by RC Boldt
Thomasino continues. “It wasn’t supposed to turn into what it did. No one expected it to turn into something of this scale. But you’re recognizable now. You won’t be able to live your life the same, especially not keeping your last name.”
“Yes, sir.” My answer is succinct while I suppress the undeniable realization that my life will never be the same.
I’ll never be the same.
He rises from his chair, and I follow suit.
“When this heads to court, we’ll need you in top form.” With a nod, he exits the room, and I follow, prepared to check my desk for any messages before I head to my psych eval.
Before I near my desk, I spot Penman chatting with one of my colleagues. The men shake hands before Penman begins walking away, so I change direction. With a few quick strides, I’m a mere few feet away from him.
“Excuse me, sir?”
Penman stops, fierce expression in place, eyes hard, and he inspects me without a word. “Wright.”
“I wondered the outcome of your agents, sir. It wasn’t mentioned. Were they injured?”
Features tightening with suspicion, he offers a curt nod. “They’re accounted for. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to the office.”
He turns, leaving me to rack my brain at who the hell he had on the inside this entire time.
61
Olivia
Three Weeks Later…
Compiling my documentation for the case has been tedious but necessary. Both agencies agreed to meet and discuss our separate reports before compiling a single detailed report.
Our expectation is that it will ease the process for the US attorneys tasked with preparing the trial to get underway. Rumor has it, they’re intent on trying to fast-track the process as much as possible.
Supervisory Special Agent Thomasino called a meeting for our department prior to our scheduled sit-down with Deputy Special Agent in Charge Penman and his agents.
“This’ll be the case of the century. We’re putting all manpower into this so neither of our agencies come out of it with a black eye. And how do we do that?”
No one speaks because we all know it’s a rhetorical question.
“By not leaking a goddamn thing to the press.” He slams his fist on the oblong conference room table. “I better not hear a whisper of this when you’re in the restroom. Not one word about this case leaves this office. Understood?”
Collective Yes, sirs sound.
“As of right now”—he taps his watch—“if you don’t think you can keep your mouth shut about this case, you need to take a damn sabbatical from talking altogether.”
Silence descends the room with the heavy realization of what’s at stake.
“We’ve got intel and enough evidence to put these assholes away for life, and if it gets out that one of you compromised this case…” He trails off ominously, taking the time to glare at each of us and let the implication sink in. After a pregnant pause, he nods toward the door. “Everyone’s dismissed.”
I fall into line behind the others filing out when Thomasino clears his throat. “Wright? A word, please.”
Stepping from the throng of colleagues, I venture closer to where he stands, and he gestures for me to take a seat at the table. Once the last person exits the room, he closes the door behind him.
He strides back to the head of the table, slides out the rolling chair, and settles into his seat with a sigh. But it’s not a sigh I’m necessarily used to hearing from him—at least not when directed at me.
This one instantly puts me on edge as tension pulsates through me.
Resting his elbows on the table, he steeples his fingers and eyes my arm. “You look like you’re healed up.”
Wariness seeps into my bones. “I am. Stitches are out, and it’s getting better every day.” It helps that I don’t have the annoyance of wearing the sling, either.
His gaze turns speculative as he assesses my expression. “You getting enough sleep?”
I swallow hard and shrug. “Yes, sir.” And that much is true. I’m getting enough sleep in order to function.
But, dammit, I can’t divulge the reason for my appearance. For my dull, lifeless eyes or the dark circles that concealer evidently doesn’t do a good enough job of masking.
I can’t confess that there’s a gaping hole in my chest where my heart once was. That it’s because I fell in love with Nico Alcanzar, Miami’s prominent drug cartel leader.
I can’t reveal that I cry each night until my ribs ache from the heaving sobs, wishing Nico’s last memory of me wasn’t betrayal, but of me finally telling him that I love him.
Drumming his fingers on the smooth surface of the table once, twice, and a third time, he stops abruptly. His brows descend, lips flattening. “I’ll only ask this once. You put everything in your report as it happened, correct?”
Why is he asking me this? “Yes, sir.”
“Because any discrepancies in your account could cost us.”
I nod. “I understand.” Swallowing hard, I ensure my expression gives nothing away. “I documented everything accordingly.”
I offer a silent plea to whatever gods might be listening. Please tell me the DEA agents didn’t divulge anything that happened between Nico and me. I’m grateful Agent Harper hadn’t included his accusations of me “whoring myself out” to Nico in any prior reports. Hell, I don’t know how I’d even begin to talk my way out of that.
“Well…I didn’t deem it pertinent to mention that I fell in love with Nico Alcanzar and had sex with him multiple times because I intended to turn him in, regardless of my feelings.”
Thomasino stares at me for a beat before giving a sharp nod. Shoving out of his chair, he straightens and slides his hands in the pockets of his suit pants.
“Your report was thorough. You did good, but there’s still a ton of work ahead.” With a stern expression, he adds, “And remember, we’re meeting in their offices on Thursday. Conference Room B. Don’t be late.”
