Shadow Boys Read Online Free Page A

groups of people that you absolutely didn’t screw with, no matter what.
    In order of importance, they were 1) Baptists and 2) the Dallas Cowboys.
    The computer was in the possession of an ex–Dallas Cowboy named Tommy Joe Culpepper, son of the pastor of the Waco Baptist Church in McLennan County. Tommy Joe’s mother was heir to a Permian Basin oil fortune, to boot.
    That’s about as close to royalty as you can get in Texas.
    Tommy Joe, who fancied himself an Internet entrepreneur when he wasn’t nailing divorcées at the country club, had an office in a renovated warehouse that housed tech start-ups and IT companies.
    The building was on Stemmons Freeway, just on the other side of downtown from the School Book Depository. A few minutes after watching Deputy Chief Raul Delgado saunter away from me down the Grassy Knoll, I parked the Navigator between a Ferrari and a Toyota Prius with a Mister Spock bumper sticker.
    I was wearing dark jeans, a black dress shirt, and brown lace-up boots. From the rear of the Lincoln I grabbed a black sport coat and shrugged it on.
    Look the part. A saying of Theo’s. I was trying for Internet-savvy investment banker but likely came across as a Silicon Valley dope dealer. Oh well.
    Tommy Joe’s office was on the ground floor at the back, a large open area with polished concrete floors and exposed wiring so it looked all techy.
    I walked in without knocking and found the Dallas Cowboys’ third-string wide receiver (in 1993) hunched over his desk, tamping a nugget of crystal meth into a pipe.
    “Hello, Tommy Joe.” I smiled.
    He looked up, mouth agape. He was a big guy, six-three or -four, most of the football muscle having gone to fat. He wore a starched white button-down, a gold Rolex, and the Super Bowl ring he got for sitting on the bench and keeping an eye on Michael Irvin’s cocaine stash.
    “My name is Jonathan Cantrell. I’m with the law firm of Goldberg, Finkelman, and Clark.”
    “Whuh?” He frowned.
    “We represent the government of the United States.”
    He put the pipe down.
    The room smelled like burnt ammonia, so it was a safe bet that this wasn’t going to be his first hit of the day. Partially packed moving boxes lay scattered about.
    “You signed a contract,” I said. “With the Department of Immigration and Customs, remember?”
    Several computer-nerd friends of Tommy Joe’s had developed an algorithm to spot likely illegal-alien crossing points. Tommy Joe had formed a company and sold the idea to Uncle Sam. Unfortunately, neither the nerds nor Tommy Joe could deliver. Probably because the algorithms didn’t work out. Too many variables, not enough data points. Who knows? A contributing factor might have been that Tommy Joe was pond scum.
    “The laptop,” I said. “The one they provided you. I need it back.”
    The computer contained government protocols and encryption data for federal contractors, information to be kept secret and returned upon request.
    The Department of Immigration and Customs Enforcement had retained my employers to retrieve the laptop after Tommy Joe had ignored their letters and phone calls.
    He stood up. “I don’t gotta give nothing back.”
    “Yes, you do. Your contract is null and void.”
    His nostrils flared with each breath.
    “Paragraph two, sub-paragraph C,” I said. “Quote: ‘In the event of this agreement being terminated, all properties provided to the contractor are to be returned forthwith.’ End quote.”
    “You know who I am?”
    “You’re the big man on campus.” I shook my head. “But they don’t care about any of that in DC.”
    Tommy Joe came around the side of his desk, face contorted with rage.
    I held up a hand. “Stop.”
    He stopped.
    “I know what you’re thinking right about now, Tommy Joe.”
    He began to hyperventilate. Face purple.
    “You’re thinking you’re a badass and there’s no way you’re gonna let some cat like me waltz in here and tell you what to do.”
    He didn’t say