by S. D. Skye
“So, Mr. Cartwright—”
“Please, Jim.”
“So, Mr. Cartwright, you’re implying that if I performed my job poorly, I’d be eligible for promotion?” J.J. eyed him with a skeptical gaze.
He leaned back in his seat, heaved a long sigh, and shook his head. “Really? That’s how you’re going to carry this? You know that’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then I’m confused,” she said snidely. Her eyebrows scrunched in feigned bewilderment.
“Honest to God, my hands are tied. I just can’t help you right now,” he pleaded, almost as frustrated as she. He clearly wanted to assist but couldn’t. “You wouldn’t believe the stress I’m under. I’m on my last leg here, J.J. I could crash and burn at any minute.”
She braced for the sensation, but none came.
“You’re right, sir. I wouldn’t believe it.” She looked at her watch and then at Jim. “I really hate to cut this short, but I’m running late. Donato and I are supervising an op today. Are we finished here?”
Cartwright’s face burned red with what appeared to be frustration as he nodded. “But before you go, hear me out. We’ve known each other for years. Don’t think I don’t understand what you’re going through. Jack is...well...Jack. I’ll make good on my promise to help you if it’s the last thing I do, but I’m certain you’re onto something major, maybe the biggest case of your career. You’ve got to promise me you’ll hang in there a little longer.”
She pursed her lips. He wouldn’t allow her to quit, and she didn’t understand why. She had a job to do, one he apparently needed her to finish. “You know me. I won’t leave until my job is done. But, frankly, you’ll never understand my predicament,” she said, standing to leave. “The core of your humanity will never endure this kind of challenge. We, as minority FBI agents spend every damn day defending rights that we are still fighting to fully enjoy right here at the F-B-One. Don’t you see? When all goes according to plan today, we will get the answers we need. And when this case is over, so is my career.”
He grunted as J.J. huffed and turned to leave.
“They won’t let you resign, J.J.”
His words stopped her cold. She turned back toward him. His face had turned pale. “Excuse me? Let me resign?”
“They need Viktor Plotnikov and he won’t work with anyone but you.”
“I beg your pardon, but I don’t need the Bureau’s permission to quit.”
“But you’ll need your reputation. The FBI’s reach is far and wide in the investigative community. You know what they’ll do. And let’s face facts, you don’t work well with rules. You’ve given them plenty of ammunition to leverage,” he said, his face now unnaturally colored as if he’d decided to hold his breath until she relented.
She whipped her head toward the door and willed her feet to follow.
“Ahhhhggggghhhh!” Mr. Cartwright yelled out.
Her head snapped back toward him. His entire body shook; his face turned a deep red and finally blue. He collapsed against the back of the chair then his body slid onto the floor.
“Mr. Cartwright!”
She dashed to his seat, watching his body thrash like a caught fish. White foam formed on the edges of his lips, and the veins in his crimson-colored neck bulged above his collar.
J.J. kicked his chair toward the wall, dragged his desk across the floor. Another inch closer and he’d have a concussion. She forced her hands under his back and flipped him onto his side. If he was going to choke, it’d be by her hand and hers alone.
“Mrs. Slater! Call the nurse!” J.J. yelled to Mr. Cartwright’s secretary praying she’d returned. “It’s Mr. Cartwright! He’s having a seizure!”
She heard a faint reply. Fortunately, FBI Headquarters had a small medical facility for such emergencies.
J.J.’s heart thumped through her chest as she watched his hopeless flail subside. She knelt down beside him and put his head on her lap, felt as if a million minutes had passed. The faint sound of harried footsteps padded closer.
“It’s gonna be okay, Mr. Cartwright. Help is on the way.” She wiped the sweat from his brow. Her hands trembled more than usual, but she attributed that to the moment’s intensity not the more likely cause. “And the next time I don’t believe you, Jim, you can just swear on the Bible. This was overkill.”
A weak grin struggled to part his lips.