He leaves the room, and I remain seated, grateful to be alone in silence. On a slow exhale, I halfheartedly hope to ease some of the tension that’s been plaguing me, but it’s no use.
My eyes snag on the third chair from the left, facing the door. It’s where I sat in this very room months earlier. My mind replays part of the conversation that took place.
✦✦✦✦
FBI Pre-Planning Session
Operation Campus Crackdown
“With her background, she’s the best candidate for this operation.” Special Agent in Charge Kramer declares this to my colleague Special Agent Stephen Harper once again.
My other colleague—one who doesn’t find me to be lacking in usefulness—skewers Harper with his icy blue gaze. Tim Rives, a former Army Ranger sniper, is unquestionably a loner and tends to be the more strong, silent type. But when he chooses to make himself heard, his responses are always well-worded and meaningful.
Harper is like a rabid dog, refusing to back down. “But she’s not a fucking field agent! The closest thing she’s come to a live operation is the reports we file after the fact.” He slaps his hand to the center of his chest vehemently. “Why am I given the leftovers? As an experienced agent, I shouldn’t be reduced to just monitoring surveillance.”
The twitch at the outer corner of Kramer’s left eye is the only indication he’s irritated by Agent Harper’s complaints.
“Wright’s work has been pivotal in many of our cases. Plus, as a criminal psychologist, she’s the perfect person to be there to read people, which is what we need there at the university.
“We also don’t need someone who’ll be obvious; we need someone who’ll blend in and not even register on their radar. Who can read both the situation and people.”
“She’s perfect for this.” Tim’s muted but firm tone elicits Kramer’s nod of affirmation.
Harper’s cheeks flush with anger, his eyes narrowing to slits. “I have a shit ton more field experience, but sure, send
her in. I’m sure with her skirts and her pretty face, you’ll have it all wrapped up in no time.” He lets out a derisive snort, muttering under his breath, “Perfect for this case, my ass.”
Kramer pins him with a sharp look, and I barely maintain my composure. Harper’s been…off these past few months, and I attributed it to the breakup of his marriage, but this attitude is pure bullshit.
As if an afterthought, Harper leans toward the table, his eyes clashing with mine. “What happens if shit hits the fan? Have you thought of that?” His lip curls in a sneer. “Have you shot a firearm outside of training? Doubtful you know more than basic competence.”
Before I can answer, Tim speaks up. “She’s beyond competent.” His voice is deep, and though it’s his usual hushed tone, it somehow always possesses a commanding quality. “I’ve taught her myself.”
I stiffen at the disclosure, but it’s not out of shame. Once I relocated here and then learned of his background, I’d asked Tim for a recommendation on shooting ranges in the area. The astute man that he is, perhaps he recognized a fellow loner when I approached him.
A sniper with a mountain of accolades from his time as a Ranger, he’s conditioned to study individuals and his surrounding environment.
Individuals like Tim tend to view things differently—similar to someone in my profession—and it may have been that kinship that had him take me under his wing and work with me at the shooting range.
He went above and beyond to train me to react sensibly and with precision, regardless of what the situational stress might be.
“The psychology department is already short a professor who’s on maternity leave and doesn’t plan to return. Wright’s knowledge and experience in this field will allow her to gain access to the department’s facilities and become acquainted with Dean Harrod.” Kramer’s tone bodes no arguments, and Harper sits back in his chair with his arms crossed, jaw clenched tight.
Kramer addresses me. “We’re putting you in as who you are because we can’t create a backstory as flawless as your background already is. Since you have years of university teaching experience, this will be something that comes naturally to you. We’ll provide you with a cell phone and laptop, accordingly—everything you’ll need to fit the part.
“You’ll be there to observe and report, so no risk is involved. Since you’re simply another professor, no one will view you as a threat. Nothing in your background will cause a blip on anyone’s radar.
“Of course, we’re removing all traces of your employment with us. That way, if someone does decide to do some digging, they won’t discover your link to the agency. As far as anyone’s concerned, the brief gap in employment was when you took a sabbatical for research.”
Kramer hesitates, fiddling with his pen, evidently wrestling with how to phrase his next sentiment.
“Though we don’t see a need for you to have an alias since this isn’t a high-risk operation, there’s always a chance that something throws a wrench in our plans. Meaning, you may end up having to change your name and relocate, if necessary. We’ve already discussed this, but as final disclosure, you do understand the rare possibility and repercussions, correct?”
I nod, ignoring Harper as he practically stares a fiery hole into my flesh. “Yes, sir.”
Kramer sighs. “You hold an advantage, because if that should happen”—he holds up a hand as if to stop Harper from a further interruption—“the positive is that you won’t be putting anyone at risk since you don’t have children or family or a significant other—it’s just you.”
Assaulted by the sensation of being kicked in the gut, I press my lips in a flat line, attempting to stifle it. Though Kramer speaks frankly, it still drives home the undeniable fact I don’t have anyone in my life.
I don’t have a best friend. There’s no husband or even a potential one. I have no family to speak of. If I had to “disappear” because of this investigation, there wouldn’t be anyone mourning me afterward.
