity—Sergeant Thomas “Duff” Maynard. His army service was real, but the medical discharge and resulting mental issues that made him a bad fit for “normal” society had been beefed up as part of his undercover profile.

      “I trust what I see with my own eyes. Silas?” Henry Fiske called the big man back into action and gave a sharp nod in a different direction.

      The crowd shifted again as a second man approached from the right. This twentysomething guy was as lanky as Silas was overbuilt. But the scar on his sunburned cheek indicated he knew his way around a brawl. So this was what the crowd had been waiting for—a two-on-one grudge match. This wasn’t any different than a gang initiation in the city. If Fiske wanted Duff to prove he had hand-to-hand combat skills, then prove it he would.

      Duff pulled the duffel bag from his shoulder and swung it hard as Skinny Guy charged him. The heavy bag caught the younger man square in the gut and doubled him over. He swung again, smashing the kid in the face before dropping the bag and bracing for Baldy’s attack. The big man named Silas grabbed Duff from behind, pinning his arms to his sides. He hoped Baldy had a good grip on him because he used him as a backboard to brace himself and kick out when Skinny Guy rushed him a second time. His boot connected with the other man’s chin and snapped his head back, knocking him on his butt. Utilizing his downward momentum, Duff planted his feet and twisted, throwing Baldy off his back.

      But the big guy wasn’t without skills. He hooked his boots around Duff’s legs and rolled, pulling him off balance. The grass softened the jolt to