by S. D. Skye
“Agent McCall, may I speak to you for a sec?” Six asked in the sexy way he asked for shit.
J.J. paused before questioning what harm a quick word or two could do. It would give her the perfect opportunity to tell Six there was a new sheriff—or FBI agent—in town. Tony wouldn’t go far with Six in the room, at least she hoped he wouldn’t.
J.J. turned to Tony. “I’ll be out in a minute. And just a minute,” she emphasized.
“All right,” Tony said, hesitant to leave the room. “I’ll be waiting for you. Out here.” He pointed at his watch. “Don’t forget we have a deadline.”
“I’m on it!” she said, comforted by his concern. When the door shut, she snapped her head toward Six and hissed, “What is it, Six? I’ve got work to do!”
“Awww, why you gotta be like that, J.J.?” he sang in his usual sexy serenade. “Why haven’t you returned my calls? Didn’t you miss me?”
She replied with stone silence; he could take her quiet defiance however he chose to. Her glare shanked him with jagged daggers if he needed a clue.
“Well,” he said, invading her body bubble, standing so close she could tell him the day and hour he bought her favorite hypnotic scent, which he no doubt wore for the sole purpose of tormenting her. “I think it’s only fair to warn you that I don’t really give a damn about this case, although you know I’ll excel at my job. I can’t help it.”
J.J. rolled her eyes.
“I came back for one thing and only one thing—you.”
She waited for the itch, any sensation to remind her of the liar she knew him to be.
Nothing.
No matter. Just because he came back for her didn’t mean his intentions were honorable. This was Six after all.
“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you but I’m not avail—”
At once, his mouth lunged into hers, dancing a slow and easy drag. She struggled to fight him off, but her lips and body waved the white flag about five seconds after they touched. By the time she regained consciousness and pressed her hand against his chest to force him backward, the door had opened.
“J.J. you about . . .” Tony froze, paralyzed by the sight of J.J. in Six’s arms, his lips parting from hers. “Uhhhh . . . I can see you’re not...ready yet. I’m just gonna head back to the office and get started,” he said, storming away in a huff.
“Six! What the hell’s wrong with you?” She pointed to the door as if she was kicking him out of her house . . . again. “Get out!”
“Hmph. I see you have some unfinished business to take care of,” he said coolly as he pimped toward the door. He glanced over his shoulder and winked. “I’ll leave for now, but baby, handle your business, so I can handle mine. Because I’m back—for good.”
J.J. groaned as she watched him leave, wondering how he could create so much chaos in a little less than five minutes. It was Six’s way, bursting into J.J.’s life like a human tornado, powerful and equally destructive. She collapsed in a chair, threw her head back, and looked to the heavens. Then she slipped the gold-plated badge from her leather belt and eyed that powerful yet graceful eagle once again.
“God,” she said. “I love your sense of humor...but this is so not funny.”
Her mouth began to salivate as she thought about the drink she wanted but couldn’t have. She reached into her purse to get a couple sticks of Trident to relieve the urge when she felt an old mini-fridge bottle of Smirnov left from a trip to the New York office several months ago. She preferred the mini bottles. They were just enough to soothe the nerves, never enough to get fall-out-of-the-chair intoxicated. That’s all she needed.
She exhaled and mumbled under her breath. “Why Six? Why now?”
Sunnie, who just happened to be passing on her way to drop off some files to Wendell, stuck her head in the door a minute later. She noticed J.J. sitting alone. “Hey! Is everything okay in here?”
J.J. choked past the heat in her throat and turned to Sunnie with a pasted on smile. “I’m...fine, Sunnie. Just fine.”
One step forward. Two steps back.
Now available, the next exciting installment in this series…
Winner! 2014 Next Generation Indie Book Award for Multicultural Fiction
★★★★★
" If you like a brilliantly executed, thrilling, and addictive suspense novel, [Situation Critical] is for you. S. D. Skye can flat write her butt off, I was sold, and tagged. This is a great series and
J.J. is Jack Ryan with a [lady part]."—Sebella Blue
This award-winning follow up to The Bigot List takes J.J. and her counterintelligence task force on the hunt for Russian moles who breached the nerve center of U.S. national security.
Chapter 1
Friday, November 6th – Irving Street NW
Mist crawled through the darkness as the sound of revenge echoed with Lana Michaels’ every step along the quiet residential street. It was lined with a mix of neglected and pristine darkened row houses. Her body teetered on the edge of collapse since she’d broken free from the hospital. She'd grown tired of riding the metro, looking over her shoulder, flinching at each splashed puddle, paranoid that police cars stalked her in the darkened side streets. Still, she kept her pace swift and determined, pressed into the fog, ready for battle. She tightened her paper-thin jacket around her neck as the wind wrapped her in a shivering blanket. Nothing could quell her insatiable thirst...nothing except that bitch's tears.
She had no doubt J.J. McCall was now a hard target. FBI protocol demanded it. Lana suspected the Bureau had already retrieved her personal files from her laptop. The director had probably assigned a detail of Special Surveillance Group personnel to tail J.J. and ensure Lana didn’t get within five feet. That’s the reason Lana selected a softer target, one easier to kill. And Lana planned to savor his death and the untold pain inflicted on her nemesis.
For too many years, Lana had labored tirelessly in virtual isolation, sacrificed her body, and risked her freedom, all to end up with nothing. No small thanks to that meddling so-called star FBI agent and her bitter ex-lovers.
