Warren Rayburn. My long lost lover. It was as if he were standing right in front of me...just like that night. My fingers shook as I reached for the pages Max had printed for me. He tapped the screen. “This is one highly classified dude. There isn’t much on him. DEA. Deep cover agent. That’s about it. Apparently DEA sank his file, professional and personal, about a decade ago.” I nodded mutely, then somehow managed to tear my gaze from the screen to study the pages in my trembling hands. Warren Rayburn. Age thirty-six. Deceased. Any other information was classified. But Max was right. He was DEA. The newspaper articles I’d reviewed the day before zoomed into 3-D focus. Joint task force including the FBI and DEA. I felt sick. Warren Rayburn had come to Houston to work the Disposable case. He’d spent that night with me and somehow the next morning he was gone...dead. My gaze dropped back to the words on the page. If this was correct he had died the same day the two suspects were gunned down. The day before DEA Agent McElroy had offed himself. Did one death of a DEA agent even have anything to do with the other? Jesus, just how many people died in that forty-eight hour period?