Time had changed nothing in the FBI. And J.J. had a double dose of the Bureau’s glass-ceiling blues. She was a minority to the second power—black and a woman. Every single day she’d begin at square one, proving herself the next day as if she’d done nothing the day before. Work twice as hard, be twice as good, to earn half the respect. The stodgy old white males who ruled Russian counterintelligence in the FBI? They didn’t give a damn about equality. And the youthful ones were too naive to perceive the lack of it.
Her stellar record was mandatory.
Mistakes a liability.
In a long, slow, faith-shaking siege, she buckled under the weight everyone’s expectations, as well as her own misguided belief that she must achieve perfection at all personal costs. She could not fail her sources. She could not fail her co-case agent. She could not fail her mother’s legacy. She could not fail the hundreds of agents who might someday like to walk on the ground she’d broken. And on the many days, like this one, when she felt like utter shit, she could not afford to feel anything other than “okay.”
J.J. and Tony would soon nail the bastard. The next in an infamous line of treacherous snakes—Aldrich Ames, Earl Pitts, Robert Hanssen, and the new son of a bitch—ICE Phantom. Three years’ worth of investigation rode on Karat making the drop. If he delivered as promised, J.J. would draft her last and final resignation letter—and this one she fully intended deliver. She’d free herself from the stifling space beneath the glass ceiling and lift off to soar on untested wings to a destination unknown.
Chapter 3
Thursday Afternoon…
Her thoughts churned, nerves constricted. The Cartwright episode shook her.
Everything’s under control. Everything’s under control, she told herself.
She didn’t need a drink that second. She just wanted it. As far as she was concerned, until she needed it, she had no drinking problem. She dug in her pant pocket and pulled out the half-eaten pack.
Doublemint gum.
That would do the trick.
Tony didn’t buy her logic, but she did. He was a fine Jersey Italian and his accent was as strong as his proclivity for beautiful women. J.J. was no exception. His striking deep-set dark baby browns and toned rippled physique did little to help J.J. maintain her professionalism. And with a nose like a bloodhound, Tony wouldn’t miss a beat.
She promised him she’d slow down too many times before. This was no time to blow the appearance of propriety. She quickened her pace to the office, each step heavy and purposeful. Then she drew in a few calming breaths before placing her hand on the doorknob. Once the door opened, she’d step back into the fray. With the promotion board’s decision, she’d approach the day’s mission with a new goal.
The Espionage Unit was half empty as most agents were out running down leads. But her co-case agent Tony Donato was standing there waiting for her, holding a steaming cup of java in his hand. He beamed a bright smile, clearly deluding himself that life was fair.
It wasn’t.
When she didn’t reciprocate, Tony slipped into the empty chair beside her desk. She eyed him briefly and then avoided his gaze. She hated the look of pity, didn’t need it either.
“So, uhhh, how’d it go?” Tony asked, his expression warm, attentive. The wicked slant in her eyes and pasted on grin betrayed the put-on bounce in her voice. “It seems congratulations are in order, for both of us. You’re still in the running for the supervisor slot.”
He didn’t flinch, avoided eye contact.
She turned to him and didn’t budge until he faced her. “You knew?”
“W
ell...I’d heard something from one of my boys while you were gone.”
“What? What did you hear?”
“Uhhhhh…”
“Come on, Tony.”
“Well, uh, two things really. First, the board, they know you’ve got heart and you’re loyal, which makes you a great recruiter. But they...they think you’re soft. In a life and death situation, they wonder if you’re strong enough to pull the trigger. They want a supervisor who can make the tough choices, who will pull the trigger.”
She sat blank-faced.
“I don’t think they mean it literally but...”
“I know exactly what they mean.” She rolled her eyes.
Any excuse would do. Pull the trigger. Make the tough choices. All buzzwords for we’d prefer to have a white male in the position instead of J.J. But she refused to play the race card. Filing a complaint would only sully her stellar reputation in the too small and tight-knit federal law enforcement community. Those perceived as stirring up trouble were ostracized. She’d need her contacts when she started her own firm.
“Will you accept the supervisor slot if they offer?” she whispered.
“Me? No fuckin’ way. I’d rather take one in the head than be a supervisor, especially in this place. Too many freakin’ headaches.”