When Jack Sabinski, Lana’s lump of a boyfriend, was freed from Alexandria jail, he went into seclusion and hadn’t been seen in public since. According to The Washington Post clenched beneath her arm, Chris Johnson, her moronic stooge, was now keeping Jack's cot warm. He sang like the Harlem Boys' Choir during his Bureau interrogations and confessed each and every one of their sins, still angry the baby she claimed to be carrying had never spawned. She had no one to rely on except the Service—which was stifled by diplomatic protocols and bound by the Embassy compound gates.
Then her mind flashed to him, and tears for Jake McGee’s spilled blood flooded her eyes. She tightened her lids and saw him laying in a scarlet pool, murdered by the merciless bullet fired from J.J.’s Glock.
Lana's TV photo, the one in which she played the blond FBI agent, now fueled intensive manhunts for the so-called Red Honeytrap across six states. Her treachery had been splashed over headlines from LA to Moscow, and the FBI had issued every all-points bulletin, short of the Amber alert, dangling a million dollar bounty to sweeten the pot for greedy hunters. Her dyed black hair and green contact lenses couldn't conceal her for long. But by the time they figured out her location, the deed would be done. Her work would be complete. And she wouldn't be the only one left suffering a crippling loss.
Head down, shrouded in her hoodie, she rounded the corner onto Irving Street and pulled the folded newspaper from beneath her arm. She glanced at the address, then strained to see house numbers through the night fog. Halfway up the block she'd finally arrived.
“Here it is.” She opened the rickety gate to the three-story duplex, trotted up the steps, and rang the doorbell. A tall, older gentleman with cotton-colored hair answered moments later. He stretched inches above her head, but his frame was thin, frail.
She peered up at him and noticed the hearing aid and thick bifocals. “Hi. I'm here about the room? I called earlier.”
He inspected her, squinting his eyes and leering skeptically. The dead air gave Lana pause. For a moment, she believed his expression revealed a glint of recognition. How she hoped she was wrong. Exhausted, she grimaced at the thought of using her last shred of energy to slaughter the old man. Her right hand tensed when she imagined tightening her grip around his neck until his motionless body slammed against his pristine wood floors. An easier feat than convincing him she wasn’t Lana Michaels when, in fact, she was.
“You don’t remember? I told you…my apartment caught fire and I need a temporary place to stay.” She flashed a sheepish smile and nervously swiped her bangs from her forehead. Then she glanced down at the newspaper where she’d scribbled the name beside the advertisement. “I believe I spoke with a Mr. O'Leary? I'm Katherine.”
He hesitated for another moment then patted his chest. “Katherine, ahhh yes, yes. Come in.” He stepped aside and his smile warmed. She scanned the foyer and waved to the matronly woman poking her head out from the kitchen. “I'm sorry, but I've been getting so many calls, it's hard to keep all the names straight.”
She exhaled and the rigidness in her body released. “No problem, I understand. The room is still available, right?”
“Yes, yes. Do you have the deposit?”
Lana pulled a wrinkled white envelope from her pant pocket and counted out five one-hundred dollar bills. “This should do it.”
He held a bill up to the light and stretched it at the ends. “Can't be too careful. You'd be surprised by how much counterfeit money is floating around D.C. these days.”
He pulled a key from the drawer of the side table near the door and led her outside.
“My wife and I live in this half. We rent out the rooms on the other side. There is a gentleman sharing the home with you. Nice guy. Respectful. Very quiet. You'll be perfectly safe. We've got bolts on both bedroom doors so no one can get inside.” He escorted her back outside, opened the door, and led her up the wooden steps. “You two will share the kitchen, but you each have a bathroom. Yours is here,” he said pointing to a water closet-sized room containing an old-fashioned pedestal sink and footed bathtub with a shower.
“Here's where you’ll be staying. Rent's due by the fifth of the month. All utilities included.” The cramped space was clean, old fashioned, contained the basics. A bed, dresser with mirror, and a nightstand were positioned against the longest wall. Lace curtains hung from the windows which covered the venetian blinds.
She walked over and peered out. “I like it. You've saved my life.”
“You're welcome,” he said, easing toward the doorway. “Will that be all?”
“What about the neighborhood? It’s not dangerous, is it? I mean, you know, I’m single. I'll probably be alone a lot, sometimes at night.”
“Oh yes, yes, perfectly safe. Most of the residents have lived here for twenty years or more. Except one. Max McCall. He lives in the red-brick house right across the street. He's been here longer than any of us.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah, keeps to himself mostly. Doesn't go out much except to check on his business.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, he owns a corner store a three blocks down 7th street. You can pick up eggs, bread, milk, and the basics there. A Giant grocery store is located near the metro,” Mr. O'Leary said. “Now, if that's about all, I'll be getting back to the house. Time for Law & Order.”
He grasped the rail and descended down the stairs. “Oh, by the way, not that I'm rushing you out or anything but how long do you think you'll be staying? The wife and I are going on Caribbean cruise for two weeks starting tomorrow.”
Lana smirked as she once more peered at the house across the street. “Not much longer than a week or two. The minute I finish my business, I'm going home.”
And her business was sinking hot lead into the skull of J.J.’s father—Max McCall.
About the Author
S.D. Skye is a former FBI Russian Counterintelligence Program Intelligence Analyst and supported cases during her 12-year tenure at the Bureau. She has personally witnessed the blowback the Intelligence Community suffered due to the most significant compromises in U.S. history, including the arrests of former CIA Case Officer Aldrich Ames and two of the Bureau's own—FBI Agents Earl Pitts and Robert Hansen. She has spent 20 years in the U.S. Intelligence Community.
Skye is a member of the Maryland Writer’s Association, Romance Writers of America, and International Thriller Writers. She’s addicted to writing and chocolate—not necessarily in that order—and currently lives in the Washington D.C. area with her son. Skye is hard at work on several projects, including the next installment of the series.