I direct my attention to the file and force myself to regain composure. “Everything I’ve read refers to the suspicions of both the dean and chancellor having a hand in smuggling drugs through the university. There are rumors they’re affiliated with one of the cartels, but nothing’s been substantiated. My plan is to study the men’s routines and see who they interact with—”
Harper cuts in abruptly. “I think I should also be in on this—in a more direct position—since Wright’s prior experience with operations has been on a much smaller scale.” His arctic gaze bores into me. “And when I say smaller, I mean nonexistent.”
Resisting the urge to grind my molars, I ignore Harper’s attempt to insert himself in this operation and address Kramer. “I also think it’s prudent to fit the role of an unassuming university professor and not carry a weapon, nor store one in the cover house.”
Kramer grimaces, but before he can protest, I rush on. “If you think about it, the role I’m playing needs to be reinforced. I’m simply an academic-minded individual who tends to be a loner whose life revolves around her job.”
When Harper mumbles, “Not exactly a stretch,” I level him with a frigid glare. I hope it conveys how much I’d like to fuck up his pretty-boy face in a dark alley.
From eyes that stare daggers at me, paired with the way he discreetly scratches his eyebrow with his middle finger, I’d say I achieved it.
My superior visibly wavers, and of course, Harper goes in for the kill. “I could be on staff in a nearby department. If I’m around as another set of eyes, then you won’t have to worry as much about Wright.”
This time, I do grind my molars. Perhaps Harper should be more concerned with protecting himself at this point.
Kramer appears to mull over the idea for a moment. “I want Wright to go in alone.”
My shoulders relax. But it’s short-lived because then Kramer tacks on, “At least initially. I’ll finalize this with Thomasino.”
✦✦✦✦
Rapid-fire images emblazoned in my mind assault me, fast-forwarding to six months after that meeting.
Of José shooting Harper before turning his gun on me.
Of Nico shooting José to save me even after I betrayed him.
As if I’ve ingested fire, my lungs burn from the anguish that whips through me. It seeps into every fiber of my being while sharp daggers of regret pierce my heart.
Nico Alcanzar tried to save me even after he discovered my true identity.
The man I love drew his last breath on a cold concrete floor.
And I’m to blame.
62
Olivia
EARLY THURSDAY MORNING
A swift rap of knuckles against the edge of my desk has my head snapping up to find Tim hovering.
“You okay?” Concern flickers over my co-worker’s features. “I said your name twice and you didn’t even budge.”
I rise from the chair and force a smile. “Just tired.”
“We need to get going. Can’t be late for the meeting.”
With a nod, I gather my messenger bag prepared with my file, legal pad, and pen, and stuff my laptop inside.
“You sure you’re okay?”
When I meet his gaze, I falter in my answer. “I’m just…”
“I get it. Coming off a case is tough.”
The former sniper is more of a lone wolf, which is something I can commiserate with. I crave the courage to confide in him, but I can’t. It would compromise far too much, including my reputation.
Once we’re through the DEA office’s security check-in, every step that brings me closer to the designated conference room increases my curiosity at the expected discovery of who they had on the inside of the Alcanzar cartel.
With a few minutes to spare before the meeting’s slated start time, Tim and I step inside the large room and take our seats nearby Thomasino and Kramer. Penman is off to one corner, speaking in a hushed tone on his cell phone.
There’s a clear distinction as to which end of the tabl
e is FBI and which is DEA; each individual wears a name badge identifying them as such, and we sit at opposite ends of the table.
Once Penman ends his call, he clears his throat. Striding to stand behind his chair, he glances at his watch with a furrowed brow. Addressing Thomasino, he says, “My guys are running behind, but they’ll be here shortly.”
Once I’ve ensured my laptop is ready, I allow my mind to wander once again to Nico.
Yes, he was a criminal, but he showed me that he had another side. I’m not saying it outweighed all of his faults and the life choices he made, but dammit, his tender, sweeter, more human side seemed untainted and even vulnerable at times.
It’s that other side that has me harboring colossal guilt over what happened with him—to him. There was good in him. Perhaps I’ve morphed into the kind of woman who believes she can change a man with her love. Maybe that’s all it is. But damn if there isn’t a part of me that fervently believes he might’ve chosen a different path if we’d met at another time in our lives.
I press my fingers to the center of my chest to assuage the seemingly never-ending ache there. As if I’m not shouldering enough, Tim’s my only colleague not treating me like a leper now that word’s spread of my connection to Santilla. Others have refuted the evidence that Harper was a dirty agent and double-crossed me.
Tim pitches his voice low, hushed so as not to be overheard by the others. “Hey.” Once I lift my gaze to his, he murmurs, “Don’t let ’em get to you.”
I nod and avert my eyes, focusing instead on a nick along the edge of the conference room table. The words spill out in a whisper before I realize it. “I want out.” My body jolts, but whether it be from the cathartic admission I’ve been mulling over or the shock of voicing it aloud, I’m not certain.
“Wright.”