“Well, as soon as this operation is over today, I’m done. Finito. Finished.”
He caught his breath. Surprise didn’t quite convey his reaction as far as J.J. could see. Perhaps it was disappointment. Or fear. Yes, J.J. had been frustrated for some time; he probably assumed she’d take the hit on the chin. She always did. Resigning obviously wasn’t the trigger he wanted her to pull. “J.J., I’m not gonna let you quit. I know you’re pissed right now, but if you quit that jerk-off Sabinski wins. Cartwright’s gotta make good on his word.”
“Tony, you know as well as I that I’m playing this tired game with two sets of rules, neither of which weigh in my favor. Whadaya gonna do?” She playfully mimicked his Jersey accent. No emotional eruptions as usual, just dispassionate, flat, didn’t give a damn. She had one foot out the door, and her sense of duty couldn’t hold her hostage much longer. Not if she was determined to go.
He studied her face and leaned in, warmth emanating from his body. “Are you...okay, J.J.?”
She locked her eyes on his. “I’m . . . okay.”
He sniffed. “You didn’t take any—”
“I’m fine!” she snapped, her first impulse. Then her gaze softened. It always did when she looked at him. “I’m sorry, really, but we’ve got more important things to discuss. Karat is afraid Golikov’s people might be on to him, we need Jake on this op today. I presume he’s in the conference room?”
Jake McGee was one of the best Gs in the Special Support Group—the FBI’s eyes and ears. They kept a close eye on the Bureaus spies, terrorists, and high-value targets, lurking from the shadows. But when the Bureau wanted the target to know they were there, they knew.
“Yeah, but...”
“Uh-uh,” she interrupted as she stood to leave, “Buts are for guns and strip clubs. Before we go, you said there was something else.”
He leaned in closer. “Sabinski’s ordered a random file inspection specifically targeting our cases in the vault.”
“Figures,” J.J. said. “He’s dirty. I can feel it.”
“Yeah, well, we’ve gotta double check our ‘duplicate’ file for Karat and the other cases. Or you and me might not be so employed come tomorrow.”
“Damn!” J.J. said, frustrated but unsurprised by Jack’s action. After all, she and Tony had long suspected he might have turned. “All right. Jake can handle the op on his own. We’ll get him on the road and head into the vault. By the time we’re done squaring the files, the op will be over and we can clear the drop. If Jack gets his hands on the real file, Plotnikov is as good as dead.”
“Exactly,” Tony said as they started out the door.
A few minutes later Tony and J.J. arrived at the breakout room inside the Strategic Information and Operations Command center—SIOC. J.J. had no idea why Cartwright reserved it. They usually planned ops in the vault. Then, it struck her, what he said during their meeting. He said she was on to the biggest case of her career and urged her to stay. Then he set up this space. He must know more than he’s letting on.
When J.J. and Tony entered the breakout room, they startled Jake, who quickly shut the lid on his laptop. Nervous, he ran his hands through his dark, Ryan Seacrest-inspired locks.
“Flipping through pictures of your girl again, huh?” Tony said to Jake, who answered with a sheepish grin and turned toward J.J.
She took a seat at the head of the table and flipped through a case file, searching for the name of her NSA contact in case Plotnikov came through with the encryption codes and frequencies.
“You all right, J.J.?” Jake asked. “Looks like you’re having a rough day.”
She cut her eyes at him then grinned. “On the contrary. My day is getting better by the minute.”
“So what’s the deal with this op again?” Jake asked.
J.J. glanced at Tony and answered. “Plotnikov is a clean diplomat with access to information on Russia’s stance on the missile shield. The J2 at the Pentagon would like to get that information, but Plotnikov has suggested on numerous occasions that he’s afraid he’s under suspicion, scared of Golikov’s people.” She lied well. Their cover story was elaborate but necessary for her source’s protection.
“With good reason.” Jake nodded. “Okay, I’m with you.”
“So, we set up a meeting with an Army Intel cutout today to help us assess him. We need your team to make sure that neither Golikov’s people nor Russian counterintelligence trails him. Otherwise, we might not get another chance at him anytime soon.”
“Roger that.”
Only a handful of people knew about Plotnikov, that he and Karat were one in the same. To the Gs and other agents in the vault, he was no different than any other diplomat in an embassy. Outwardly, he received no exceptional treatment. Only two people understood his value. Only two people knew Karat might solve the one mystery that the Intelligence Community couldn’t solve in ten years’ worth of investigations.
Tony flipped through a notebook of handwritten notes. “Where are the contact instructions? I swear I had my hand on ‘em yesterday.”
“I don’t know. Maybe you left them in the vault,” J.J. said. She hoped the mole wasn’t responsible for the disappearance. The entire op could be blown before it got started.
J.J. glanced down. Her watch read 1 pm. Time was running out. “Shouldn’t you be on the road already?” she asked Jake. “You’ve been slipping on your job lately, chief. Keep playing around, and I’ll make that sparkly new Charger disappear like a hooker in a vice raid.”
Jake cringed. J.J. was notoriously passive aggressive. Her jokes were usually veiled threats that she almost always made good on. It’d be all fun and games at the start, right up until a Barbie Dream car occupied his parking space.
Tony shot J.J. a wicked eye. “Yo, J.J., why you gotta be a ball buster, eh?” He turned to Jake. “Don’t pay her no mind, ya hear me? She’s just bustin’ your chops. I got your back.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “Oh, I see. Two guys against one girl? That’s okay, I can take both o’ yous. Square up, let’s go.” She erected herself into a boxing stance. The swift motion coupled with the Belvedere’s effects threw her off balance. She wobbled and dropped her hands.
Tony stood in front of J.J. and eyed her from toes to ta-tas, towering over her hourglass five-ten frame by an intimidating six inches. She shriveled into a shy teen. “You might be many things, but you ain’t a girl,” Tony oozed. The subtext knocked J.J. unsteady again. His frequent overt flirts disarmed her, raided her heart. One by one he pilfered the chunks of wall she’d built to keep love safely at bay.
“You’re a sexual harassment suit waiting to happen. You know that, right? I can handle it though. Besid
es, mama needs new shoes,” J.J. said, rubbing her thumb against her fingertips to signal the money Tony would need to pay out. Then she laughed through her blush, hating the power he had to shift her emotions at will, his ability to render unsuccessful her every attempt to slough off his jibes. She glanced down at her watch again and then sneered at Jake. “As for you, think pink.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m quaking in my Timberlands. Whatever you get, just make sure it’s convertible,” Jake scoffed putting on a little bravado for Tony. Then he double-timed it to the unit entrance, concealing his newfound urgency.
Jake grabbed the wrinkled Burger King bag containing the now cold Whopper from office secretary’s desk. He’d scarf it down as he paced to his Bureau-assigned beauty.
J.J.’s trust in Jake never wavered, but everyone knew his technique was slipping, including Jake. She didn’t hesitate to chew him out for it either. Coasting on those cowboyish, hot rod ways, the source of her admiration for him, was no longer an option. J.J. realized that tracking suspects all day with seven years at Princeton, two degrees, and the downgrade from his broken dream to become an FBI agent hadn’t inspired him to greatness. Even still, his “G” status seemed to give him sufficient (if not equal) satisfaction, half the paperwork, and a set of credentials nearly identical to those issued to FBI agents. He’d developed a gift for anticipating his targets’ next move, but now his success seemed more luck than skill. His teammates, J.J., everyone joked that he was “whipped,” distracted by his new girlfriend. J.J. believed he just quit caring. She had no idea why. She just wanted to the old Jake back.
Jake’s team was always the first called, the most eager to serve. True professionals, all of them. Never overstepped the bounds between meddling and mission, and were all crazy enough to hell ride with the Russian during their rip-roaring, piss-your-pants surveillance detection runs. They lingered in the shadows when the Russians wanted them in the open and knew precisely when to back off because aborted operations did little to help the FBI identify dirty Russian intelligence officers.
